#So much of it hinges on internal dialogue

[daydreamdoodles]

The more I get closer to finishing Persuasion, the sadder I feel about the netflix adaption

[writers-potion]

Hi I really love all the writing tips you give! I'm a fanfic writer myself and your tips have helped me out so much with writing <3 I was wondering if you had any tips on how to write any kind of flashback scenes? Like ways to lead up to it or where a character is like having a headache and then BOOM they get a glimpse of a flashback or something. I struggle so much with this ;-;

Ideas for Flashback Scenes

Hey there! Thanks for the question! Since flashbacks are about reminding a character of a memory they haven't been thinking about, here are some ideas for triggering a memory!

Hinge on an Object/Person

Coming across an object or person from the past can call a dusty memory to the forefront. 

Maybe your character is going through the attic or clearing out an unused shelf. It can be a friend returning an item that they’d lost. 

Dreaming/Semi-Dreaming

A dream is a product of taking snippets from our actual life and putting them together in weird ways. A character may dream about something in the past, wake up, then recall the memory more clearly, using the dream snippet as the starting point.

Similarly, they may dream briefly as they doze off, then wake up to have a “fuller” flashback. 

Deja-Vu

A deja-vu would be most natural if the memory being recalled is set somewhere the character goes to on a day-to-day basis (like the supermarket or the cobbled walkway in front of their house, etc.)

A repeated action (cashier checking out items), a familiar scenery, or a familiar sound will trigger a similar memory, maybe even set in the same location. 

Mid-Conversation/Trigger Words 

Certain words or voices can be triggers of memory. You can have a moment where the character pauses for a moment to think, “wait, I think I’ve heard that phrase somewhere…” 

The other character asking them a question can also trigger a memory in the process of trying to come up with an answer. 

Trigger words can appear on road signs or on book covers, etc. You can try describing the font/color of the word and link it to a snapshot of the memory being recalled. 

The "Aha!" Moment 

This is where the character is doing essentially nothing (like standing in the shower, staring off into the ceiling, etc). It can even be when they’ve lied down trying to sleep, when something suddenly just jumps into mind. 

Provide some context through internal dialogue, where the character is either thinking about something that they’re worried about or an event that left an impression on them that day, etc. 

Being in Danger/Near-Death Moments

This is similar to how a character’s life plays out before their eyes right before they die. 

When a character is in danger, their brains will start firing in ways that it usually wouldn’t, triggering a flashback. 

A flashback can be induced by shock, a loud bang, explosion, etc. when the character goes momentarily numb. 

Flashback Under Intoxication

If your character is drunk, on drugs, or taking medication that impacts their cognitive abilities, they may start triggering memories that have long been buried. 

However, the flashback scene in this case will have some unusual aspects, and will be prone to being warped or even fabricated in some parts.

[whocaresstillthelouvre]

Enigma

Elks Chapter 4

Chapter Rating: M. Chapter Summary: Joel comes over to your home and stays for dinner, coffee, and a couch make out. Chapter Warnings: Domestic fluff, making out, some petting, internal dialogue panic, whiskey and coffee. Words: 3,600 Pairing: Jackson Joel Miller x Female Reader Series Summary: Life in Jackson is quite comfortable and simple for you. You love teaching your students and running your library, you love the comforts of living here, perfectly complacent with the company of your two cats, guitar, tattered CD book, and a few friends. You like comfortable and simple, though the feelings you feel whenever you see Joel Miller are quite the opposite. Once you meet him, it seems like he needs you in his life as much as you need him. Reader Background: Reader is in her 30's and comes from Colorado. No other physical descriptors besides her having long enough hair to put up. A/N: Godddd, this Joel is so soft and I love creating this happy ending for him. Hope you love it too.

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Masterlist Playlist

***

“Ain't No Sunshine” by Bill Withers. 

Saturday morning dawns, you haven’t slept that soundly in years, falling asleep to the thought of Joel’s lips on yours. The sun is out after days of rain and gray skies, a fresh start. 

Your foot runs into something hard as you step out your front door, sitting in the middle of your porch is a wooden box, the perfect carrying size complete with handles cut into the sides. A note with sharp handwriting rests on it. 

Your cardboard box isn’t going to make another trip. This should help. I’ll drop your guitar off tonight. - Joel

You lift the hinged lid to see more than enough room for all of your paint jars. Tears well up in your eyes. What did you do to deserve this? Did he really go home and make this last night? You put the box inside your home, taking a quick moment to rub your hand over the smooth sanded wood. Joel’s thoughtfulness causes a grin as you tuck his note into your back pocket. Beginning your early morning journey to the schoolhouse, you still glance for a peek of Joel as you pass his house. 

——

You love your library, you love the look on fellow resident’s faces when they tell you they enjoyed a book that you recommended, being able to provide an escape with every page turned. You love that you hold volumes of encyclopedias and reference books, one of the few ways people can learn now. You love to catalog and fill your shelves with every single dog-eared and well read book patrollers bring you back.

You’re so fulfilled by your two jobs, your friends, your home, and the life you’ve carved out in Jackson. Now, after spending time with Joel, the emptiness you’ve been good at ignoring beats louder. You want his friendship, you want his attention, you want him. 

You try to focus as much as you can on your work. Cataloging, checking out books, tutoring a couple of kids having difficulty learning to read. When you lock the doors to the school house at the end of the day, you sigh out in relief. Joel will be coming over soon.

——

A quick succession of knocks land on your door. You practically jump out of your chair and run to the door. Taking a deep breath to calm your nervous energy, smoothing down the fabric of your cotton shirt and linen pants. You haven’t had to second guess what you’re wearing in years, but today, you want to impress Joel. 

A small exhale escapes your lips when you open your door. There stood in a flannel over a dark blue t-shirt is Joel holding a guitar with a small smile on his face. He looks so handsome, your knees feel a little weak.

“Hi,” you smile at him. 

“Evening.”

“Come in,” you’re nervous now. 

You love your home, and now Joel’s going to step into it. He’s about to metaphorically walk into your mind, all of your art on the wall, some of it found and some of it your own, your mismatched throw pillows on the couch, your chipped vase filled with fake flowers, your boot scuffs on the floor. You wonder if he felt the same way on the first day he opened the door for you, letting you into his studio where all of the things he loved laid. You are proud of your home, it’s no longer the desolate tiny apartment in the Denver QZ with only a threadbare blanket on a flat mattress.

He walks in, eyes roaming around your small and cozy living room. Shelves full of books, paintings, and little trinkets you’ve curated over your time in Jackson. Your mirrored wall that you hated when you first moved in but now welcome the bright light it reflects across the room. You painted birds all over it, making the few cracks into branches on a whim a year ago, and now it’s your favorite thing.

“Never thought people like you could still exist,” Joel focuses in on a sparrow you painted on a branch. 

“People like me?”

“Yeah,” he turns to you, “still wanting to make things… nice.”

“I like what I like I guess,” you blush. “I really like the box you left on my porch, you really didn’t have to Joel, it’s beautiful. Thank you.”

“Was no bother, wanted to do it for you. Didn’t like the thought of that box ripping and spilling everything.”

“Well, thank you. I love it.”

“You’re welcome, there’s this too,” handing you the guitar. “S’all fixed and new, tuned it for you.”

“This is incredible, thank you.” It feels good to hold a guitar again, a huge smile breaks across your face. “I can’t believe it.” 

“Believe it.” 

You strum a couple of notes. You haven’t played guitar in almost a month, your fingers no longer need to play phantom notes, you have music back.

“Did you want to stay for dinner? I feel like I owe you a meal.”

“Of course, I’d love to.”

“I made sure to dust and I put my cats in my painting room, just in case you wanted to.” “Awful sweet of you.”

You hand your guitar back to Joel. “Do you want to play me some songs while I cook?”

“‘Course.” 

——

The smell of peppers, onions, potatoes, and eggs fill the kitchen. You feel Joel watch you as you cut slices of bread and toast them in a pan, his eyes have been on you since you lead him to the kitchen. Sometimes you’ll glance over at him, he doesn’t even hide that he’s looking.

“How do you want your eggs? I’m having scrambled.”

“Over easy. Hate scrambled eggs…”

You nod and turn back to the stove, listening to Joel strum a song.

“That song’s really pretty. What is it?” You ask as you dish out the food and bring the plates of food over to the table.

“Pretty sure it’s called ‘Ain’t No Sunshine.’ Used to play it a lot when I was younger.” Joel puts your guitar against the wall as he watches you open a cupboard and pull out a small bottle of red sauce.

“It’s really pretty, I liked it,” placing the bottle on the table. Joel picks it up and brings it over looking at the little label that you drew a skull and crossbones and peppers on. 

“Is this… hot sauce?” Joel’s eyes widen. 

“Yep.”

“How did you get hot sauce?” 

“Made it.”

“Wow, heh. I didn’t know people could still make hot sauce,” Joel says as he opens the bottle cap and smells it.

“Yep, I grow peppers in the Summer and boil them down with vinegar. My dad was pretty famous around town for his hot sauce, he used to make me help him during the harvest,” you sit down across from him. “I used to hate it, but now I’m thankful he made me learn.”

Joel sticks his finger out and places a couple drops of hot sauce on it. He holds it up to show you and with a nod tastes it. He smiles as his lips form around his finger, tasting the sauce. 

“Mm, it’s good.” Your breath hitches as he takes his finger out of his mouth, the sound of his lips smacking reminds you of the kiss the two of you shared last night. Blinking out the memory you grab a piece of toast.

“Glad you like it, I have a few bottles, I’ll send you home with one.”

“Can’t believe you’re real,” murmurs out of his lips, as if he really didn’t mean to say it out loud. “Thanks.”

“Of course.” You hide a smile behind taking a bite out of toast. “Can’t tell you the last time I had breakfast at night…”

“I always have it. I love breakfast for dinner. It always seemed so special when I was a kid, eating pancakes after the sun goes down…now it just makes sense because I always have eggs and potatoes. Though I’d kill for a cinnamon roll…” 

It all seems so normal, like Joel always comes over and sits across the table from you. Like you’re always putting two plates on the table, always hearing the sounds of two metal forks scraping against ceramic. 

You’ve been alone for so long… happily. Satisfied by everything else in your life, never paying much attention to anyone who wanted your attention. You were good with alone, until you saw Joel… and now he’s wiping yolk off his chin from the egg you just cooked him in your kitchen. 

——

“Did you want to stay for a bit?” Your boldness surprising you as you put away the rest of the dishes after dinner. 

“Sure, of course I do.” Joel’s smile lighting up his entire face.

You don’t know if you’ll ever get used to making him smile, seeing the way his lips curve up, the glimpse of his teeth, the dimple deepening in his cheek. You’re used to drawing the things you want to see, to be able to make Joel smile is better than any art piece you’ll ever create.

“Did you want coffee or tea? Saturday’s my late night, might make it to midnight if I have company.”

“Coffee sounds good.”

“Whiskey?”

“Please.”

Normal, again. The two of you falling into conversation easily, never about anything of importance. Your favorite things about Jackson, the TV shows you used to watch, your first concerts. Nothing heavy or scary, a quiet agreement that you both understand that to reach the ages you both are, you mutually had to live through the worst of the worst. Joel doesn’t mention his daughter and you don’t bring her up. You sit in your plaid reading chair across from him on your couch his body taking up half of the cushions as he rests an arm on the back of it. He looks so comfortable, so relaxed. You’ve been splitting a flask between the two of you for the past hour, the taste of your coffee getting weaker each time you add whiskey. 

“What was your couch like?” You ponder.

“Hm?” 

You take another sip of your coffee, the whiskey causing a slight burn down your throat as you swallow. 

“Your couch. What was it like in Texas?”

“What a weird question,” Joel’s smile gets blocked by his coffee cup as he takes another drink.  

“I think you can tell a lot about someone by the type of furniture they choose. My mom very much liked neat and tidy and loved her house to look like it was right out of a catalog. We had some fancy regal looking floral abomination that was so uncomfortable to sit in but she thought it looked good. My dad didn’t care as long as he had somewhere comfortable to watch the Rockies… so it was just a normal brown couch that had recliners and pulldown cupholders in the middle.”

He sighs and adjusts in his seat. “Had a brown leather sofa, took up most of the living room, but didn’t mind because it was so comfortable.”

“See! I knew you had something big and leather.”

“Really now?”

“Yes, I swear. I look at you and I think… big.”

“Big?”

And right when Joel lifts his eyebrows at you is where you know you should’ve stopped talking.

“Yeah,” you exhale. “You always look so big and broad. Strong but gentle, capable but eager to learn and listen, rugged yet soft like… someone I’ve never seen before. You’re like a full on enigma.”

Your big mouth strikes again. 

“An enigma?” Joel chugs the rest of his coffee, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. “M’sorry sweetheart, what’s that?”

“A mystery… like I can’t figure you out. I haven’t been able to since the Tipsy Bison that first day I saw you…” stop talking, stop talking, “…you have this aura around you that you’re Joel Miller, Tommy’s brother, don’t talk to him…” seriously, shut up “…and yet you were so kind and gentle to me when I fell. You practically forced me to let you help with the books and then you stuck around to help set up everything…” stop talking, shut up “…and then you have me paint flowers in your house and you’re so sweet and so welcoming to me…” Okay, be quiet. You’re about to say something you don’t want to say. “…I’ve watched you since I first saw you and I still can’t figure you out…” and now you’ve said too much, “an enigma.” You huff the last words out, tipping your head back against your chair. Damn whiskey.

“You know, s’funny, I remember seeing you when I first got here too.” The way his words are gently spoken causes you to look at him. His eyes are on you, zero judgment lines his face. “Was a bad day, had a lot of feelings about Tommy and how he found happiness so easily here. I was in my head so much and at the worst moment, I look over and see you staring right at me. You made me forget those thoughts for a split second, just seeing you standing there. So beautiful and bright eyed in that light purple shirt… same shirt you were wearing when I helped you with your knee… kinda like you dropped from heaven in front of my house.”

His honesty takes your breath away, the admission of shared feelings between the two of you sent back and forth across your coffee table as your two empty mugs rest atop it. What you see is what you get from Joel, what he says he means, you know he’s not struggling internally at his oversharing like you.

You sit dumbfounded, the silence that creeps between the two of you allowing the time to let Joel’s words settle in you and bloom across your body. 

“So,” Joel leans forward, "if that’s how you feel ‘bout me, then I’m happily an enigma.”

He’s pinned you with his gaze, determined brown eyes stare straight into yours. You know he can see what his words are doing to you. You’re surprised the nerves radiating inside of you aren’t making an audible buzz. 

Joel cuts the silent tension first. “Speaking of couches… do you want to come sit next to me?”

You nod. Your heart hammering in your chest as you rise and seize the opportunity. Joel watches you as your bare feet pad over the rug with a small smirk on his lips like he’s getting exactly what he wanted. 

You take a seat next to Joel, your body sinking closer to his as you adjust. 

“S’nice,” Joel brings his arm around you, resting his hand on your shoulder as you move closer to him. “You have a beautiful home, love how every surface has something nice to look at. It’s so warm and pretty, perfectly you. I like being here, s’like walking into a different world.”

Your body begins to burn as Joel’s fingers brush back and forth against your arm. You don’t nod, you don’t say anything, you just focus on controlling your breathing and your rapid heart beat. 

“You okay like this sweetheart?” 

“Y-yeah, sorry, just haven’t done this in a long time. I like it, it’s just a lot.” 

“S’okay sweetheart, we can just sit here and enjoy each other if you’d like.” 

“Okay.”

Joel pulls you even closer against him, your head rests against his chest, you haven’t been this close to someone in so long. It feels good, it feels right. Hearing him breathe, feeling the softness of his soft t-shirt against your cheek, smelling the scent of wood and coffee on him. It was only last week that he was practically a stranger, now he’s holding you in your living room.

You breathe out a contented sigh, Joel’s chest vibrates against your cheek as he lets out a low chuckle. This moment right here feels like a turning point for your life in Jackson.

You’ve welcomed Joel into your home, much like he did with you. You want him to stay here with you, you don’t want him to leave tonight. 

You want to feel his arms embrace you again. You want to kiss him again. You want to be selfish tonight. You never allow yourself what you want, always sacrificing for others and the greater good. You want to put your needs first tonight… so you choose to be selfish. 

“Joel,” a whisper leaves your lips. 

“Mm?”

“When we kissed yesterday…”

“Uh huh.”

“What would have… happened if the water didn’t spill?” You crane your neck up to look at him, Joel looks down and locks eyes with a small smile on his face. 

“Well, I would have kept kissing you, obviously.”

“For how long?”

“As long as you’d let me sweetheart.”

“I can’t stop thinking about it.”

“Me too,” Joel’s hand comes up to rest under your chin tilting it up towards his lips, “do you want me to kiss you now?” His tongue drags across his lower lip, you copy the movement as you lean forward into his hold and kiss him.

You love being selfish. You love how pillowy his lips are against yours. You love how you can taste the coffee and whiskey on his tongue. You love how he groans into your mouth as you move to sit on his lap. You love how his hands grab your hips as you straddle him. You love how rough his jeans feel against your linen pants. You love how Joel begins peppering kisses from your mouth to your neck. 

“You taste so sweet,” Joel utters against your skin, feeling the smile in his kiss as you let out a moan from his words. A hand comes up to feel the underside of your breast, his touch eliciting another loud moan as he cups it in his large palm. The fire for Joel that’s been smoldering inside of you has been set ablaze by his mouth.

You begin rocking your hips against him, gasping and moaning as you look for pressure where you need him the most. Your hand reaches between the two of you, rubbing against the bulge of his pants. 

Joel pulls away, his hand leaves your chest. “Hold on, hold on sweetheart, I don’t want to go too fast. I want to take our time, okay?” His hand cups your cheek. “I know what you want, ‘n I want it too… but you’re too special to not savor.” 

You hate that you agree, you wish you could throw caution to the wind and take what you want to take, but you also know you’ve never felt this way about someone before. You nod as Joel leans forward and rests his forehead against yours.

“I really like you sweetheart, and it’s only been a few days…”

“I know,” you kiss his lips one last time before extracting yourself from his lap and sitting next to him. “We can just sit here again if you’d like, or you can get going if you want.”

“I’d like to sit here with you,” he wraps an arm around your shoulder and pulls you in closer, your head resting against his chest again. He feels so good, like you’ve never known comfort until you felt the broad expanse of his chest underneath your skin. 

“Sorry I don’t have any music… tonight would be a perfect night to listen to something.”

“Don’t mind the silence.”

“Me neither.”

You shut your eyes after awhile, the sound of Joel’s steady breathing against you lulling you to sleep. 

——

“Sweetheart,” Joel’s soft voice wakes you up, blinking your eyes open to soft blue denim. 

Somehow during sleep you’ve migrated down to rest your head on Joel’s lap.

“Mmph, how long was I asleep for?” You look up at Joel’s tired eyes looking down at you. 

“Dunno, but it’s dawn. I also fell asleep, just woke up,” Joel answers with a yawn.

“I’m sorry,” you move to sit up and yawn. “Guess I was either tired or you’re just really comfortable.

“S’okay, it was nice. Once I knew you were asleep I didn’t want to disturb you, you looked so peaceful.”

“Thanks,” you stand up and stretch your arms over your head, Joel’s eyes darting to the sliver of your exposed skin as your shirt rises. 

“Should get going home,” a small hint of reluctance in Joel’s voice.

“I know,” you attempt to shield the tone of disappointment. You grab the hot sauce bottle sitting on your console table. “Don’t forget this.”

“Thanks sweetheart. I have long patrol this week. I’ll be gone Monday, should be back Friday evening.” Your stomach drops at the thought of not seeing Joel for that long. “Can I see you Saturday?” 

“Of course, yeah. I’d like that.” 

“I’ll stop by the library then, ’n we can talk,” Joel grips your chin and brings his lips forward to plant a kiss on your lips. “Good night sweetheart, this was really nice.” 

“Good night.” 

Joel opens your door and looks back at you with a smile and nod before leaving. 

Your face lights up for nobody to see. You go to check on your cats and fall asleep in your much less comfortable bed compared to Joel’s lap. 

A/N: Thanks for reading! Things are starting to heat up (got to change the rating from T to M! Building up to E! 😉) and I'm very excited where this story is heading. See you next Monday! I've never written fan fic until two months ago, so I really appreciate all of you who have commented/liked/reblogged, it's a very cool thing to experience. If you'd like to be added to the taglist, let me know.

Taglist: @orcasoul

[leolithe]

Something I find really interesting about the Lotus' dialogue after the Lotus Eaters is her use of the word 'witch'.

"I was the Daughter. I became the Mother. In time, I shall be the Witch, blind once again, empty of all but wisdom." -Lotus

'Witch' has very specific connotations. Close enough to another similar word that I can't help but feel like it has to be a deliberate reference to the Triple Goddess ─ Maiden, Mother, Crone. These are figures from neopaganism that symbolizes the stages of a woman's life. Eleanor (proto-Nyx) even outright calls her the triple-faced goddess. While it definitely could just refer to Lotus, Margulis and Natah, what if we have yet to see her final form?

She was first Natah, the daughter of Hunhow. Then she assimilated Margulis' form and became the Lotus, mother to the Tenno. And now, she is to be the witch. Even urging us not to mourn should she turn into something we don't recognize. I'm very excited to see what exactly that will look like for her and how her role could potentially change. The quest made a point that the Operator will be staying behind while Drifter is the one chosen for the quest to 1999. Maybe instead of the mother-child dynamic that we've had for a decade, we'll get to see what kind of relationship she might have with the Drifter (<-copium)

I'm not much of a Greek Myth Lorehead but I've read up a bit on The Triple Goddess Hecate (who I've been told that, in Hades 2, was voiced by Amelia Tyler... who is now also voicing our dear Eleanor Nightingale. Worth mentioning cuz u just know rebb was kicking her feet and giggling at being able to pull that together). Hecate's status as a gatekeeper type figure, as i understand it, is very interesting when u apply it to the Lotus...

I'm just thinking about how meta the whole "Lotus' ascent to godhood" plot thread is. It's like a direct parallel to her voice actress' "intern to creative director" journey LMAO. It's a bloody golden opportunity and i hope they're cashing all in on Goddess!Lotus and everything it'll entail...

Not to mention lorewise and what it means for the Lotus' own arc!! To be someone constantly being pulled around by others to fulfil their own purposes, having her own wants neglected, shamed, belittled... To becoming a Witch/Crone/Gatekeeper a la Hecate -- now the one potentially capable of denying or approving others' needs and goals...? Ugh, that's so fucking JUICY. What a bloody incredible character.

Lotus mentions becoming "empty of all but wisdom", and I've seen someone theorize that she'll become even more emotionless and distant as a shield against Wally because it thrives on emotions. This theory scares me because it could very well happen... Not like Space Mom already has a history of being distant and reluctant to tell us how she's feeling... *Sniffles*...

There's also the theories about assigning Natah/Lotus/Margulis as the Maiden/Mother/Crone...

The most surface level reading would be Margulis = Maiden, Lotus = Mother, Natah = Crone, but imo when people make this read they're kinda hinging on their appearances lol. Pretty Margulis, "Ugly" Natah... Maybe even just "Good mom who can do no wrong" and "evil Sentient who led part of an assault on the Origin System".

I would like to think that it isn't that shallow, buuuut their personalities do fit the bill when u bring the "phases of a woman's life" theme to it.

Margulis' naivete, or the shattering of it, as the Maiden:

"No, Ballas, no more destruction. Maybe they're meant to save us."

"You lied to me, Ballas. You're no different than the rest of them."

Natah's headstrong wisdom, or her desire for it, as the Crone:

"I am the witness, the victim, the judge. My family has returned. Your trial, soon to begin."

"The times ahead will need decisiveness. Power."

And Natah does die in TNW. Her death is a very big part of the quest lol. The "End of life" theming of the Crone fits her very well... And the very first "gatekeeper/crone judges and makes the decision for you" thing she did was killing ballas. So i get it!

Inversely... You could also assign Natah as the Maiden and Margulis as the Mother because of the simple "Natah was the Daughter, now I am the Mother" quote. After all, Lotus before TNW was living very much under Margulis' shadow, assimilating into her like you mentioned. This read leaves Lotus to be the Crone; the empty, wise Witch we have yet to see.

The more i write this the more I wanna say: Damn. These 3 were always meant to converge into each other. Their stories are all sides of each others' respective coins and it almost feels arbitrary to chuck them into strict roles, even if symbolic.

I definitely think we're gonna see her "Triple Goddess Final Form" in the future. It's too good a story beat. Too sexy. DE HAS to do it. I have my platinum ready. Give me all the skins.

As for the DrifterLotus copium....... Hehehe. I don't think DE will ever do anything romantic/sexual with them. i think they're just gonna cap their relationship off at "they care immensely for each other" because they might be concerned about the questionable pseudo incest implications looming over anything to do with Lotus and the Tenno.

Like don't get me wrong; Drifter is their own person and Lotus of all people would be comfortable with the concept of "people having identical faces won't make them the same person". I just feel like DE might not be willing to play with them in that way. For perfectly understandable reasons... The Player Tenno are very much "colouring book" characters for the OC lovers so it seems smart to keep them relatively open-ended.

But. Don't worry. Check my AO3 at the end of the week. I hope you'll find something that brings u even a little bit of cheer ;3

[codenamesazanka]

My view on The Old Lady thing is that like… Yeah, we know she likely couldn’t have actually saved Shigaraki because we know everything was orchestrated by AFO, but we see/hear Shigaraki’s internal dialogue literally wishing somebody could have saved him when they could. I think that a big part of AFO’s plan for him hinged on that type of rejection… We know he had so many backup kids because he considered the idea that Tomura wouldn’t work out. Part of AFO’s plan seems to have really had depended on nobody saving Tenko, because if they had, Tenko wouldn’t be so easy to just scoop up and groom into the perfect vessel. So yeah, I think The Old Lady being there is effective!! If just one person had tried to help, it wouldn’t be easy to convince Tenko that these are the same people who deserve to die.

Sorry if this is rambley but idk I just think it’s interesting, and I think that AFO’s plan wasnt as perfect as we’re meant to believe! There are so many points where if just one thing had been different, Tenko wouldn’t have been so easy for AFO to get a hold of, and I think he knew that too yknow??

Thank you for the ask, anon! I want to say I like this idea, a lot! And I think that's what The Walk is too - AFO watching the whole time, and betting on no one helping. Like, maybe if Tenko was helped, then maybe that memory would've stayed with him; would've mattered even as AFO tried to cultivate his rage, a lone spot of hope. Maybe it would've affected him when he regains his memories during Deika.

However, it's as you said:

"I think that a big part of AFO’s plan for him hinged on that type of rejection… ...Part of AFO’s plan seems to have really had depended on nobody saving Tenko..."

At this point, it's still speculation. It's a good theory with evidence behind it, but without the manga coming out and saying it, the whole idea is still muddled. Especially because the idea leads to Shigaraki actually correct on some level in wanting to have destroy this bystander passivity. So was his resentment and hatred still all AFO's fault, or is he claiming some of his destruction as his own?

idk. maybe I'm just dense and need hand-holding. Even just one line from AFO gloating about how 'if only someone tried to reach out... but they didn't. I knew that would happen'. As it is, it's implied, but without explicitly condemning Hero Society and making it a priority to be addressed, and so we're left with 'is it that much of a problem?' Which is why we have people commenting on the chapter going 'the lady should not have helped. it's not her responsibility. That kid looked demonic. that half-hearted saving wouldn't have saved Tenko.'

But maybe that's what the last three chapters is for?

Thanks for the ask!

[omensgate]

i have been asking tumblr rain world artists everywere would saint and artificers be friends or enemies

big text! ill write it out in plain text because its kind of hard to read:

i have been asking tumblr rain world artists everywere would saint and artificers be friends or enemies

its interesting, isnt it? theyre total opposites (kill everything because youre already damned versus never raise your own hand to ensure your ascension) and they intrigue me. it hinges a lot on if you see artificer as internally tortured or mindlessly violent, and the same for saint if you see them as thoughtful and rational or a closeted maniac (if you might be inclined to see saint as improving artificer or artificer as worsening saint). personally, ive drawn them as enemies twice now, actually, in the artificer in the cold/bald saint comic and the tictoc animatic. the way i personally depict them is; artificer is in a lot of agony by the weight of her own emotions and her inability to cope with what has happened to her. it does not make her a good or reasonable person, but her aggression comes from a major source of pain (which is still not forgivable/justifiable (said because it paints a lot of tone when talking about her), but is interesting). i depict her as frantic and boastful but not flat, its to hide and constantly run from how she feels. saint i write as genuinely wholesome in the sense that it is pursuing enlightenment and little else, there is no hook or malice when it moves (as others might write it as delighting in a heel turn), just a cold detachment from the world, it moves on instinct over thought and is only mildly tapped into whatever happens around it. (and in the end, saint is a less than positive figure with how it sticks to the karma system)

i think a major .. light going off when i think about saint and artificer is how interesting it must be to coax someone to allow themself to be killed in repetition with no end in sight (as artificers karma and scavenger reputation is locked) for religious fulfillment to a goal of no longer being extant. its so delightfully ghoulish, how can you look at someone who has lost everything and demand that they remove even their ability to- at this point- defend themself? and to that goal of no longer being (personally, id write saint as pushing for ascension for all others in counter to how its unable to do so itself; do what ive failed and toiled to do, hysterical from my own struggles. it also certainly seems like a cleaner solution to whatever artificer struggles with than whatever she plans for right now). (i dont think, in rebuttal, artificer would personally sway saint to violence. i dont like to imagine it delights in anything, much less harm. it removes the weight of doing what you must or the inexplicable pull to exert extreme violence upon creatures you dont care about except for your own belief in how you move them)

i did plan a good while ago to make a sort of short comic..? not really comic, interconnected images with dialogue- of artificer (in the background depicting her dying in repetition) bemoaning the futility of pressing forward to gain karma. saint assures her she has to keep moving towards that goal and that it will get better than this. when artificer asks how it can know this, in parallel it shows a frame of saint rising and falling in karma as it heavily dismisses her question- its so interesting, to press for someone to pursue something youve failed at. it has seen that yes, there may be an end, because its seen it and fell back. it cannot admit that it has gotten there because if it did get there it shouldnt be here to assure her. in the end its all the same to keep dying as a mortal and to keep circling as an immortal

to circle back to the start- theyre kind of the same, arent they?

[wardencommanderrodimiss]

-cracks knuckles- So, because I decided on a whim to make Scarlett the daughter of Zoe when I started playing Pkmn Scarlet, we've since seen a few potential origin stories for Scarlett:

Zoe found her in the woods and the fact that Scarlett looks nearly identical to her is a coincidence.*

1a. Scarlett was raised by a Kangaskhan until Zoe stumbled across her

2. Paradox Zoe theory

*this one is canon until I firmly, seriously lock in on another idea. Assume "found in the woods" is canon.

NOW, THIRD POTENTIAL ORIGIN STORY JUST DROPPED:

3. Clone Zoe theory

"How? Why?" Let's blame Colress. He's a freak who's more concerned with scientific advancement and acquiring knowledge than with the morality of it - hence why he signs on with Team Plasma despite personally hating Ghetsis' ass - and while the events of Black 2 lead him to the conclusion that the best way to draw out a Pokemon's strength and potential is through love and trust and the bond between Pokemon and trainer... I dunno, I don't trust that the man is fully hinged even after that. I think at some point he ponders the nature of the bond between Unova's legendary dragons and their human heroes and wonders what is it that binds them together. How did the dragons choose a hero. Is it based on some metaphysical concept like a soul. If he clones an identical version of one of the heroes, how would their dragon respond?

"Why Zoe and not N?" Colress hates Ghetsis' ass and while we don't know his opinions on N, and also would be getting into nature-vs-nurture with the whole clone thing, he decides that he'd rather deal with the unknown quantity of Reshiram's hero, than risk dealing with what he very much knows about Zekrom's hero. (Actually, wait, Colress has a line of dialogue where he says there's no way that a human could talk to Pokemon, so like. Does he even know N at all?)

That, or he came up with the clone idea even before he got pondering the bonds between Pokemon and trainer, for some other dubious scientific reason, and he asked Ghetsis if he could use Team Plasma's resources on this and Ghetsis is like "If you must do this, clone the girl, because I will throw you off this airship if you bring a second version of that freak [N] into the world" and Colress was like yeah sure okay.

Anyway years later Colress has a five-year-old clone and he sends off some anonymous messages to Zoe to try and goad her into a meeting and for her to bring Reshiram along because he wants to see how Reshiram will respond. Zoe shows up with Reshiram and also N in tow, and Colress is like "um. hm. hi. okay. anyway." and then he finds out that this entire scientific experiment was pointless because Reshiram doesn't respond in a way that allows him to get any data. Colress finds out N can talk to Pokemon and thinks that's great, because it will allow them to directly consult Reshiram, and so Colress asks Reshiram questions about what is it that connects Reshiram and Zoe, and does Reshiram recognize those same qualities in this clone?

Reshiram (via N): "That one is smaller."

Colress: "Well, yes, in physical size, of course. But internally, what do you sense? What do you feel?"

Reshiram: "That one is smaller." [N's later translation note: smaller here conveys a sense of mind and thought. Smaller in terms of life experience; younger is smaller.]

Colress: "...."

N: "How many years of your life you put into this, for this to be your answer."

Then Zoe, who has been stunlocked this entire time by the concept of a clone of herself, finally starts moving again and goes in to physically fight Colress - skip the prospect of a Pokemon battle, she's going to strangle the guy - and while Colress is trying to not get punched in the face, N picks up Scarlett and says "I'm just going to take this from you now. Goodbye."

Anyway, every increasingly-insane Scarlett origin story I come up with is funny because while Scarlett's background and early life may change, her present and personality do not. The fact that she's relatively normal and well-adjusted is very important to the way that she is both friends and character foils with Arven. The poor guy is jealous of his little buddy for the fact that she has two loving, present parents and then he finds out she was raised by Pokemon/grown in a lab for the first chunk of her life. What the fuck does he even do with that.

[korranguyen]

Cross-comparing writing styles at WGA

I was really enthusiastic to return to WGA to read scripts from other shows, particularly Bojack. Unlike Avatar, they only had the show’s most salient picks—but I eagerly skimmed through the episodes I could.

To my surprise, I quickly found that Bojack’s scripts (barring “Fish Out of Water”) were... drastically different than what I expected from such an emotionally resonant and humanistically-driven show: dialogue-heavy, nearly devoid of character internalizations, with stage directions as concise as they are sparse. Honestly a little bland to flip through, especially in comparison to something like this:

We see on his face all the emotions that would plague a man who just fatally cut the Gordian knot of his sibling relationship...

Meanwhile, Azula hurtles through space. Unfazed, she takes a breath and performs a brief Firebending blast which directs her freefall over to the rigging of a nearby airship. She hooks onto the rigging with one long, pointy fingernail.

Zuko shakes his head, frustrated but relieved in spite of himself, realizing things never end cleanly in the world of “Avatar”.

- Elizabeth Ehasz, The Southern Raiders

I’m surprised, but not at all disappointed. Mostly just intrigued about why the two shows are written so differently, and the different approaches people may take towards the art of screenwriting. I feel as though the spare verbiage of Bojack purposefully left extra breathing room for the rest of the team’s creative freedom. Perhaps the writers left gaps between the lines because they had faith that the next viewer of the script—whether a voice actor, director, or animator—would assign their own meaning to the content, leaving traces of their own interpretive perspectives that couldn’t be achieved if someone were told what to think.

There’s obvious differences in the two animated shows that explain these differences. Avatar is an action-based kid’s show that relies much more on exciting visuals; Bojack hinges on more humanistic elements and mostly uses animation as an added bonus (not to say the show doesn’t hit fucking hard with its visually stunning moments). Plus, it’s important to note that the casts in the two shows are vastly different when it comes to age and experience: full-grown, big-name actors such as Alison Brie, Will Arnett, and Stephanie Beatriz needing significantly less emotional direction and guidance to interpret texts than, say, the mostly child/teen main cast of Avatar.

Just some food for thought.

@lady-of-bath​? Any input?

[mightbewriting]

Hello! I loved Almost Nothing At All and really enjoyed the way you structured it! Can you tell us about your writing process with it? What was the first part you thought of? How did you end up structuring it the way you did? Hope you’re doing well, and thank you for all the wonderful stories you’ve shared with us! Happy holidays! 💖🎄

omg hi anon! thank you so much! that really means so much. like a stupid amount. because the writing process looked a lil something like this:

to be totally honest, i had a lot of trouble writing for advent this year. i struggled with a lot of internalized pressure to ~get it right~ and not disappoint anyone who nominated me, and i didn't have any immediate bursts of inspiration with my prompts.

so since you asked, i'll walk you through the horror show that was my process this year lol.

the 2022 dhr advent doc has all my brainstorming rando thoughts in it. it's got 1700 words of concepts that didn't grow legs, outlines i didn't ultimately like the direction of, and a lot of me trying to talk myself into liking at least one idea, any idea. most projects i work on have a doc like this, it's just a brain dump. normally it's more productive and less chaotic though lol.

draft one has a thousand words of a time loop concept that ultimately didn't work out.

draft two is 4700 words of my actual first draft of almost nothing at all. it's in third person (which is relevant in a minute lol) and includes the back and forth structure that's hinged on those bits of dialogue slingshotting draco between his present and his past. the initial inspo for the fic came from the yearning feeling i got listening to conan gray's people watching, and so my brainstorm doc has a section i added to it after my first attempted story idea bombed about capturing that feeling. i ran with that idea, began writing this draft, and then went back to my brainstorming doc and wrote this (which is that ultimately gave this story its structure):

so there was some back and forth for me too figuring out not just my premise, but also my structure. (which are the two essential components to my writing process: what is my story and how am i telling it).

draft three is almost 5k of this fic written in first person. i wasn't feeling like i fully nailed the ~feeling~ i wanted in my first draft, so i tried for an even closer pov. tbh, i did really like this story in first person, but ultimately had to decide if it was doing enough for the narrative to counteract the very real preference against first person story telling in this fandom (once again, not wanting to disappoint the folks who nominated me played a part)

draft four is a the final product you see on ao3 after i got some feedback from all the people who helped convince me it wasn't as bad as my writer neuroses kept telling me it was. with those few changes, i also switched it back into third person. which was a pain.

so then what's draft five? it's 2.5k of Panic Other Fic i wrote the day before advent was due because i still couldn't shake feeling like i didn't land the story how i wanted to (still don't, but i've accepted it lol). i liked it enough that i will post it eventually too, but i didn't end up scrapping my original advent fic bc sounder minds told me to buck up and get over myself (in much nicer words).

all of which is to say, this is probably way more than you asked for, but maybe there's some reassurance to be had for anyone out there struggling with their work. sometimes the process is stupid messy, sometimes it's riddled with self doubt and false starts, and sometimes it never fully comes together the way you want it to in your head. all those things are okay, and none of them negate the value of the thing you actually made. i'm so thrilled folks have enjoyed this fic, perhaps even more so because of the struggle to write it. and even if it's still not exactly what i was imagining, i'm at least trying to appreciate it for what it became and the enjoyment its giving other people!

[shannananan]

it’s actually been really good reading other perspectives about the plot/pacing of GO2. 

I love the book so watching Season One felt like a fever dream, keeping up with all the network of details and storylines being woven together. It felt like reading the book: you have to work at it, to keep up with the pace of it all. It felt like it captured the magic of Gaiman and Pratchett’s writings, footnotes and all.

My worry with Season Two, and how i felt subconsciously watching the season, was that it lacked that feverish pace. There weren’t many plots with many characters and at times i felt the absence of Pratchett’s writing. 

But, in reading other perspectives, it’s fair that the first season was almost too chaotic for some. the entire story hinged on a countdown to the end of the world, of course it was full of urgency. 

Season Two is the unknown. We don’t have Frances McDormand’s God narrating the events to us - a voice I truly did miss, but understood why it wouldn’t make sense for God, the All Knowing, to narrate an unknown world post-failed-apocalypse. Gaiman gave it to us straight, that this season is slower, more intimate, a study in character. It was up to me as a viewer to slow down with it. 

Also, I saw a good point about how this story was only ever written for TV. It’s not a book adaptation like the first season. It’s a TV script. It has a different goal and dialogue moves differently than when reading a book. And in that way, it did manage to keep the characters’ voices true. It shifted how the camera gave more insight to internal dialogues that we could normally uncover in a book. 

I see also why Gaiman wished so much that the episodes were released weekly. I think that slower release schedule would have served the pacing of the plot better. Season One was meant to be a frenzy, Season Two was meant to simmer. 

[fetus-cakes]

Yu Yu Hakusho review episode 2

episode 1

Not as much to say about this one, except that I am disappointed that they skipped the part in Kurama's backstory where he developed feelings of love towards his human mother after she injured herself saving him. In this version he just loves her because...she raised him? Don't get me wrong, that's enough reason for a normal human being to love their parent, but the whole point is that Kurama ISN'T human, he's a yokai monster and his whole plan hinged on using "that woman" as a meat shield until he was strong enough to abandon her. He developed feelings after she selfishly rescued him from getting hurt; with the implication that he never considered it would be normal for a parent to do that for their child.

In this live action we don't see any particular bonding moment between the two that tells us he changed his mind.

It was interesting changing Yusuke's fight with Gouki from a forest to a car junkyard; but I feel an opportunity was missed in not giving us Yusuke's internal dialogue of him figuring out Gouki's weakness. This series is not really developing Yusuke's character in showing he's stupid at school, (his best subject is science, he scored 12 out of 100) but very clever at fighting. In this live action he just seems to know what to do.

my last nitpick is that the three stolen cursed objects look so so boring in this version. like yeah they greeble and pulsate, but...that's it? they don't LOOK like magical objects of huge power, they look like they're not fully rendered. the mirror looks like a damn tablet!

[oliveroctavius]

A ramble about how the different internal world logic of different Spider-Man universes affects characterization/how much I enjoy the story (featuring ITSV, Raimi, TASM, and NWH)

superhero vs villain stuff is the most basic morality play. There are Good guys and Bad guys and when the Bad guy hits the Good guy, it's bad; but when the Good guy hits the Bad guy it's good. You just have to assign roles and start a fight, and every story is going to draw that line differently.

this doesn't HAVE to be realistic at all and I'd argue it's most fun when it's not trying to be. You don't have to tackle systemic issues in a story about a guy who can scale buldings unless you're certain you have something to say. They can be figurative challenges, I can understand metaphor.

Spider-Verse understood this SO well it makes it visual. Every character exists inside rules that are very real to them even if they're nonsense to someone else there. The physical rules of Spider-Ham's world are non literal (he can fit a hammer in his pocket) as are the moral rules (he can eat a hotdog as a joke). On the other end of the spectrum, Peter B. has back problems, financial issues, just went through a messy divorce... Real Person Problems. The ads in his dimension are also for real life products, while Miles' are all made up. Miles' Peter was "perfect", so we accept that in his dimension there are archetypical heroes—and archetypical villains. They can have simplistic motivations and speak in clichés; don't worry about it. But Miles' Peter died in a very real tragedy, so we know the world rules still take consequences seriously even if the conflict is stylized. The metaphor is made clear with "anyone can wear the mask": anyone, from any world, can draw inspiration from the archetypical hero.

I always have to put in a disclaimer when I'm rambling so I don't sound insufferable: I do get why people's enjoyment hinges on characters. I don't think caring about World Rules is the only like, moral way to enjoy fiction I'm just weird and love dissecting systems. That said, this perspective really wrecks the TASM movies compared to the Raimi movies for me.

Both these movies are (1) live action and (2) create a superhero into a world that doesn't have that archetype yet. So the world has to explain its reasoning for what makes a hero vs a villain before the punching starts. Not just "a villain is a villain because I caught them doing something bad" but "why did they decide to do something bad to start with?"

I really like the Raimi movies' premise, always drawing parallels between the hero and villain as outcasts who gain a large amount of power over others right after a major personal tragedy. This kinda ruins the "sanctity" of the characters but builds a really strong theme. The difference is: when they get a chance to make a choice, do they listen to the voice that wants to make the selfish one, or do they make the kind one? OBVIOUSLY if this was a literal political stance there's a lot wrong with "criminals are criminals bc they choose to be" but the world rules are very intentionally cheesy. The actual criminal justice system is barely a presence because this is a metaphor for you and your ability to help people despite your worst instincts.

The TASM movies on the other hand seem to want to be more serious in science, effects, personality, and dialogue. But then the through-line separating heroes and villains is bioengineered genetics. Booo. That's already weird, but the more seriously I'm told to take it the more I hate it.

Electro is my favorite TASM villain partially because he has more complex motivations. I love TASM Max Dillon but the world rules don't seem to! Garfield would be the superior Peter Parker in a universe that wasn't so dedicated to proving him wrong. Yes, he mouths off to a police officer in his own home. And then the movie has that officer nobly save his life at the climax. Sure, he's just an average guy doing his best. But then the movie explains that this is literally his genetic heritage. Yeah, he tries to talk Electro down. But when the police ruin the moment, it's like it's only for "realism" rather than commentary, and the tragedy of that failure is immediately forgotten. Max and Harry become villains in large part due to abuse by the powers that be, but Peter stops them once they fight back while Oscorp goes unpunished. Systemic injustice is written in as something that creates villains, but the hero is never allowed to meaningfully challenge that injustice, just deal with the mess it creates.

Plus, because Peter is written to be smart, he has to uncritically agree with the genes nonsense. He's probably right that his Parker blood would kill Harry if it got into his cursed Osborn bloodstream. That's just the way the world rules work, forcing him to play by their moral code and make the cruel choice even as a kind character. Hell world. Hell world.

I don't have much to say about the MCU's world rules; I figure they were built for characters who aren't Peter Parker and it shows. NWH is interesting though to compare to ITSV. ITSV didn't have to make its universes play by different rules, but they did. NWH was actually pulling characters from universes with established rules, but that only really comes up in jokes for Spideybros stuff, really.

All the villains are treated in Exactly the Same Way though which raises some major questions. It doesn't mess up the TASM villains too bad to offer them cures since plenty of their problems were medical or systemic, even if it feels totally evil to leave out Harry when his entire arc was around needing a cure he never got. But since the Raimi villains come from a 'verse where their villainy is tied to their choices they're being cured of... the ability to make a choice. Which feels. How do you say. Wack. I honestly don't understand what the MCU thinks the difference is between its heroes and villains. Brand recognition, maybe.

I think the strongest case for TASM's world rules being cruel is that Electro is finally given more respect as a human being when he's handled with the MCU's world rules, while the Raimi villains are given less. Sure Curt is given less respect but I'm going to be honest: I don't think he deserved the respect the TASM movies gave him. He was a eugenicist before the lizard thing and it's anyone's guess if he ever learned a lesson beyond "don't test lizard serums on yourself". Which isn't a terribly generalizable life lesson outside their universe.

There's no real moral to this one, I just have to talk to myself out loud sometimes to avoid going mad. I think world rules are under-discussed in fandom, maybe because imagining characters into different worlds is an ancient fandom pastime. People will get mad at you for being OOC but not OOU (out of universe). Funny, because I don't think you can really separate those things.

[bookofmirth]

okay, be honest with me

you think there is a real (like r.e.a.l.) chance of el/riel being endgame? I didn’t have anything agains the couple, you know, I didn’t like it but if it was sjm wanted I would read it but after the nasty stans I totally loathe the couple now

No. I honestly don't think there is. I've made a similar post before but it was kinda jokey. Here are my actual reasons why:

A majority of the "evidence" I have seen of them being a potential couple is just them existing in a room at the same time. They are not currently canon. They are not in a relationship.

Azriel's POV took place after chapter 58 in the book. It began with him being jealous, angry, lonely and Elain showing sexual attraction to one another. It ended with him smiling about Gwyn.

Rhys told Azriel no. He then backed off. I'm not sure where the narrative is coming from that he is willing to fight for Elain. He gave up. We know this because:

After his POV, about 3-4 months of time passed in the book during which they had zero interactions, even when they were in the same room (which was only once). There are no more exchanged glances, he doesn't mention her, nothing.

Outside of his chapter, Az and Elain don't exchange a single bit of dialogue in the entire book.

After his chapter, Gwyn flirts with Az and Nesta tells him he is the new ribbon. We know what she is telling him. People who don't are playing dumb.

After his chapter, Azriel helps Gwyn to pass the Blood Rite Qualifier. Compare that with him not wanting Elain to even try helping with the Dread Trove, though she volunteered. There is a very clear contrast between Azriel aiding and empowering Gwyn to achieve her goals, and Azriel preventing Elain from being autonomous. SJM loves couples who empower each other (feysand, nessian, rowaelin, elorcan), and never ones who tear each other down or prevent each other from taking action (chaolaena, feylin).

Azriel did not - I repeat, he did not - identify what was wrong with Elain in acowar. I know a lot of theories hinge on this. However, they are misreading the scene. Azriel doesn't identify Elain's problem. He identifies her power. And immediately thinks about how and why that power will be useful to the IC. If he had identified her "problem", the next discussion should have been how to make her better. Not how they could use that to their advantage.

On a related note, I still firmly believe that Elain and Azriel have the potential to be toxic. I've avoided using that word in the past because I think it's overused and people use it without understanding what it means, but it's true. No one is saying they currently are because they aren't in a relationship. Relationships don't start off abusive or toxic. Feylin didn't start off that way. I think Tamlin still loves Feyre. That doesn't mean that he didn't hurt her by trying to take away her agency, much in the same way that Azriel tries to take away Elain's. I still have a crapton of thoughts about this because I saw a shitty take today that acted like abuse is an all-or-nothing deal and because Az has been nice to Elain so far, that means he would never step out of line. That's blatantly untrue and not how abusive or even toxic relationships work.

As a couple, Elain and Az would enable the worst parts of each other.

As a couple, Gwyn and Az would challenge each other to be better.

SJM has never, at any point, talked about Elain and Azriel as a couple. She has talked about elucien as a couple.

If Gwyn weren't a threat, people wouldn't be bent out of shape trying to invalidate her in every single way possible - she's too young and immature, she's secretly evil, she can't have sex because she's an SA survivor, she's just a side character, etc. etc.

Gwynriel + elucien + emorie + jurassa = a HEA for everyone.

Lucien is Elain's mate. Azriel is not.

We don't know what Elain wants, but not a single sjm ship has started with the pair even liking each other. Maybe lysaedion? Every other ship has been combative and distrustful at first. Elain and Azriel don't even have that tension.

The tension in other sjm ships has been internal - reasons why the two characters mistrust one another, or have conflict, or don't like each other, or misunderstand each other. She doesn't tend to write ships where the conflict keeping them apart is external. This is partly why people love her characters so much - we get to know a lot about their feelings and motivations etc. and so the world stuff just... suffers, sometimes.

I'm sure I could think of other reasons, but these are the main ones. There isn't a way to say with 100% certainty that yes or no, this or that thing will or won't happen in the future. Technically, anything could happen. They could time travel in the next books and meet JD Salinger and then learn French and bring electricity back to Prythian. I doubt it, though. So is e*riel possible? Eh. I'd say like 0.0001%, based on how she has written them so far, how she has written other characters, and the way she has written other ships. And since it's becoming more evident that she has a limited range of character and ship types that she likes to write, I don't know if she'd deviate from that.

[ziracona]

Here, for @accursed-worm​ -- this will probably be the most I can put out for a while, with work and life together how they are, and it’s a shame it doesn’t look how it could on AO3 or somewhere else with more font formatting available, but I hope you enjoy the rest of beginning. Feel free to skip ahead to where it left off for you before if you’d like!

Signifying Nothing

  There was an awful stench in the air, a kind of rot that wasn’t easy to recognize. A little like the smell of a dead mouse left for too long under a house, or a discarded deer carcass. It wasn’t either of those things though. It was something much worse. ‘Putrid’ wasn’t a word naturally occurring in anyone’s internal dialogue, but for once it would have been. The smell was overwhelming, and it was coming from everything.

A scuffed black shoe that used to shine with its polish set down on a few small shards of broken glass and the quiet crack made the wearer pause.

The shoes belonged to a man, fairly average in height but with a light build, dark skin, and darker hair that fell into his face. Even stained as it was from hard wear, his white lab coat stood out against the grimy grey and brown walls covered in blood spatter and soot stains and something orange and rotting.

The man stepped further into the room, carefully stepping over the larger chunks of glass and torn metal and rubble that littered the floor. He reached the center of the room and made a slow circle, taking everything in.

Anyone watching would have been able to tell two things at a glance. One, that the man was being cautious and two, that he wasn’t being as cautious as he should have been. He stood out against his surroundings as much as the lab coat did, scanning the walls and leftover carnage more like a tourist at an art gallery than a tattered man in a ransacked laboratory.

Floor to ceiling, the lab around him looked like the aftermath of a horror film. Most of the tables had been flipped, some broken, and writings and beakers and broken glass littered the floor. The room’s one window was busted halfway up and a ragged panel of glass still half-hung in the pane, like a waiting guillotine. Both doors had been torn from the walls. One had fallen into the doorway; the other was in shreds around the room, solid oak torn apart like tissue paper. One small chunk of it still hung from a hinge where it had been broken through, and long, deep scratches ran up it. A large, menacing chandelier hung from its chain in the center of the room weakly, likely to go at any moment. The other lamps were on the ground, and there were still scorch marks around a particularly large one showing where it had caught fire to the research materials around it. Even some of the walls were in pieces, laying rubble around the room amidst tables and test tubes. More noticeable than the state of the room itself was the blood. It was everywhere, reds and browns of various ages flung across the walls and the floor and the implements scattered among the debris, but no bodies. There was an overwhelming smell of corpses, and no corpse.

The man kept walking. He stopped by a pool of ink which had a book floating in it. He knelt, almost reverently, and touched the cover with a finger. There were many things a book could recover from. Soaking in a pile of ink was not one of them.

He stood then, using his forearm to push his hair out of his eyes, and took a small pair of glasses out of his pocked and put them on, blinking as his eyes adjusted to the magnification.

Everything around him was still. A crime scene the day after, a battlefield after even the medics and grave diggers had gone.

The man with glasses took a large messenger bag off of his shoulder and set it on a table. He opened it and rummaged around inside for a few seconds, then froze. Something behind him in the far corner of the room had moved.

Ever so slowly, the man turned to look, eyes unblinking, fixed on where he’d caught movement.

There was nothing.

Very quietly, the man took a syringe out of the bag and readied it like a knife. Slowly, he walked towards the corner of the room. If he’d been careful before, now he was being meticulous. A large broken piece of metal, sharp and jagged on the end that had snapped when it was torn from a lamp and laying a few feet away caught his eye, and he stooped to pick it up.

Still cautious in his approach, the man’s footsteps on the stone floor were the only sound as he got close to the pile of rubble he’d seen movement by, jagged hunk of metal at his side and syringe at the ready in his left hand, and then in one quick, practiced motion the man moved beside the wall to see behind the chunks of stone. He immediately gagged and stumbled back, trying to fight the intense urge to vomit. He failed. The man turned to the side, leaning on a still upright lab table for support and wretched until his body was just dry-heaving. It took him almost twenty seconds to stop. Finally, the man managed to weakly push himself back upright, using one forearm to push his curly hair out of his face, and with his other shaking hand he took a little cloth out of his pocked and used it to wipe his mouth.

It hadn’t just been the sight—he was used to seeing things most people couldn’t begin to imagine. It had been the smell, up close and all at once. It had caught him off guard. Face resigned and exhausted, the bags under his eyes appearing even deeper and his face more gaunt than when he first entered thee room, the man took a breath and went to look at the body again.

Gods have mercy on us all, he thought absently. He didn’t mean it. At this point, that thought was more like a sick joke than anything, but it had become automatic.

The man walked over and knelt down to get a better look at the corpses. He hadn’t even realized at first that there were two of them. The smell that came from the oozing, pussy, decaying mass of mutilated flesh and growths that covered the scarred victims was almost unbearable on a physical level, and he had to keep his forearm over his mouth and nose, trying to filter out some of the smell.

One of the bodies was smaller than him and shrunken. It had cuts all over its still form which oozed an orange substance he was all too familiar with—that disgusting puss secreted by the spirit whose world they were trapped in. He’d seen the nectar before many times. Once every year, when it purged. It was the only genuinely reliable marker that existed to keep track of the passage of time. God, did they use just the raw materials? And so much of it. What is this? It smells like the usual rot, but burned. The thought was a little more olfactorily descriptive than he meant, and his body tried to gag again, but there was nothing left in his stomach to come up. Steeling himself, the man put his syringe in a breast coat pocket, pulled a hard-worn pair of rubber gloves from a back pocket, and pulled them on. From his messenger bag, he took out an empty vial. Leaning over the smaller body, he scraped some of the puss from one of its arms and closed it in his little glass jar, inspecting the sample carefully before placing it in his sack. He shifted then, and used the blunt end of his broken piece of metal to poke at the figure a little, moving one of the arms which covered its chest to get a better look at its torso. Absently, his free hand reached into a pocket and took out a clunky old pocket recorder, marked simply by the initial “C” and hit record.

“Multiple injection marks,” he said to the recorder, eyes fixed on the corpse as he tried to get a better angle on it, “all up and down the ribcage, as if whoever did this was attempting to get it into the bone marrow itself. The subject is young—thirties at the oldest. I don’t recognize the body.”

Gentle as he was going, his metal rod accidentally took off a chunk of flesh the size of a napkin, peeling back and sloughing off the side to reveal mucus and bone and clotted blood, thick with orange lumps. The man gagged again and took a deep breath to steel himself.

“The smell is worse than normal,” he continued, clearing his throat to try and bite back the urge to gag, “Could be due to the natural composition of the body, combined with heavy injections. Decay level of the tissue is low, maybe a week at most, but the chemicals seem to have altered body chemistry heavily, greatly lowering the integrity of the skin. That, or it’s been here a long time and the serum did the opposite,” he added as an afterthought. “Unlikely, though.”

He moved a little, crouch-walking to save time, and leaned over the body again at a new angle. “There are skin lacerations around the subject’s wrists and neck. Not deep, but pre-mort…” Shackles, he realized, glancing instinctively to look for the objects. Had it broken free and been killed? There was no wound he had seen that would have caused death, but he’d only just started. As he looked down, he realized that one of the ankles was still cuffed to a heavy chain embedded in the wall. “It was shackles,” he continued, remembering the recorder, “one is still connecting the subject to the wall. The others seem to have been removed.” He clicked the recorder off, then after a second held the record button down again. “Something has completely trashed my lab, but left the bodies. No recent signs of a presence here either. Everything is at least half a week old, going by blood. Maybe five days. But before that, somebody got very, very busy with my research notes.” He released the button.

I wasn’t gone from the lab that long was I? A few months? What the hell happened here? The man looked at the small, shriveled corpse beneath his feet. Female. About my age, weren’t you? Who were you before this? How long did it take for them to kill you?

He had only given the larger figure a casual glance so far. It was slumped against the wall, half-sitting. He turned his attention to it now, clicking the recorder back on.

“The second body I’ve found is larger and more deformed. There are no puss sacs or growths like seem to have killed the first subject, but the chemical seems to have been altered on this one to include organic compounds from the area. There are sharp vines coming out of its shoulders and arms, covering its head, with large growths above its skull. It looks almost like a stag.” The man clicked the recorder off again and got closer, looking the body in front of him up and down. It was like a tree had overgrown a person, seeping into their body, symbiosis. There were little dark slits on the thing’s head where eyes would have been, and horns made of rotting wood rested above its expressionless face. A huge chunk was missing from its chest, leaving what was left of its ribcage bare and exposing the remaining organs inside. He raised the recorder again and continued his analysis. “Exposed chest wound, including major bone damage to the ribcage which leaves the heart partially exposed. Possibly—”

Again, the man had the impression that something had moved, and he froze. –There it was again!

He squinted, leaning in closer to the figure in front of them. It had come from inside the thing’s chest. Insects, rats? Why the hell—there aren’t naturally occurring animals here, so why would a…

His eyes were only a few inches from the corpse’s chest when he saw it for real, as clear as the vines digging into the thing’s lungs. The exposed heart beat.

In an explosion of movement, the monster’s arm swung out and caught him in the chest, throwing him backwards into the pile of rubble behind him with enough force to knock the breath out of him.

He didn’t even have time to connect the pain in the back of his shoulder and down his arm with the blood dripping onto his fingers before it was on him, lunging for his throat, and the man scrambled backwards, toppling over the pile of rubble blindly as the thing crawled after him, roaring like a beast.

“Oh fucking shit!” the man yelled, his brain’s first attempt to give him a rational response or solution to the situation. He crawled backwards, trying to move faster than the thing was crawling towards him, which was physically impossible. It lunged at him and he rolled out of the way, leaving a smear of blood as he crawled beneath a table and came up stumbling to his feet on the opposite side of it.

In the half-second of safety the metal table offered he got a good look at the monster in its entirety. Horns included, the thing towered over him by a good two feet, head tilted and gold-orange puss dripping from its cuts and wounds and mouth and eyes. If you could call them eyes—they were something anyway, a flickering white-blue light coming from where there had been nothing but darks slits on its face for eyes before, and the lights stayed trained on him as it moved impossibly fast and flung the metal table between them across the room in one swift motion. He could hear the table crashing into a wall as the beast leapt for him, its arm catching hold of his hair and taking a handful as the man tore himself free and threw himself to the ground underneath its arms and past its legs, twisting as he hit the ground, snatching at the syringe in his breast coat pocket and digging its needle into the popliteal artery at the back of the monster’s knee, driving his thumb against the plunger, and emptying the container of pentobarbital into the monster’s leg. It spun with him, just as fast, and swung at him again, its hand catching him in the cheek and sending him skidding along the floor backwards into the same pile of rubble he’d been bashed against before.

Without hesitation, the horned beast came at him with a fury, but it stumbled, and the man rolled out of the way and watched it crash into the rocks it had knocked him against moments before. It shook its head like it was trying to clear it and took another step towards him, and then a much slower, more shaky step, and began to sway. It tried to grab a nearby gurney for support and it fell, taking the stretcher with it as it collapsed onto its side

The man sat were he’d rolled, breathing hard, arms still poised to help him crawl backwards quickly if he had to, eyes fixed on the monster in front of him.

It twitched and made an agonized sound and tried to pull itself back up and failed, and tried again, and again its shoulders gave out. It turned its head towards him and he saw a shudder run down its whole body, and the lights beneath the slits on its face flickering. The golden-orange liquid drained from it more slowly now, as the beast excruciatingly dug its fingers into the stone floor and tried to crawl towards the fallen gurney.

The man got to his feet shakily and blinked in surprise at the blood dripping down his arm. Choosing to ignore the wound for now in favor of more present danger, though, he turned his attention back to the creature on the floor and realized for the first time that this second test subject had been shackled too—was still shackled. Its left leg was connected to the wall by a long tether which had almost reached its length. As he watched, the beast dragged itself over to the fallen stretcher and tried again and again to pull itself up from its prone position. With each attempt he could see it getting weaker as the drug took hold.

Noticing his piece of torn lamp pole from before laying by the rock heap where he’d lost it when he took the first hit, the man in the lab coat walked over and reclaimed his weapon, then crossed purposefully to the creature on the floor.

As he neared it, he could see from the slow, ragged rise and fall of its chest and the slow flickering on and off of the lights that seemed to be its eyes that it was fighting to stay awake. As he got close to it, it swung a hand weakly at him twice before its strength gave out and the arm dropped to the ground.

After waiting a few seconds to make sure the drug had worked its way deep enough into the thing’s system, the man knelt by the monster and leveled his piece of metal. He saw it move its shoulder, trying to will an arm up to defend itself from him, but the drug had set in in earnest now and it had seconds before it was dead to the world completely. He looked from its throat to its exposed heart, trying to decide how to deal with the thing. After a second, he decided on the heart and the man placed one hand on its chest to steady his aim, and then he raised his jagged piece of metal over its exposed heart and it made a sound almost like a whimper.

He hesitated then, looking down at the thing beneath him. The lights behind the slits of its wooden face were fading out, but its chest still rose and fell. He knew it was looking at him as it lost consciousness, and he felt it shudder under the hand he had on its chest. Its breath was coming in quick and shallow, even with the sedative seeping through its veins, and he realized suddenly that it was scared of him and scared to die.

The lights behind its eye slits went out and the creature’s head lulled to the side as it lost consciousness and the man raised his makeshift weapon again. Then he stopped.

Instead, he moved his hand to the thing’s face and felt the rough wooden surface. There was a crack over the left side, which spiderwebbed out from near its ear. Gingerly, the man followed the crack down the monster’s cheekbone to a place where a small chunk about the size of a fingernail had broken off the wood. He let his fingertip rest on the spot, and felt the sticky-warm of fresh blood, and the rough-soft of damaged human skin beneath the wood.

He let the chunk of metal fall from his hand then and collapsed back onto the floor and sat there, staring at the thing in front of him. Out of the corner of his eye the bright red button on his tape recorder caught his eye. It had landed by an overturned table about fifteen feet away, miraculously intact. For some reason the sight reassured him, and the adrenaline drained from his system as he calmed down and it left him exhausted. He brushed his hair out of his eyes and took a deep breath, thinking hard.

After a second, he pulled himself unsteadily to his feet, crossed to the recorder and slumped to the ground beside it, leaning his back leaning against the pile of rubble like it was an easy chair. He picked the dented machine up and pressed record.

“Okay. Well. The big one wasn’t dead. It attacked me, but I was able to inject it with a high dose of pentobarbital. Nice to know some things still work on creatures under effects of the serum,” he said, then released the record button to take a shaky breath, eyes on the unconscious monster about ten feet away. He hit record again. “Unsure how to proceed now. I have to do something fast. It’s still breathing, and I don’t think the OD is going to kill it,” he paused, watching the thing’s heart beating weakly in its open chest cavity. “But uh,” he continued half-automatically after a second, “I think it might be salvageable. Yeah. Yeah, I might have to see what I can do. It, uh…” He ran his fingers through the curly hair that hung in his face. “When it couldn’t defend itself anymore, that thing looked…it acted an awful lot like a regular human being. It, uh…” He looked at the thing’s slumped form. It seemed so much less tall now, less imposing. The yellowed ichor that had been pumped into its veins was slowly dripping from where its ears should have been, leaking down its collarbone and seeping past vines into its chest. “Yeah, I might have to see what I can find out.”

The man released the button and set down the recorder, then he slowly slid the rest of the way down the rock until he was laying on his back on the ground. He put his hands over his face and groaned. “Fuuuuck.”

  _______________________________________________________

 V’s Field Journal.

Date and time unknown.

Final entry.

 It is dark, and cold, and I don’t think I will be able to hold on much longer out here. I’m losing myself. But I can’t just give up after everything; that would hardly be fair to the others. Not after all of this.

My name is Vigo.

I uh. I don’t really know where to start. I am no stranger to writing, but uh, it has always been academic in nature before. Journaling—that to me is new. I’m afraid on top of that that I am no Benedict Baker. That foolish man, who knowing the power of names chooses to go around throwing his full one about at every turn, even in a place like this. He carves it into walls and signs it on notes he scatters behind him like debris marking the path of a storm. …Well, maybe he’s the one who was right after all, though. He’s lived longer. I’ll honor him by continuing his tradition. But I won’t bring in my full name, not even now, when it seems like I could hardly take on more damage, because names have power. I may be wrong, after all, Benedict has often made some good points to the contrary when debating me, and out of all of us only me and my hidden name are truly lost for good. But even so.

I am who I am.

I could go back, and cut all of these verbal placeholders to sound more loquacious, but somehow that seems disgenuine, and honestly it seems fucking stupid to be wasting my time on worrying about editing at all when I have so little left. How can it possibly matter with a deadline coming so fast now? It can’t. This doesn’t have to be pretty, it just has to be, and so you’ll have to take the words as they come. Make of that and my fragments what you will. I suppose you would anyway.

This is a last, well, not a will, I guess, but a last testament. Something to leave behind. Thank you for reading it, by the way. I am glad. Truly, deeply glad, that I wasn’t the only one.

Where to start?

I am…what is relevant here? Fucking Benedict Baker should have been the one to end up here doing this… I have often been called ‘Alchemist’ in this place, though it’s hardly a fitting term for me. I was an apothecary—or maybe a chemist, is as accurate, before this life. There wasn’t just one proper title for it, so even I’m not sure which to pick. My family had long been a bit of a one-stop for all ailments and needs of a chemical, spiritual, or bodily harm nature, and I took up the family business. We are Sámi up here…or—there, there back home. Not here…Though, my mother’s parents were foreigners who left a home in Ethiopia and somehow in a desperate attempt to drastically avoid France at all costs, went about as north as they could go and ended up settled with us in Scandinavia. She always liked that…anecdote. It’s a bit of a joke. I hope you got it. She would be glad you got it. Anyway, my father’s family provided a broad range of services to our home, and I suppose in a way whether I like it or not, that’s more or less where my path begins.

We grew up right on the edge of Sweden and Norway, my sister and me—on the Norway side. Used to introduce myself to people at school by saying from where I lived, I could wake up in the morning and throw a letter to Sweden from my bed. I might have actually been able to, if I’d tied a rock to it, come to think of it… Fuck. I can’t write like this. I’m very bad apparently at anything but academic writing. –Which I swear I’m good. I really am—exemplary, even. But this…? I… … The family trade was medicine, of a lot of kinds. Growing up was actually rather fascinating, the way I did it. There was a lot to learn, and apothecary, shamanistic, home remedies—we did it all, and we were good. I was never sick growing up, not once for more than a day, not unless it was because I’d decided to try mixing some new concoction and tested it on myself to see what would happen and my mother and father had decided to let me learn a lesson the hard way. There was a spiritual side to the practice too, a deeply important one. I come from a line with noaidis in our history and our blood. My father was one, whose songs used to fill me with wonder as a child. As a man. I was…I should have been one. I tried to be. I suppose in many ways I was, at least for a little, there at the end. He would have done it better…but, he would also have been proud. Fuck.

I feel as if I’m already butchering this. I am. I know it. Oh—damn it, I can do better. I can. I’ve read enough of Benedict’s work.

Okay.

Okay. I’m telling this wrong. Please, allow me to start over just one more time. I think I know the way to write it now. I’ve been following the wrong character up till now.

See. This story isn’t even really about me. It’s about four people. Not me.

Well. I suppose it is one-fourth mine, but I think now probably that I am the least of us. I wish I’d thought to tell them that. I will have to settle for writing it now instead.

This story is not long, but it is hard, and it is not yet quite over.

It is the story of a mechanist, a chronicler, an alchemist, a man, and a monster.

Let’s start with one of them instead.

  _______________________________________________________

 __________ Part 1: The Mechanist ______

Alex Lin grew up on Prince Edward Island, Canada, underneath the red oaks and among bluejays and foxes and caribou.

As a young girl, Alex took an interest in the same things everyone thought she would. She learned to farm, to ride a horse, to cook. She was small, and her family spent a long time having to coax her into including English and French into her conversational Mandarin even well into her teens. She says it wasn’t because they were hard—she just didn’t like the sound of them. Alex used to tell her parents and her two little brothers and one older brother that Mandarin was like chewing bubblegum, and French was like chewing hay, English like chewing tobacco, and there was only one of those three things her tongue liked.

From the first day of school on, Alex liked to experiment with her hair. She would chop odd parts of it off, use watercolor paints to temporarily dye in highlights, pin it up, tie it up, braid it down, pigtails, ponytails, supposedly once a mohawk for about half a day before she was dragged out of school to change it. Her parents yelled at her to stop, and her neighbors and friends gawked and judged, but her brothers who liked trouble just as much as she did started to style theirs in solidarity. All three of them. Once her eldest brother wore a pink bow in his tiny little goatee, and his mother promised she would stop bothering Alex about the less ridiculous cuts so long as he never did that again.

Alex was often in trouble. Her parents were loving and good people, but four rambunctious kids was a lot to deal with, and life was hard. Life always seems to be hard, doesn’t it? Especially when you’re decent. I suppose that’s part of being human.

As is doing things you shouldn’t—another thing Alex loved. In particular, she was exceptionally handy—almost impossibly—at getting fires started. At age six, Alex set fire to her own hair to see if it would really smell bad. It did, but the experiment fascinated her as much as it horrified her mother.

At age eight, Alex figured out that certain household liquids were particularly flammable, and even more to her delight that so were several solid objects she had never even thought to suspect. In a quest for bright flames and the fulfilment of her wonder at the process of them, Alex almost killed everyone in her home by attempting to light, among other things, a large bag of fertilizer high in ammonium nitrate on their porch one night, but saw the “DANGEROUS: EXPLOSIVE” warning label at the last second and took the bag back into the barn, her family never the wiser (Possibly a wild stroke of luck, but I’d argue it’s more likely the universe probably wasn’t ready to let go of her just yet). They were, however, wise to Alex’s combustion of the town sign one year, when Alex was suspended from school for violating the dress code. So was the local Sheriff’s office. She was eleven at the time.

Afraid their daughter might lean into this life of arson, Alex’s father wisely led her into a different area of interest. While it had little to do with fire, it had a lot to do with tinkering and a keen mind—both qualities Alex also had in spades, and so mechanics became her new passion.

It started with her father simply taking her along to patch up tractors, the car, doors, windows, the windmill, the pump—anything—especially anything with enough gears to have some pluck to it. Alex had a gift for machines, and Alex was only 14 when she convinced the local mechanic to hire her on if she could fix the next car that came in by herself in under an hour.

While she failed spectacularly at this, because the car that came in had nearly been totaled in an accident, she got done—correctly—four times as much as the mechanic himself thought he could have done in an hour, so after a heavy amount of debating, drinking, and saying, “what the hell” to each other loudly while clapping each other on the back, the mechanic and his workers agreed to hire Alex on part-time.

Understandably, the thought of their 14-year-old daughter working as a mechanic was somewhat horrific to Alex’s family. There was a lot of panicking, and talking, and very persuasive counter-points about the Sherriff and fires and adult men and the dangers of mechanics, and in the end her older brother Ham (short for Hamlet, according to Alex herself, but of questionable credibility) also finagled his way into a job at the mechanics. Ham kept his job for the next 18 months, until he felt like he could sound the all-clear. Alex kept hers for the next seven years.  

I guess it would be more appropriate to say that Alex never really lost that job. She got interested in other things, rather, and started to move from fixing cars all the time to fixing them half the time, and building things at home, until by age 21, she wasn’t so much employed by the mechanic shop as she was simply a welcome face that ghosted in and out as she pleased, and took up an occasional odd job for them. As interesting as making things was to Alex, though, breaking them was more fun. Sure—Alex could do both. Her father used to try and persuade her to re-think her passion by saying anyone can break something, but only the truly gifted can repair them, but Alex decided that, while that might be true, only the really, really gifted could break things you weren’t supposed to be able to break, and get away with it.

When Alex turned 24, she officially stopped working at the mechanic’s shop altogether. To celebrate what she considered a banner year (reaching 24, for reasons that are still unclear to me), she decided to go on a tear with some new friends.

It was the dawn of the 1970s Alex was driving through, and counter-culture was on the rise in prominence all around them, and Alex was intrigued by every bit of it. While things were moving not quite in sync with their lower cousin country, up in Canada, the Civil Rights movement, the resurgence of groups promoting Women's Rights, the anti-capitalist, anti-imperialist, and anti-war movements all ricocheted around her. In particular, the American Indian Movement, which extended to Canada, caught her eye. While she had opted out of a college education, many of her friends were joining protests, and Alex agreed with the anger at the world around her. She had always wanted to break and burn things, but just for the joy of it, never with the intent of destruction or achievement in her heart. Suddenly, Alex had a cause.

None of this is to say Alex was a violent person, some pyromaniac with a hatchet and a can of gasoline. No. It was something very different. Fundamentally different even from the unmotivated chaos she had gravitated towards with wonder all of her life. For the first time in her life, things made sense to Alex, because everywhere she looked, Alex was seeing the people all around her struggling against law enforcement, establishment, government, war, and she looked down and realized all her life she’d been learning and training for really one thing—how to break stuff really, really well, and in that moment her father’s words came back to her, “Anyone can break things, Alex, but only the truly brilliant can fix things,” and she realized in that moment that he was right, but also that there were people out there fighting things they couldn’t beat alone and she had the particular skill set to help them. She was the key. Alex changed her mantra then. No more “Only the really, really gifted can break things you shouldn’t be able to break and get away with it,” no, that had been close, but the real truth was that, “Only the truly gifted can fix things, but sometimes the only way to fix things made wrong by others, is to break them.”

And break them she did.

   _______________________________________________________

 When he woke up, he couldn’t move. That realization registered before the pain in his chest or the burning in his veins. Fear.

Thick straps held down his wrists and ankles and others were fastened at his waist and throat. Something had been shoved down into his mouth—a rag maybe, and tied in place, and when he tried to shout he choked on it and only a muffled almost nothing came out. He tried to struggle and lunge against the straps then, but the straps didn’t budge, and the motion strangled him, and the strangulation with the choking were too much and he couldn’t breathe and that scared him and he had to stop moving and focus on forcing his chest to rise and fall and pump oxygen into his lungs. His breaths came in ragged and desperate, afraid.

As his eyes focused, all he could see was the white ceiling above him, so he turned his head to try and see his surroundings, and it was the same lab as before. The pain in his chest was worse than it had been when he lost consciousness and the shackle was gone and in its place were tight leather straps holding him down against a cold metal table. He remembered then—he remembered the strange man in the lab coat scraping skin off the corpse next to him and reaching for him and trying to fight him off and being injected with something. He remembered the awful feeling of trying to move and not being able to—like slowed motions in a dream but worse, and the way the man had picked up a weapon and looked down at him and knelt beside him to kill him.

He hadn’t killed him though, no—this was worse. His mind was filled with fragments and images—being chained to a wall and having syringe after syringe of gods knew what injected into his veins—the way he felt like he was burning from the inside out, and watching the thorny vines grow out of him and into him and peel the skin around his chest back until he wasn’t sure how he was still alive.

Thoroughly panicked, he tried again to fight the restraints with everything he had, thrashing in spite of the way it hurt and cut into his skin and choked him.

There was the hurried sound of footsteps then, and he turned his head and saw the man in the lab coat rush into the room from a little doorway on the left.

The second he saw that his subject was awake and trying to free itself, the man in the coat closed the distance with incredible speed, not pausing until he was beside the table.

The creature on the table continued to thrash and choke himself, trying desperately to get away, only becoming more frantic as he saw the man begin to dig through his bag and withdraw a large syringe full of something clear. The man in the lab coat paused then and looked down at him.

“Easy now—I can’t have you making noise and leading someone else here,” said the man in a calming voice, towering over his prisoner, “And I really don’t want you getting out and trying to kill me again. I’m sure you’re not enjoying this, but I need you here and still to fix this. Now don’t move. This won’t hurt you unless I mess up the insertion.” He held up the syringe as he said the last bit, and the man on the table felt the bottom of his stomach drop out at the sight.

The man in the lab coat put his hand on his prisoner’s head and forced it down and to the side, exposing the veins on his neck. He tried to fight back against the force of the hand, but he had so little ability to move at all, and he helplessly felt the chilled metal dig into his throat and the sensation of something cold spreading from the point, and his vision started to fog.

His memories hadn’t had time to un-jumble, and he was so confused and lost, everything coming in fragments that hurt, like pieces of a shattered mirror that cut when he tried to pick them up to look at them and remember. He couldn’t even remember why he was here, or where, exactly, he was—what was going on—who he was? Why this was happening? And now everything was fading again, before he had had time to do anything.

He felt the man let go of his head then, and slowly he turned his neck and looked back up at him, trying to see his face. Why? Why are you doing this? What do you want from me? Dark skin, but lighter than his own—and curly hair that fell in his face. He couldn’t make out the lab coat man’s features though. Everything was too blurry, and black was creeping in the edges of his vision.

Shit. He could see the massive hole in his chest and the vines digging into his flesh, but he was afraid something far worse would have happened by the next time he woke up. If he woke up.

“Please...” he tried to manage through the gag, but it just came out as a choked sound. He saw the man in the lab coat cock his head at him.

“What?” the man in the lab coat asked, looking a little surprised.

He tried to speak through the gag again but he couldn’t. The words slurred and just became a pained and weak sound, and then he lost consciousness again.

  _______________________________________________________

 “The subject is of African descent,” the man in the coat said into his recorder, looking down at the body on the table before him, “probably late thirties in age. I’ve been able to extract enough growth from his face safely that I think I can begin moving onto the more intense fusions.”

The layer covering the man on the table’s head had been almost more like a mask than growth. It had been connected to the skin, but more in the way a scab was than a tumor. Surface layer only. It had caused a lot of bleeding and skin loss, but he’d been able to get the horns and plants from off the man’s head, and there had still been a human face underneath. The bigger problem was going to be the man’s chest. The arms and legs, especially closer to the torso, were also deeply affected. It looked like the main serum injection point into this man had been through his back, right between the shoulder blades, and most of the growth stemmed from there. The plants had dug into his skin and back out, winding around bone and flesh and tearing through muscle and replacing it with themselves, wrapping all the way around to his rib cage and pulling the flesh back and away to expose his chest-cavity. He was missing chunks of so many internal organs it was almost unbelievable that he was still living.

“The organs present the biggest issue,” the man in the lab coat continued, pressing down the record button on his little recorder again, “I have been able to fairly successfully reverse engineer the serum used here—thankfully our destructive friend left unused samples, so I didn’t have to dig. However, reversing what has been done isn’t exact. I can get rid of the plants, but it’ll kill him, because undoing the damage there won’t bring back what the thorns and vines have torn through.”

He looked the motionless body up and down, wincing at the way the tendrils cut through its thighs and calf muscles and bit deep into its lungs. “It’ll die,” he continued in a voice that was slow and careful, “If I am not very careful.”

He, I suppose, thought the man in the coat to himself, not ‘it’.

The man on the table was breathing shallowly, raggedly, and it was getting worse the more of the serum damage he undid on the man’s body.

The man in the lab coat wiped his brow and took a deep breath, trying to think calmly. “Alright,” he said into the recorder, “There’s really only one possible way to do this. I’m going to have to inject him with my own alteration of the formula to keep him alive, while undoing the damage from my predecessor’s work.”

He picked up a handful of notes from a previously overturned gurney he’d repurposed and glanced at them, face forming into a grimace.

“Or, I guess I’m technically his predecessor,” he corrected, looking at the marked-up versions of his own research.

But what kind of fucking idiot just injects whatever he can find into the nearest people to see what will happen? Sure, he was a little impressed that according to these notes the lab’s previous user had managed to catch more than one thing that came after him, but injecting them with serum wasn’t about to help anyone—those things were hard enough to deal with before shooting them full of this stuff. The puss the serum was made from could do many things, but the most easy and basic of them was a loss of mental control combined with one of the most powerful steroids he’d ever seen. And that? That was about as far from the recommended combat strategy for a gigantic, armed monster he could think of.

The man in the lab coat sighed, picked up his syringe, and flicked it with a finger reflexively, watching the gold liquid settle. “I’m combining some of his own unspoiled DNA from the least affected areas of the body to see if I can accelerate the natural regenerative properties of the base serum I developed. I don’t want to have to inject him with the amount I know it’ll take if this doesn’t work out, because that’s likely to make him go mad…” he glanced down at the body, which was beginning to toss fretfully against its restraints. He placed his hand on the body’s forehead and felt intense heat. A fever? He’d been a motionless corpse to all appearances seconds ago. Apparently the first DNA shot was doing something. “The first dose is having definite effects,” he said into the recorder, “About a ten-minute delay between injection and response. Going in for round two.”

He set down the recorder, forced the weakly thrashing body’s head down against the table, and injected his syringe’s contents into its neck. The whole body shook under his fingers and went still, then started to toss again, but more slowly, more faintly. He still hadn’t regained consciousness, which was a blessing for them both. To his credit, there did seem to be some regeneration in the chest already. The muscles and skin were taking it faster than the organs though, which was worrying. Still, a little early to call it.

“I can see some cellular growth already,” said the man in the coat, pressing record, “but it’s slower than I expected. Still, promising. Seems to be inducing fever. It’s likely the plant tissue and the growth I’m inducing are treating each other like hostile bodies. We’ll see.” He sighed. “It’s going to be a long night.”

It was a very long night.

The man on the table woke up several times, the pain beating out the sedative. That was another problem—the man was already strong, and the serum boosted his defenses, and the man in the lab coat had to keep injecting him with more serum to keep him alive, but it was hard to tell amidst the unpredictable cocktail he was throwing into this person’s body exactly how his collection of sedatives would work, and he was choosing to err on the side of caution, because the drugs he carried were technically intended as a method of euthanasia. This, however, meant that the subject on the table kept waking up in intense pain and trying to scream, and fighting against his restraints and damaging himself, and he wasn’t sure what would happen if the man woke up to intense shock when he was in such a weakened state enough times. Mentally or physically. The fact of the matter was, trying to keep his prisoner alive was torturing the man to his breaking point. He could tell, every time the other man’s eyes opened wide with fear and his chest began to rise and fall at a panicked speed and he could quite literally see his heart beating inhumanly fast through the open chest wound, just how agonizing this was. The gag he’d made was good, and necessary—the creatures in the fog were always listening for sounds of life and pain—yet the pain was so unbearable that he could still make out his prisoner’s agonized screams through the gag that smothered them. He might be the only one who could hear, but the shouts echoed in his head long after he’d put the man under again. Often he found himself dozing off, only to be woken by a sound between a scream and a sob, choked and painful, and repeated, because the act of making it was the only relief from his intense suffering that his prisoner could try to give himself. As awful as the initial process must have been, the thorny vines forming and cutting through his muscles and pulling back skin, winding around bone, tearing away flesh as they forced their way in, the reverse process was just as bad, like removing a knife from some’s chest over and over, the agonizing pain of ripping out longer and more horrifying than the wound itself could have ever been.

It was like a nightmare, but a nightmare in which he was the thing stalking prey through the night for once; he was the beast ripping apart the same flesh and killing the same victim on repeat past the point where pain should lose meaning, and the man in the lab coat did not like it.

He thought about stopping—he would have, maybe. Several times he went up to the agonized man on the table as his chest tore itself apart and the serum in his veins burned with his blood, and he choked on his gag and strangled himself with attempts to get free, determined to just inject his prisoner with an overdose and end it, but each time he came to do it, the man saw him coming and looked at him with so much fear that he couldn’t. In its desperation, the subject on the table always tried futilely to get away from him, and never once did its eyes meet his with the request to just end it, but rather that was always what it seemed most afraid of, that the man in the lab coat was coming to kill, and if the thing he was cutting up into little pieces and tearing back together still wanted to live through all that suffering, how could he kill him?

It took 61 hours of this agony before the man in the lab coat actually believed what he was doing would work. He woke to his dismay from an accidental two minutes of sleep to see he’d fallen asleep across the stomach of his subject, but then as his eyes adjusted to the low light he saw that beneath the still partially-open chest wound, the subject’s lungs had begun to regrow. He should have gotten up and started working then, but he just stayed there, close to the unconscious man’s abdomen, watching the lungs reform for the next hour, praying thanks to everything he’d ever considered believing in that this had worked.

By the end of the next 24 hours, the most critical wounds had healed, and his prisoner’s vitals were becoming more stable and predictable.

It was also at the end of those 24 hours that one of the warning traps he’d set on the lab’s perimeter triggered, and the man in the lab coat knew he’d overstayed his welcome.

And then, it was also the time that one more thing occurred.

  _______________________________________________________

 When the prisoner came to, the unbearable suffering of the past several days was fresh in his mind, and involuntarily trembling at the memory, he waited to be hurt. But the pain was gone. Well, the pain wasn’t really gone per-se, but what he felt now didn’t feel like pain compared to the absolute, excruciating suffering he’d been waking up to for what seemed like an endless stream of nights. As he realized this, the man strapped to the table slowly opened his eyes, blinking at the harsh light. He couldn’t see much, even of himself, neck still strapped down to the cold metal table, but he turned his head to look for the man in the lab coat who was always there. He didn’t see him, for once, and as he considered that and the lack of pain he waited for the other shoe to drop.

The silence lingered though. The shoe didn’t drop.

Move, he told himself desperately through the drug-induced haze that still hung over him, he will be back soon, you must move.

He tried, using all of his strength to tear at his restrains, attempting to keep quiet as he did. Finally, in a burst of strength, he felt his right wrist break something—part of the strap holding it snapped, and another two tugs freed it.

As soon as he had a hand free, the fear of the man in the lab coat returning intensified. It was as if he could hear the seconds of his window of opportunity ticking away on a clock above him. With all his might, the prisoner grabbed the strap pinning his neck and started to try and break it, but his fingers grabbed onto the cold touch of steel and he was awake enough to remember how things like this worked, and he found the buckle for the restraint and released it. The strap at his waist still pinned him to the table, but he felt immeasurable relief at being able to move his head again. He wanted to go for the gag, but no, you have limited time, think, he told himself, and he undid the strap around his waist and hurriedly went for the one at his other wrist.

He heard footsteps then.

Shit.

He thought fast, considering trying to tear through the buckles around his feet and run, but he remembered the syringe and how fast he lost consciousness to whatever was in it.

I’m going to regret this, he thought in a controlled panic, and laid back down on the table, setting the straps at his neck and waist to look natural and slipping his freed hands back into place.

He turned his head towards the doorway and closed his eyes to imperceptible slits, waiting for the man in the lab coat. He didn’t have to wait long.

The man in the lab coat rounded the corner quickly, something between a jog and a speed walk, looking agitated but contained. He paused by one of the gurneys around the room to dig through his big bag, and he withdrew a bottle and a syringe and carefully measured out an amount for use, all the while casting glances back the way he’d come.

As soon as he had what he wanted, the man in the lab coat hurriedly crossed to the table his prisoner was strapped to.

“Okay,” he heard the man whisper to himself, “vitals…”

The man in the coat reached down to check his subject’s pulse, and the prisoner shot out his free hand and locked it around the wrist that held the syringe like a vice.

“Jesus Christ!” the man in the lab coat shouted in shock as he tried to propel himself backwards and jerk his hand away, but his prisoner’s own strength mixing with the overwhelming power of the serum made that like trying to free himself from a hydraulic press and his words devolved into a scream of pain as his prisoner increased the pressure on his fingers until he heard them snap.

The man in the lab coat let go of the syringe as his hand was crushed, and it fell to the floor where it shattered. He reached for the inside pocket of his coat with his other hand, but his prisoner was faster. He wasn’t about to be drugged again, and he grabbed the man in the coat by the throat and slammed his head forward into the side of the table, stunning him and cutting it open with a rush of blood, and then he slammed him against it again just in case, before throwing him with both hands at the nearest wall.

The man in the coat slid like a lifeless piece of debris and slammed into the ruined wall about fifteen feet back with a thud and lay there, trying weakly to drag himself to his feet, but dizzy and blinded by blood from his own forehead.

While he struggled, the prisoner sat up and jerked the restraints off his feet as fast as he could, rolling off the far side of the table as soon as he was free before even stopping to check where the man in the coat was. The second he hit the ground the prisoner regained his feet, taking a large piece of rock from the floor with him. His captor was still struggling to regain his own feet as he did so, and he moved towards him with the practiced walk of someone prepared to kill, knowing how fast the smaller man was and remembering what had happened last time.

“Wait, wait!” The man in the lab coat stammered out, making it to his feet and stumbling backwards along the wall, trying to keep away, “I’m trying to help you!”

The prisoner chucked the rock and the man in the coat ducked just in time. Debris and dust scattered over him as the rock broke into tiny fragments from the force of the throw.

The man in the lab coat came up with a shaking hand holding the small syringe he always kept in his breast coat pocket leveled at his assailant like a knife. “Listen to me, I’ve just been fixing you—” he stopped and rolled out of the way as his prisoner grabbed a drawer from a desk nearby and threw it at him.

They were about fifteen feet apart, the man in the coat trying to keep objects between them and wipe blood out of his eyes with a forearm while keeping his syringe leveled.

“You don’t understand,” said the man in the lab coat desperately, “please—I’m only—”

His prisoner saw an opening and leapt over a table between them with impossible speed, catching the hand with the syringe as it swung down at him and the two grappled. The prisoner used his superior size and strength to force the other man against the far wall as they struggled, cutting off any chance at letting go and making a break for his bag across the room and the supplies he kept in it. Despite how much smaller and weaker he was, the man in the coat wasn’t letting go of the syringe easily, and he was fast. Before his prisoner had time to really register what was happening, he got his feet up against the wall behind him and used it to propel himself forwards and knocked both of them to the ground, digging his teeth into the soft flesh of his prisoner’s hand as they fell. The prisoner let go on impulse, and was suddenly struggling against the full body weight of the man on top of him to keep the needle from digging into his chest. Desperately, with the bitten hand, he made a lung for the fingers he’d broken on his assailant, snatched them, and crushed the hand again with everything he had. The man in the lab coat screamed in pain and lost his grip, and the prisoner tore the syringe out of his hand and sent it skittering across the floor.

His captor fell back from him then, clinging to the broken hand and trying to crawl backwards, but he wasn’t fast enough, and the prisoner came after him, unrelenting, grabbed him by the throat and lifted him into the air. He struggled against the hand at his throat weekly, but the prisoner bashed his frame against the wall to stun him and his efforts weakened.

“If you kill me, you’ll die,” the man in the lab coat choked out, trying desperately to pry the fingers away from around his throat with his usable hand, “The serum dose I gave you is on a timer—without enough counteragent to level it out it’ll kill you.”

The prisoner hesitated, fear suddenly creeping in behind the rage and memories of night after night of anguish. Beneath his hand he could feel the skin on his enemy’s throat beginning to bruise and see his face start to turn pale blue-purple as he lost oxygen.

“Please,” the man in the lab coat managed, voice strained and ragged and weak, “You don’t have to do this—you’re not a monster—I can help you.”  The fingers which had been trying so hard to pry away his own lost their grip and were barely applying any force at all.

Monster? You’re the one who’s done this, thought his prisoner, still angry and afraid but suddenly feeling unsure, You.

The man he was choking to death was trying desperately now to make eye contact with him, his eyes pleading. His voice had lost its ability to be heard through the asphyxiation, but he could tell from the movement on his lips that he was trying to say “please,” and the prisoner remembered how he had done the same thing strapped to that table.

He might be telling the truth about the poison, he rationalized to himself, and let go.

The man in the lab coat fell to the ground, coughing and gasping desperately to fill his lungs. The prisoner could have killed him then, just as easily—stomped his head into the floor, run him through with any number of the sharp broken objects lying around. He couldn’t fight back, on his hands and knees, fighting to gain enough oxygen to keep himself from passing out. But he didn’t; the prisoner just stood and watched.

“Thank you,” he heard the man in the lab coat say weakly between coughs, cradling his broken hand “thank you…”

Both men heard the sound at the door at the same moment and turned to face it as one person. Footsteps. Loud and heavy. And fast.

He didn’t know what was coming, but he wasn’t about to lose his freedom again, and the prisoner closed his eyes and felt for his blade. Something told him he was going to need it. Who he was and why he was here had come back in pieces, and he remembered the gift his guardian had given him—the sickle with three prongs, and he tried to sense it, having no idea if it was still here. It had been when he’d first been beaten. Not by….

No, that’s right, it wasn’t this man was it? It was another. At least at first. He didn’t have time to wonder, he had to act. Reaching out, he could sense its presence under a pile of rubble halfway across the room, but he’d only made two strides towards it when the third man entered.

The prisoner stopped, watching, like a feral animal at the ready. The new man stopped too, turning to look from one potential victim to the other. He was big—maybe not quite as tall as the prisoner, but broader. Covered in muscles and chunks of metal, and dripping the same gold serum he himself had been only a few days ago. A mask with a false grin made of sharp teeth covered his face, and the prisoner couldn’t see his eyes through it.

“Trapper,” he heard his previous biggest problem whisper from where he was still trying to regain his breath on his knees.

The Trapper looked at him and he looked back. It was always grinning, and he couldn’t see its real face beneath the mask, but he had a feeling that it was smiling there too. It looked from the prisoner to the man in the lab coat, who had regained his feet and was doing his best to inch towards his bag on the table in the center of the room. Slowly, the Trapper gave almost a nod—as if he recognized him, and turned away from the prisoner. He started to walk towards the man in the lab coat, fingers flexing around an incredibly large meat cleaver as he did, easily cutting the man in the lab coat off before he could reach his bag on the table. The prisoner watched and backed up. He’s not here for me, he thought as his feet automatically took him towards the pile of rubble he could sense his own weapon under.

The Trapper got close and lunged at the man in the lab coat, who threw a handful of dirt he’d gotten from gods only knew where into his face, blinding him, and made a mad dash for his bag. He almost made it too, but two feet shy the gigantic thing chasing him snatched him by his collar and threw him against the wall he’d started by.

It was so almost exactly what his own first instinct had been minutes ago that it was uncanny, and for some reason it made the prisoner uncomfortable to see it playing out. He hurriedly knelt beside the rubble he knew covered his blade and dug through it until he found it—a bit dirtier for the wear, but perfectly intact.

He heard a shout of pain and turned to see the Trapper had thrown the man in the coat onto the ground and was pinning him there with a foot on his chest.

“Help!”

He knew the man in the lab coat meant him—that he was begging him for help—but why should he? After everything that…He looked down at himself and the hole in his chest that was gone and felt doubt again. He vaguely remembered the look on the man in the lab coat’s face when he’d been about to stab him after that first fight.

Fuck. Fuck! Maybe he’s telling the truth about the poison, he thought again, trying to rationalize a motive for his gut instinct.

With one hand, the prisoner used his sickle to cut the thick leather cord still wound around his mouth, and he pulled the rag that had been jammed down his throat out and spat it onto the ground.

“Please! I can help you!” the man in the coat called desperately, trying to look for him from his position pinned on the floor.

Why do you think I will help you?

The prisoner saw the Trapper bring his meat cleaver down and somehow the man in the lab coat moved so it just barely grazed him, and he hooked his foot around a cart behind the Trapper and brought it crashing into the man’s back, knocking him off balance just enough for the man in the coat to struggle free. He only made it four feet before the Trapper had him by the back of his coat again and rammed him against the wall, pinning him against it with his forearm. He drew back his meat cleaver as the man in the lab coat desperately struggled.

“He’s mine!” shouted the prisoner, leveling his sickle at the Trapper.

The Trapper stopped mid-swing and turned to look at him, very slowly. He took in the blade, the stance, the look on the other man’s face, and he let the man in the lab coat drop to the floor.

His attention on the prisoner now, the Trapper moved towards him with steady strides, and the two stopped and circled each other slowly, like feral beasts settling the score over territory, each waiting for a second of something they could use to their advantage.

The prisoner saw his first. He leapt over a table and swung at the Trapper, knowing it would miss, but giving himself time to dodge the counter-attack. The swing from the cleaver came fast and sure, and he barely ducked in time, using his momentum to go for a strike under the broader man’s ribs. His sickle hit exactly where he’d been aiming and cut in, but as it did and he moved back, the cleaver sliced backwards and raked him across the chest. He’d had no idea that someone could move such a big weapon so quickly in close quarters, and he tore his sickle free and gained some distance, the two circling each other again. He was faster than the Trapper, but his opponent was stronger. His blade was one made for stabbing—cutting into things. The Trapper’s was for slicing—clean, deep cuts, like a razor, where the sickle went in like a hook and dug. The prisoner tried to process this into a strategy, and his opponent saw an opening and took it, flinging a lamp at him. The prisoner ducked out of the way and rolled past the swipe from the cleaver behind it, getting in close for an upward swing at the chest again, but this time the Trapper moved, taking it only as a graze, and the prisoner barely managed to catch the cleaver in the prongs of his own blade as it came down with a strike that would have cut through his left side. They were close, almost grappling, and the prisoner leveraged himself and slammed his elbow into the other man’s face, moving to catch the cleaver again as it came for a swipe at his side, and using his free hand to punch the other man’s throat.

It worked, and the Trapper stumbled back and took the sickle across his chest, just shy of the neck the prisoner had been aiming for.

He pressed on with a vigor, trying to keep the Trapper from having a chance to recover, swinging relentlessly, hitting first the cleaver as the Trapper managed to block him, then the man’s forearm, his chest again, and then the man’s hand as he suddenly lunged forward and caught the sickle, seemingly feeling no pain as it dug into his palm.

With nowhere to go, the prisoner reached up for the cleaver he knew was coming and managed to catch the Trapper’s hand, leaving them locked in a grapple—his blade securely stuck in the other man’s hand, and the cleaver hanging above him with a fury, like a guillotine blade waiting to drop. Fighting with everything he had to keep the cleaver from coming down was the single hardest thing the prisoner had ever done. How the hell was the Trapper so strong? His memories clicked in painful crackles and it made sense then, as he watched the gold serum dripping down the man’s face. He could see it pulsing through cuts on his arms, flooding his veins, dripping down his cleaver. The horrible stuff had burned when it was inside him, but it had made him stronger. And as he watched, he saw the cuts he’d left on the man’s forearm beginning to close and then he could tell that he had been right. The Trapper was grinning under that mask.

He lost the struggle against the cleaver and let go of his sickle to roll out of the way, desperately shoving a cart between them. The cleaver sliced it in half.

The Trapper didn’t bother to take the sickle out of his hand. He just kept coming. The prisoner backed up just as fast, knocking a bookcase down to try and block the man’s path. The man just grinned at him, placed his foot against it, and crushed the solid oak like it was nothing.

Shit.

He was out of options. It has to kill him, or he’ll heal back too fast.

In a burst of speed, the prisoner leapt for the Trapper, taking the swipe from the cleaver on his left shoulder and ripping open the other man’s hand as he wrenched his sickle free. He swung for the throat and the Trapper’s damaged hand somehow still had the strength to catch the sickle again. The prisoner didn’t even have time to be afraid or do anything except focus on not losing his grip on the sickle this time before the cleaver came down and dug deep across his chest, and taking advantage of his lost balance, the Trapper placed his foot on the prisoner’s chest and kicked him backwards onto the ground.

Even wounded, the prisoner was fast, and he rolled the second he hit the ground, coming up sickle ready. As he did, he saw the Trapper take a step towards him and then roar and whip around, and he saw the man in the lab coat fall and roll back out of the way himself, emptied syringe in his hand. The Trapper swung at him and missed, and made it two steps after the retreating assailant before the drug overcame him and he fell to the ground with a crash that was somehow louder than anything the prisoner had heard during the fight itself.

They looked at each other then, the man in the lab coat and him, each breathing hard and damaged. In a rather horrifying moment of realization, the prisoner found that his legs were starting to give out underneath him. The blood. You’ve lost too much, his brain tried to warn him.

“Thank you,” said the man in the coat, starting to walk towards him, the brown bag that had been on a table now flung over his shoulder.

“Oh no,” said the prisoner, leveling his sickle at the man in the coat and backing up, his voice dry and ragged from choking on the gag and nights of screaming, “don’t come near me with that. You just felled a man twice my size with it. I’m not going back on the table.”

The man in the lab coat held up his hands, palm out, and placed the empty syringe on one of the room’s few intact tables. “Okay, okay.” He slowly took the bag off from over his shoulder and set it on the table, then turned to look at his prisoner.

“The lab coat too,” said the prisoner, trying to hide the weakness he felt coming over himself, “you keep one there.”

The man in the coat nodded and took it off, setting it on the table.

“Thank you,” he said again, gently, like someone trying to coax a frightened animal, “please, let me help you.”

“What do you want from me?” asked the prisoner suspiciously, taking another step back almost unintentionally as his captor started to slowly edge towards him.

“I want to help you,” replied the man, voice still calming, palms still up, “You’ve lost a lot of blood,” he added, gesturing.

“And the poison?” asked the prisoner, suddenly remembering that.

“Well, half-true,” replied his captor, “I really didn’t want you to kill me. I do have what you need to heal completely though, and you won’t on your own.”

The prisoner stumbled then and tried to catch his balance on a little desk as he fell, and missed, landing on his hands and knees. He pulled himself up quickly, but the damage was done. He could tell from the look on his captor’s face that he knew now how close he was to passing out.

“Just let me help you,” said the man again, too close now.

As he started to black out, the prisoner lost focus and fear kicked in, and he stumbled back in his desperation to get away, the memories of the table and the needles and the agony suddenly very strong and fresh.

“Keep back!” he said as threateningly as he could, raising his sickle.

“It’s okay,” the man said, not stopping, “I’m going to keep you from bleeding out.”

He fell again then, and his captor dashed forward and caught him before he could hit the floor. He tried to swing the sickle at him, but gentle pressure on his wrist disarmed him, and his vision started to go blurry.

“Don’t put me back on the table,” he said pleadingly. It was the only thing his panicked mind could think of—the thick leather, the cold steel.

“I won’t,” said his captor, steadying him, “now let’s just try to get you back over to my bag. I have a needle and thread and we can stop you from losing any more blood.” He slung his prisoner’s arm over his shoulder and used the not-broken hand to raise him up and shoulder him towards the table with his supplies.

“My name is Philip,” offered the prisoner weakly as he felt himself starting to slip away.

“What?” asked the other man, pausing from his focus on his destination to look at his prisoner in surprise.

“I just thought,” said Philip, losing consciousness, “that it would be harder for you to kill me if you knew my name.”

He was vaguely aware of the outline of the other man’s head nodding. “That’s smart. I wasn’t going to kill you, but knowing your name would make it harder if I was. I’m Vigo, then,” said Vigo, “just in case next time you wake up you want to strangle me again. I don’t want to die either.”

Philip blacked out then, slowly, like lights fading before a film began. The last thing he remembered was doing his best to repeat the other man’s name in a whisper so he would not forget it.

[petruchio]

Okay Caroline, hg opinion, this may be controversial… but I think the movies should have had a narrator, specifically Katniss doing a voiceover. I know how cheesy that can be in movies, but like? So much of the book hinges on Katnisses internal dialogue? Like, establishing her as a semi-reliable narrator is absolutely essential to understanding the plot, not to mention the over all theme of trauma. Katniss often does not understand why things are happening, either she’s in denial or it’s so traumatic that she can’t fully see through it. Without a narrator I feel that we loose out on seeing her constant rationalization. Living in district 12 is inherently traumatic, and seeing her rationalize and strategize for every single conversation even before the games, really sets up the series? I think her narration does most of the leg work; Demonstrating exactly how propaganda and trauma have preserved the status quo for so long. The story is special because Katniss is putting on a mask, a facade, and we are always behind the mask with her. It’s much easier to divorce yourself from her reality when she’s not constantly demonstrating the weight of it. Not to mention, we loose a lot of her characterization! She makes it a point not to talk to people, how is the audience supposed to understand the message about propaganda when we can’t hear her engaging with it? Most of her interpersonal thoughts, by nature, are never shared - so i just think her narration would be necessary for the story to function on screen???? Idk tho, thoughts?? I love your hg and hg movie takes.

Katniss thinks she understands what’s going on, or attempts to rationalize everything

i was actually talking to someone about this a few months ago when i was just generally complaining about jlaw as katniss and i wrote an answer here that discusses my feelings about having a voiceover in the films

but basically yeah, like i think a huge part of the novels is that tension between what's happening and what katniss *thinks* is happening, and then on top of that the tension between what katniss really thinks and how she wants to be perceived. so in the movies, without any narration from katniss, they tended to lean more into the "how katniss is feeling right now" for the direction instead of "how katniss wants to be perceived." which is... A Choice, but i think it was a bad one, because it makes katniss super unappealing and not particularly likable. and a huge part of the books is you realizing that she actually IS super likable and funny and charming, it's just that she herself doesn't know it ("she has no idea, the effect she can have" anyone???) i'm thinking here of things like the parade, which in the books is her waving at the crowd and charming everyone and in the movies is her standing stiffly and awkwardly. or her interview, which in the books is her panicking in her head but being hilarious and cute and charming to the audience. that dichotomy is what makes the book!

and again, that dichotomy is also a huge part of the social commentary: on what we ask of our celebrities and our public figures, on how we ensnare young women in these performances of traditional femininity and physical perfection, and how the media makes demands of people that no human should really ever have to go through.

do i think there would've been a way to adapt the hunger games without a voiceover? yeah, i think it could've been possible, in maybe a significantly different movie and a significantly different script. but in the movie we HAVE, yeah i think it would be vastly improved by having at least some sense of what katniss is thinking.

[supercorpzine]

The Supercorp Zine: Frequently Asked Questions

Welcome to the Supercorp Zine, You Are My Hero: Volume 5! Please see the below FAQ for answers to questions we frequently receive before sending in an ask. Please note, any question already answered in the FAQ below will be ignored, as we want to make sure the other questions are not accidentally missed and to prevent inundating everyone with the same question multiple times.

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When are Volume 5 applications open?

Volume 5 applications open Nov 28, 2021 - Jan 2, 2022!

You can find the applications at the following links:

Artist Application V5 Writer Application V5

How long will Volume 5 applications be open?

Applications will be open for five weeks and then will be closed permanently. Please make sure to get your application forms in ASAP!

How many people will be accepted into Volume 5?

On average we have accepted around 40 new artists and 5-7 new writers with each volume! These numbers may fluctuate.

What are you looking for in my application?

This is a curated zine, so we are looking for what you think is the best representation of your skills! Please make sure to share the pieces you are most proud of that best showcase what you can do. If you need some examples of what we are looking for, please search our tumblr for our contributor’s work! REMEMBER! Whether you are chosen or not, this zine should never be a hinge on your worth as a creative person. Only you get to take charge of that!

For writers, elements that we look closely at include:

Characterization (accuracy of personalities, dialogue, actions, behaviors, beliefs, internal narration, etc. This is specific for SuperCorp.)

Grammar (sentence flow, structure, complexity, mechanical skill in spelling, composition, syntax, etc. Please note, occasional spelling or grammatical errors will not influence our decision negatively, as there are many non-native English writers involved in this project.)

Narrative flow / pacing (creativity, natural pacing, "show not tell," descriptive prose, etc)

Original plot ideas (unique approaches or resolutions in the story, ability to transplant characters into non-canon situations/environments and maintain recognizable Supercorp interactions, etc)

For artists, elements that we look closely at include:

Finish quality (does the illustration appear complete?)

Anatomy (How accurate is the posing, proportions, features, and structure of the character for the style that is used?)

Shading/lighting

Color & Contrast

Style & Overall skill

Composition (how do all of these elements form together, balance of negative and positive spaces, positioning of objects within the image/perspective, etc)

Who is looking at my application?

Only the moderator team will be reviewing your application. Your information and your work will not be shared outside of our zine team communication to protect you and your identity.

Is the work in the zine brand new?

Yes! The zine contains never before seen fic and art!

Can we have angst in this zine?

No. We want this to be an uplifting collection that people can turn to for comfort. It your idea falls under the category of angst we will encourage you to find a more positive or neutral twist on it. We would prefer Lena and Kara to be presented as a united front. We are willing to work with you to help you reach a positive piece should you have trouble with this requirement.

What is the zine rating?

The zine is a Teen rating at the maximum. Canon levels of sexual situations, violence, and language are allowed.

Will NSFW pieces be included?

No. We would like to keep this zine accessible for all ages, for artists and buyers alike. Kissing and suggestive material is allowed since this is a zine about a romantic relationship, but as much as we love them, we will be unable to include any explicit material in the drawings or stories.

Is the Supercorp zine for fan art? Fic? Both?

Volume 5 will have both! If you would like examples of what kind of work went into these volumes, please check their corresponding v1, v2, v3, and v4 tags.

When can we preorder Volume 5?

Volume 5 preorders will be announced in 2022!

Are the previous volumes still for sale?

Sorry, no, they are officially retired! Please check through our v1, v2, v3, and v4 tags to see what our contributors shared in each volume.

We are hoping to offer these volumes again in 2022 as PDFs alongside the sale of our final volume 5, but there are a lot of logistical hurdles we need to clear first! Please hang tight while we get this sorted out, and keep an eye out for future updates regarding the re-sale of these volumes.

Do you ship internationally?

Yes!

How are you shipping?

In previous years we have used USPS flat rate domestic and flat rate international, but this may change with the final volume.

What kind of shipping material does my zine come in?

Subject to change with the final book size. We will keep our socials updated with this information once it has been finalized. 

If I want to donate a zine, how can I do that?

Please check out this post detailing our suggested process for doing so! If you have any further questions please don’t hesitate to reach out!

My home life isn’t safe for me to be out but I still want to purchase the zine. Can I have discreet shipping?

Yes. Our shipping for this zine will be in a regular padded flat rate envelope. Please get in touch with us at supercorpzine@gmail.com with your order number so that we can accommodate you for more specific directions.

Can you do the same for the digital PDF?

Yes. Please get in touch with us at supercorpzine@gmail.com with your order number so that we can coordinate a safe delivery.

My zine got lost in the mail! Help!

If this happens, please get in touch with us at supercorpzine@gmail.com with your order number and proof of loss ASAP so that we can send you a replacement.

Will the zine be available as a PDF?

Yes!

Will there be merchandise?

Yes! Volume 5 is offering postcards, stickers, keychain charms, bookmarks, and an enamel pin.

How much will it cost?

Please keep an eye out for a post for volume 5 pricing in 2022!

I never received my email with my PDF download link! Help!

If this happens, please get in touch with us at supercorpzine@gmail.com with your order number within the time allotted for downloading your copy of the zine so that we can make sure you receive it!

Is this zine for profit or for charity?

This zine is 100% for charity! What that means is every penny made from this zine will be donated to charity, minus the zine production and shipping costs. No one is making money from the zine! For Volume 5, we will again be splitting the donations evenly between The Trevor Project, the Transgender Law Center, and Futures Without Violence. If you would like to see a full breakdown of our expenses please click on our zine transparency tab for compiled receipts.

Will participants be compensated for their work?

No. Since this zine is for charity, the artists, writers and mods will not receive any monetary compensation and their contributions are donations of their time and skills. However, the zine artists and writers will receive a free physical and digital copy of the zine.

How can we contact you for further information?

The easiest and quickest way to get in touch would be by emailing us at supercorpzine@gmail.com or sending us a message on the supercorpzine tumblr. You can also contact us on our personal tumblrs: @0gasstationcoffee for Ayesha, @bigmammallama5 for Grace, @contagiousiridescence for Demi, @battenthecrosshatches for Batten, and @lisamar1exo for Lisa! We are happy to answer privately at your discretion.