#Would anyone be interested in a rewrite? I’ve had a few ideas like this swirling around in my head for a while

[critical-velvet]

Here’s a hot take I guess

The “Vees” should just be Velvette and Vox. Think about it, TV and Social Media go hand in hand in terms of a lot of things, there’s way more consistency between those themes than there is with TV, Social media AND the porn industry.

At the same time, there’s a lot differences between them, and it would’ve been interesting to see how Vox and Velvette’s ideals and influences contrasted each other.

Maybe Vox had a hard time getting newer sinners under his control and Velvette, being from the generation of social media could’ve showed him new ways to branch out his influence and in turn Vox could’ve elevated her status, eventually leading her to becoming an overlord in her own right.

Idk, feel like a lot of interesting stuff could’ve been done with these two, alas

[thewritingstar]

In The Depths of the Deep Sea

Pairing: Blossucth (Blossom x Butch) 

Fandom: Powerpuff Girls

Notes: Prob one of the fluffiest things I've written and I’ve had this idea for months now and finally its here. After rewriting more times than I care to admit, I actually like it. Also go check out @lisathefan she made the most stunning art work for this!!

Tag list: @shellielyzabeth @unvalley @over-under-through1

Enjoy! 

---

“Never go past the Crystal Reef.” Her father said to when she was just a young mermaid.

Naturally she listened to the rules. As the eldest of her sisters, it was her duty to make sure they did the same. Even if she had to scold Buttercup for getting too close or urge Bubbles not to because of the scary monsters, no one went past the reef.

It wasn’t a hard rule to follow though. Crystal Reef was massive and was filled with a city of sea life and other mermaids that kept everyone happy. They lived in the ocean and were free to travel the lengths of the sea, but the Deep Reef as it was called, was off limits.

She had heard the stories many times. Disgusting creatures lurked in the murky waters and even mermaids had a hard time swimming it's currents. It was ice cold as the legends told and no one made it out alive to tell the tale. There were messages of mermaids becoming food for the massive predators that lived there and even said to be home to blood thirsty sharks and fish who were more bone than flesh. It was creepy and distasteful to even think about and Blossom rarely had any desire to swim out and down below.

But one evening after her father told her about the treasures pirate ships could hold, she found one. It was just short of the edge of the reef, only a few meters down, the water was still clear enough but she knew that any further and she could be risking her tail. But as she grew older, her curiosity got the better of her.

So she swam and found it. The massive ship that had been sunken years before she was born. It was breathtaking even with the mass of water damage eroding its boards. Her mind had drifted further out to sea, her judgment foggy as she wasted the daylight in the boat.

It became a habit of hers. She would leave for hours to go towards that ship and each time, there was something new for her to see. She never had trouble there before, but her luck could only go so far.

The water had turned colder towards the night but she wasn’t worried, wasn’t afraid. Her tail guided her along the outside and she had decided maybe that was enough exploring for the day. Her family would get worried if she wasn’t back soon but then again the giant shark looming over her didn’t care too much about her time.

She gulped as the creature stared at her. Her breath being held in her throat as its eyes locked on to hers, daring her to make a move. Her blade in her bag was out of reach and even if she had it, there was no way she could fight off a shark ten times the size of her.

Perhaps this was it. The day she would be eaten alive and never found. And if she were to die, her sisters better keep their fins off her stuff! She shut her eyes tight as she felt the shark move closer. The torment of feeling the bubbles around her was making her uneasy and thought if she remained still, then it would leave. But her eyes, she decided to open them all too soon.

She only saw white. Rows and rows of exposed sharp teeth were only merely inches away and she couldn’t help herself from losing her cool. She screamed at the top of her lungs causing the shark to open its jaws and bite down at her spot where she just managed to get away.

In her younger years she had been deemed the smartest of her sisters, speed was not the attribute that she had been gifted and she wished in these very moments that Buttercup's ability to swim faster than anyones was here.

She circled the corner of the ship, hoping to lose the shark but one more mistake of looking back cost her time. She didn’t know this area well and made the mistake of swimming past the boat and towards the darker side. Her eyesight became cloudy as the water merged with the fading light and soon she could only see a few feet ahead of her.

The shark's nose grazed her tail and she let out a scream as she found a giant rock rounded to the back pressing herself to it hoping the creature wouldn’t find her. She covered her mouth with a shaky hand. She shouldn’t have ventured this far, shouldn’t have let the mysterious be her guide.

She could see the shark a few feet away, it had lost her scent for a second and she knew that if she dared to swim, it would all be over. She had spoken too soon, those beady eyes turned and locked onto her frame and she swore she could see the sickly smirk of its teeth before it bolted towards her.

Her eyes tightened close and she took one final break, her bag dropping to the ground as her hand was pulling to the right and down. In a matter of seconds she felt the cavern shake from the impact of the shark, yet she was still alive, and wrapped around warm seaweed?

Blossom opened her eyes, now inside of the hidden cave, she looked down to see an arm holding her waist and hand, that was not hers, covering her mouth.

“Don’t move.” A voice came into her ear. It was deep and hoarse as if someone had just woken up.

Another jolt of fear ran through her as the shark bashed its head against the rocks. She let out a muddled squeak and the arm tightened slightly on her body.

“It can’t get to you, don’t worry.” The voice tried to reassure her.

For when the arm loosened on her after moments of waiting and he told her the shark had left, she turned and was met with vivid green eyes and an uncertain expression. Her eyes went to the top of his head. She had heard of mermaids that adapted to their surroundings but she had never met one with a light stand of an angler fish. It bobbed in the water giving off a faint glow.

“Thank you.” She said, trying to hide the fact that she was staring at him. She didn’t mean to be rude but he was so

“It's uh, no big deal. You should probably leave.” He said but when he swam away, that wasn’t the last he saw of her.

--

His first thought was to leave her there to die, just like all those other pesky mermaids who don’t know what lurks below. He knew that they all thought badly about the creatures here, serving them the right to try and test fate. But by all means if they want to risk their stuipd lives and dive down deep then they are in a rude awakening for a game of predator or prey with the creatures that feast on the oblivious.

But for some reason he couldn’t allow it to happen, not this time. It wasn’t his fault that he had stumbled across her, just a curious mermaid looking through an old sunken ship. Maybe if she knew that he was hidden behind the rock staring at her like a creep, she would have wished the shark ate her up. It was just...he couldn’t take his eyes off of her.

He had seen countless mermaids and sea creatures, nothing special new about them. However her electric magenta tail brought his memory to the glowing anemones he used to pick as a little fish. The heart swirled on her tail was oddly cute and he found himself drawing closer and closer to her.

Did he spend weeks going back and forth between the ship hoping that she would come back to explore? Did he maybe place items he found in there so that the presence of new things made her come back? Maybe. It wasn’t creepy. He was just...curious. His brothers had no idea that he would spend his afternoons and even evenings wandering over to the shipwreck. They hadn’t had a clue about what was so interesting that he would be gone for hours but when he came back with some fish, they didn’t bother to ask any questions.

Sometimes he wondered if he should keep to himself. He had been told to never mingle with a mermaid of pure blood. Those whose fins and tails were fully fish and mermaid-ie, unlike him who looked mostly pure blood but had the light of an angler fish bobbing out of his forehead. He didn’t care, though he looked cool but it became his own worst enemy at some times.

She however thought it was adorable when she would place a sweet kiss to his cheek and the little light would brighten to an illanecent green and his cheek as pink as his tail.

“It's weird.” he would grumble.

“I think it's cute.” She would respond and give him another kiss to increase the brightness. “You’re like a lighthouse, always guiding me right back to you.”

He laughed. “You’re a sap.”

---

She found herself swimming deeper and closer to the murky water, even her ability to see in the dark wasn’t holding up but there was no fear within her even as the water altered to a colder climate. Hesitation was something she knew of often, always second guessing herself to make the right choices and be the best version of herself but with this, there was none of that.

It was certain that within these twilight waters was something for her. Something that could offer her more than the crystal reef and the same school of fish. Something unique and intriguing. Something of her own.

She knew better than to venture to the darkest part of the ocean. She knew about the horror stories where creatures go but don’t return, but there she was, following the path that others dared not too.

Her excuse was the ship and her desire to excavate it, but her family didn’t need to know that she was only going there to see him. It started with just a few questions and friendly chatter.

“What are you doing?”

“Finding treasure.”

“Think you could search me next?”

“You’re a riot.”

But even with the not so subtle stares and the blushing of her cheeks, she found herself gravitating to him as if he were a magnetic field and she let herself drift to him. Those sly comments turned to pamper kisses as their conversations formed into topics of their hopes, dreams and fears. And how she knew he had placed those items for her to find.

Sharp teeth left shivers all over her body as they caraseed her neck and lips so delicately like that as a whisper. His eyes, how enchanting. The deep green was viid against his greyish skin that faded into a beautiful black at his fingertips. She never thought eyes could shower her with  adoration even when she was just rambling. He held her close, chin resting on her shoulder as she would go on and on about the items she would find. She found his voice appealing and safe and he had comfort whenever she spoke.

Kissing him was like being plunged into cold water., A rush that left her head dizzy as she begged for more and wanted to never leave his side. At first he treated her as if she would break. Soft touches and feather light kisses but she loved when his hands would tangle into her locks and kiss her senseless as if she needed to forget her own name. His fingers would trace along the patterns that form on her skin and she would kiss the scar on his chest.

When their time to meet was coming up, she would swim towards the darkness, never looking back, hoping that he would always be waiting, perched on the rock just her. And sometimes she would get there and he would play his game of cat and mouse

“Caught you.” He whispered into her ear, a tingle running up her spine.

She giggled as she turned in his arms and threw her own around his neck. She gazed into his eyes for a second. The brightest green she had ever seen, like that of emerald from the world above. Her lips came onto his and even with her eyes closed, she could sense the light coming from his head. Its precious green glow just for her eyes, like her own little star in the dark sea.

She ran her finger along his sharp jaw and when he tilted his head to deepen their kiss, she felt those teeth that were just as dangerous. She was addicted to every part of him, no matter how hard the warnings were, she would find herself back in the dark surrounded by his warmth and that bright light.

---

She never understood the others. How could they say that everything below the reef was cruel and dangerous, well she knew why. All stereotypes hold a sliver of truth but when she was here with him, bodies slumped against the coral as they relaxed and watched the fish passing by, she had never felt safer, more comfortable, more free than when she did up above.

She brought him to the surface and showed him the reef, though he did better in the colder waters, he couldn’t comprehend just how gorgeous she was as the sun breached the water and her scales were like drops of sunlight. The pink of her iris sparkled and he found himself falling deeper and deeper in love with her just as she did with him.

They would collect sea glass together and he showed her the garden of anemones and sea flowers that bloomed with vivid colors. Sometimes they would swim to a hidden shore and look at the humans above before returning to water to snuggle in the kelp. They would treasure hunt and find other sunken ships.

“What's your favorite treasure or item you found?” He would say and without skipping a beat, her lips would linger over his, pink looking into green before whispering “You.”

She was told to never leave the reef and he was scolded to stay away, but within the darkness and the cold currents, there was a flash of green that guided her heart to her other home, to her other half.

--

I hope you enjoyed and thank you to miss Lisa for making art!!

[alcordraws]

Surprise!! It's that Host fanfic I promised I'd do. Also the reason I've been trying to figure out read more, this ended up far longer than I meant it to be. I wanted to post it sooner, but between my mental health taking a dive and my need to keep rewriting, I'm surprised I got it finished at all. So yeah, it's sort of a gift for all you who've encouraged, inspired, drawn, or written for me or left me a nice message. Thank you. (Some special shout outs to @markired @kenmarlenn @dreamsmistakesandbubblegum-blog @rynnwolfe @lowat-golden-tower @galaxy-starheart @fleecal @dxckstabber and @mint-bees for being amazing and to @kyuubikaiju for helping figure out how to do read more)

“Who are you?”, asks Bim, eyes bright with curiosity. 

 His hands clench at the material of his coat, lips pressing together. There are several more eyes turned in his direction, intent on burning his every feature into their minds. It shouldn’t be so hard, reintroducing himself to a group he’d never considered particularly relevant, a group he’d hardly interacted with before, but somehow it feels like the hardest thing he’s ever done. He's sure nobody recognizes him, he looks too different from the last time they’d seen him so long ago. 

 However, one pair of eyes look to him with something akin to recognition, a memory faded and changed with passage of time. He’s reminded of the first time he’d been introduced, when he’d truly been fresh and new and he’d seemed to have the world at his fingertips. There’d been only one person that mattered to him then too. 

 The many faces that swivel around to face him when he glides into the room does nothing to faze him, too confident in his abilities to feel threatened. Wilford shoots him a cheerful smile when he passes by and he returns it with one of his own. It slides off as soon as he turns away and he throws the other occupants an unimpressed look. He doubts he’ll continue to attend these meetings, only came to this one because Wilford told him he’d need to introduce himself. 

 He catches the ego at the other end of the table staring at him, mouth hidden behind his glitching, silvery hands and his eyes displaying an odd sort of interest. He stares him down and neither of them turn away. 

 “Who are you?” asks one of the other egos in a nervous attempt to break the tension. 

 His blank expression morphs into a dangerous smile, sharp as glass at the edges. He’d brought his bat with him as a precaution of sorts and taps it lightly against his hand. 

 “I am the Author”, he answers. 

 He’d been… arrogant then, too sure in his powers, too sure of his own intelligence. He remembers hearing Dark’s voice in his ear, a soft and beguiling “join me” and his own resounding “no”. He has yet to forget the surprise verging on terror the first time he’d seen Dark’s shell crack. It was a formative experience. 

 The hand latched onto his shoulder squeezes and he startles out of his thoughts, the intense curiosity filling the room catching him the moment his guard slips. He hates how vulnerable he is to the emotions of others after having been isolated for so long. 

 “You were asked a question, it would be rude not to answer it”, Dark hums, his grip verging on uncomfortable. 

 The Host swallows, strengthens his resolve and ignores the sharp prickle of Wilford’s gaze. 

 “I am the Host.” 

 There is no slick smile, no rebellious blaze in his eye. Wilford isn’t grinning at him (he looks shaken, actually) and Dark is beside him this time, a chain he’d sworn he’d never wear. The Host takes his seat after carefully extricating himself from Dark’s grip, crossing his arms tightly over the table. The chatter thankfully picks up again, though he can feel Wilford’s attention on him still. The events of the day itch at his rising anxiety, Dark pushing him to attend a meeting after being gone for so long, the cacophony of sights and sounds rushing at him, the accusing eyes of his once dear friend. 

 The Host narrates, softly as he can, opens himself up to See into just the immediate future. It makes him feel just a little more in control, helps in relieving some of the built up stress. The meeting goes by in a blur, catalogued in his head as something to probably forget later. It isn’t his job to record these things. He hasn’t really absorbed anything despite narrating it, mind too buzzed with filling in the changes in his environment. 

 He stands, but freezes when Wilford’s voice cuts through prattle. 

 “Have we met before?” he asks, his slur almost noticeably thicker. The Host wants to say no, to say that it would be impossible for them to have met before. He wants to look him in the eye, smile, and say that he’s never seen him before in his life. That’s impossible for numerous reasons. Dark shifts behind him, an impatient shadow that nudges him in warning. 

 “Yes”, the Host says, soft and inflectionless. He wonders if it’s possible to leave without breaking Wilford’s heart, uses his Sight for any alternate routes, and finds none. The thought of lying leaves a bitter taste in his mouth. 

 There’s an emotion glimmering in Wilford’s eye, and the Host winces at it, knows he’s one of the few if not the only one who picks up on it. 

 “You are the Author.” Wilford’s tone is firm, though strangely soft. One wouldn’t need the Host’s powers to trace the grief on his face or his voice. It swirls around him almost like an aura, thick and cloying. If they were standing closer, the Host could swear he’d choke on it. Instead he suffocates on the tension, the other egos watching the exchange with a morbid sort of rapture. None of them had ever seen Wilford so serious. 

 The Host sighs, deep and just the slightest bit shaky. 

 “The Author is dead.” He doesn’t stay for Wilford’s response, strides out of the room as fast as his narration will allow him (still manages to bump into the table and curses himself for not memorizing the room better). Dark appears beside him, though the Host hadn’t heard his steps. His hand finds his shoulder once more, brushes against his neck and he shudders at the hint of a cold burn. 

 … 

He finds the library at the headquarters as underwhelming as always so he brings in his own collection, glad that they exist in a place where the the laws of the normal world have no bearing. No one seems to have noticed that there’s more shelves piled high with books, which is fine, hardly anyone goes there anyway. That’s a good thing, he thinks, less people to bother him or ask questions. Dark doesn’t go into the library often either. 

 Writing isn’t as convenient as it once was, and while he knows his handwriting is as elegant as ever, it takes twice the concentration. It hurts a little that he can’t see it, the familiar curves and smooth lines and describing it mentally isn’t enough. His pen slips onto the table and he grits his teeth, hating the dissonance of the wood when the paper had been so smooth. The Host sets his pen down. He leans back in his chair and rubs his hands against his face, carefully of the damp bandage over his eyes. He still ends up with blood on his hands. 

 The Host wipes his hands off on the handkerchief in his pocket, already stained a delightful rust. He tries instead to read, finds the same problem, and shuts the book in frustration. He sits up when he senses a presence other than his own, someone with a humming inner core, limbs that wir as they move. There’s mess dark hair, intelligent eyes that gleam behind black-framed glasses. His blue shirt is neat and the large G in the center glows in the dim lighting of the back shelves. 

 Oh. It’s Google. 

 The Host only vaguely remembers anything from their few meetings, and his head refuses to conjure up anything more than a fleeting dislike and frustration. He wishes he knew why he feels that way about him, wishes he could have more than intangible impressions about people who he knows (knew) even if not very well. He wonders if he might have had better recollections of them if he’d actually spent time with them. (It might explain how he remembers Wilford so clearly when everything else is a blur). 

 The Host doesn’t blame his past self for preferring solitude, but he does wish he might have been the tiniest bit more social. It might have helped the tenuous hold he has on who he was. 

 He stiffens when Google’s soft footsteps approach him, his arms laden with a collection of fantasy novels (strange, the Host pegged him for more of a sci-fi type). They don’t speak for a while, neither exactly comfortable with each other’s presence but refusing to interrupt the quiet of the library. The Host goes back to writing, adding the scratching of his pen to the hum of Google's core. He pauses when Google finally speaks. 

 “I could translate them to braille, if you wish”, says Google, his voice pleasant if not particularly emotional. 

 The Host dismisses the idea almost immediately, bristling at the idea of needing to turn his precious books to braille to be able to enjoy them. Google shuffles beside him, and he can sense an unusual flash of hurt and offense in the air. 

 “I thought you hated fulfilling tasks for others”, he points out, remembering the fury Google had exuded when one of the other egos had asked him to wash the dishes. He’d broken three before Wilford intervened. 

 “It’s different when I am the one who offers to do a task. I consider it… an act of acceptance.” Google looks straight at him, something none of the other egos seem to be able to do and the Host can’t help but feel warmed by the offer. It’s not an offer influenced by Dark, not something he’ll have to repay with blood. 

“I suppose”, he trails off, examines the emotions whirling in the air (and Google seems genuine enough, though he wishes he had to courage to touch him, to take his thoughts into account). 

“I suppose it would make reading easier”, he answers and is (delightedly) surprised by the honest smile that curls on Google’s lips.

 And the Host might not remember, but Google does, has their previous encounters recorded in his databanks. It wasn’t quite kindness that the Author treated him with, but with a certain lack of condescension that even Dark did not afford him. 

 They’re in the library, Google eyeing the disorganized pile of books scattered on the table and surrounding an older ego. His eyes are glued on the journal in front of him, muttering softly under his breath, hand scrambling to keep up with his mouth. Google tries to go back to his book, a pleasant story about a bored genius of child who kidnaps a fairy officer for money, but finds himself listening to the Author’s incessant rambling instead. The Author’s speech is quiet, but Google’s hearing is heightened and precise. 

 It’s a story, falling quick as a waterfall and spilling onto the Author’s pages, rapturous and fascinating. He doesn’t know how long he just spends listening, but finds himself disappointed when the Author abruptly cuts himself off. Google frowns, watching as the Author scratches a word out, writes another, growls, and scratches that one out as well. 

Google eyes the page and offers a word for him to use. 

 “Fuck off”, the Author retorts, not looking at him but using the word anyways. He goes back to writing, occasionally scanning one of the books around him. 

He’d been louder back then. He’d more energetic, more animated in his writing. The Host is very much the opposite of what he’d been then, quiet, still, and cautiously polite. Google isn’t sure if he likes this version better. He’d been amused by the crude language of the Author if only because it contrasted so wildly with his elegant script, but the Host holds a certain charm. 

 It doesn’t matter he concludes. As Dark is fond of saying, dwelling on the past is of no use. 

 … 

The Host isn’t quite sure what to make Yandere when he first meets him. There’s a familiar aura that flickers around him, something thick that clogs in his throat, something cold and distasteful. But for all that he reads like Dark (ominous, cunning, a viper hidden in a meadow), he isn't anything like him. 

He's never trusted any of Dark's smiles, always felt them like a blade against his throat. He knows Yandere is violent and has about as much trouble killing as Wilford, but none of the grins directed towards him have been anything but kind. If the Host weren't so averse to touch, he might have reached out, cupped his face and absorbed whatever positivity flickered through his thoughts to keep the darkness away. 

For whatever reason, Yan has made it his mission to be his friend. 

Even with his patchwork memory, he knows Yan hadn’t existed before he became the Host. He’s a very young Ego, definitely the youngest in mentality at sixteen and made a point to wear only feminine clothing. Yan had asked for a story, something to help him sleep so the Host weaves a tale tailored just for him, a fantasy about a princess and her dragon on an adventure to save her prince. 

 Yan’s eyes are wide as he listens, completely engrossed in the drama and looking nowhere near sleep. 

“You have the best storyteller voice”, he says when the Host takes a pause for breath, eyes sparkling in awe. 

 The Host smiles at him, little more than a lift at the corner of his lips, but a true one that seems to brighten his face. If he had eyes, they surely would have softened with it. The total number of people who enjoy his presence has come up to a whopping total of two (which is far more than he’d thought he’d be able to accomplish to be honest). 

 He doesn’t count Dark. His last friend had been a murderous journalist and since he refuses to talk to him (or look at him) he can settle for the murderous robot and teenager. Both at least seem to love his stories. The Host continues his tale, and watches as the late hour begins to use its charm on the tired student sitting on the couch next to him. For all his excitement, he’s still a teen drowning under the stress of school and the Host knows he needs sleep. The Host himself doesn’t sleep much (has never needed or even desired much sleep). Yan’s eyes grow heavy, his head drooping to rest on his chest and then snapping back up again, blinking owlishly to try to keep away the exhaustion calling him to bed. 

 The Host purposefully softens his voice, gentles it so that it wraps around the younger ego like a warm blanket. It’s a strong combination, too strong for Yan to resist and he falls asleep rather quickly, slumping onto the Host’s shoulder. He freezes, knowing it was coming and still not prepared for the weight of his body toppling onto him. It’s, oddly enough, not comforting. Google’s so far respecter his need for a bubble of personal space and the other egos naturally gravitate away from him. The only one who consistently touches him is Dark. 

He remembers how just that morning, Dark had leaned against him, the weight of his body like an anchor, words whispered into his ear like a dose of poison. The resemblance of Yan and Dark’s aura’s suddenly feels like too much. He slips away from Yan as carefully as he can and bolts the second he knows he’s properly asleep. He needs the solitude of the library to calm his racing heart. 

Yan wakes the next day cold and disappointed, loneliness sinking in like an old friend. He wonders why he thought he’d wake to something different. 

 … 

The break room, the Host thinks, is a fascinating place. 

 It shouldn’t surprise him, considering it’s located in Wilford’s studio, but he’s had a bit of a surprising day. The Host didn’t think he’d get his own radio show in one of the studio’s branches and he didn’t think Wilford would smile on him today. Sure it was one of his plastic, would-rather-be-doing-anything-other-than-this smiles, the type he’d use when dealing with Dark, but he’d looked at him (or just slightly to the left of him) and he’d shown an emotion other than betrayal. So. The Host counts it as a win. 

 He’d even been lucky enough to get a bland “welcome to the studio”. The Host hadn't been sure if it was possible for Wilford’s voice to sound anything but cheerful and now he knows he can do sarcasm and mocking. 

 He sighs and tries bury himself in the cushions of the tiny break room couch. It’s incredible how tiring it can get, trying to navigate around an incredibly busy studio with so many sets being built and people being directed. The output of it all gives him a migraine, leaves his head feeling wooly and he hopes it’ll subside by the time he needs to leave for his second segment. There’s rocky road in the fridge at least, a small, half-finished pint that he does his best to savor. 

 The Host is on his third spoonful when the door opens and he’s slammed with a tidal wave of anxiety. He recognizes Bim, and frowns at the labored breathing that fills the room as he closes the door. Bim’s breath hitches when he catches sight of him and the nauseating feeling of anxiety thickens. The Host shushes him very gently, but doesn’t approach him, sure that if he does, he’ll spook him away. 

 He doesn’t know if it’s much better when Bim starts to cry, sliding down the door to curl up into as small a ball as possible, shoulders heaving with sobs, a position that makes the Host uncomfortable it its familiarity. He takes a breath, hoping Bim won’t reject his attempt at comfort. 

 His steps are quiet and he makes it the short distance to the door in seconds. He squats down to be level with Bim, taking in his rumpled suit, the way his usually sleek hair pokes out in different directions. 

 “What’s wrong?” He asks, voice pitched low and gentle. Bim peeks at him from behind his hands, eyes very red and very sad. The Host waits patiently, Bim would tell when he’s ready. 

 “I screwed up, I screwed up so badly, Wilford's going to hate me, oh my god”, he whimpers and the Host winces at the mention of Wilford. He’s quick to shake it off, and very, very carefully sets his hands on Bim’s shoulders, repressing a shiver at the way the his emotions intensify at the contact. 

 He pitches his voice lower, a soothing, satin register that seems to always calm others down (though, to be honest, he’d only ever used it on Yandere). 

“You’re fine, Wilford doesn’t hate you and nothing you do could make him. You’re okay”, he says gently. It works and Bim’s shoulders loosen and to the Host’s shock he finds himself with a pile of messy, sobbing reality warper wrapping his arms around him, burying his face in his chest. The Host buffers. 

He has no idea how to react, has to take a moment to remember where he is and that Bim isn’t a threat to him, isn’t hurting him. The Host has to remind himself that Bim is only seeking comfort and that in throwing his arms around him, he means no harm. It doesn’t stop his heart from picking up pace or his breathing from becoming shallow. 

 Bim probably picks up his discomfort and detaches himself, eyes wide and apologetic. The air is almost cloyingly thick with anxiety and fear and the Host curses himself for freezing. 

 “I’m so sorry, I didn’t-didn’t, I-please”, he stutters, and cuts himself off with another choked sob before burying his face back in his hands. 

 “I can’t do anything right.” His voice is muffled but self hatred is clear in his tone. 

 The Host tries his best to stop his heart from beating its way out of his chest and get his breathing back in order. It doesn’t quite work as well as he’d like, but he’s calmer than Bim, at least. 

 “No, it’s fine, I’m just not… very used to contact. You’ve done nothing wrong”, the Host assures him, twisting his lips in what he hopes is a convincing smile. It resembles a grimace more than anything. 

 Bim peaks at him from between his fingers. “Are you sure?” 

 His eyes land on on the wet patches on the Host’s coat. 

 “Oh, sorry…” He chews on his bottom lip, unsure of what to do. 

 “It’s okay”, the Host assures him and wonders why, for all his prowess with words, that’s all he seems to be able to say. He berates himself for his ungainly approach, mentally shakes himself, and tries again. 

 “What happened?” He keeps his tone benign, tries to salvage his cool facade. 

Bim looks away, shame-faced and looking very much like he’d like to be anywhere else. He wrings his hands, eyes flickering away in uncertainty. The Host tries to make himself look more affable and sincere, though in the back of his head he questions why does he even care? 

 (Some tiny voice, also residing in the back of his mind, whispers that he’s desperate for affection that won’t end in violence or that doesn’t have a price attached to it. It hisses at him that he misses the easy, tactile companionship he had with Wilford before becoming Dark’s miserable little prophet. He violently shoves that voice back into it’s tiny pocket of void to never be looked at again). 

 “Wilford let me have his time-slot since he was sick. It’s a bigger audience than I’m used to, but I thought I could handle it! Wilford said I’d be great and I don’t know what happened, if it was my anxiety or just the fact that I’m terrible but I choked, I fucked up really bad, I-I”, he hiccups and doesn’t continue, gestures helplessly instead. 

 The Host laughs. 

 The look Bim shoots him is nothing if not indignant and more than a little confused, but the Host gives him a gentle pat to his shoulder 

 “He’d never hate you for causing a chaos”, he assures, “Wilford’s always been a fan of messy endings.” 

 “How would you know?” Bim asks petulantly, though he looks cautiously hopeful. The Host manages a rueful grin, glad that at least now his eyes can’t give away his sadness. 

 “We used to be very close friends”, he answers, subdued. 

 “And you aren’t now?” 

 “Things change.” 

 They sit in silence for a moment. Bim uncurls and the Host’s shoulders loosen, the previous tension dispersing. Bim no longer feels like a spring coiled too tight and on the verge of breaking. The Host stands and goes back to the couch and frowns at what used to be a pint of rocky road, now a pint of half-melted sludge, a water stain of the couch where the Host had left it. Bim seems to hear him narrating about the melted ice-cream under his breath because he perks up, eyes significantly brighter. 

 He also stands, straightens his suit and tie and attempts to quickly fix his hair back into place. His shoes make a quiet click against the tiles of the break room floor and while he’s still timid, he seems to have something he wants to prove. 

 “You like rocky road?” he asks, trying to sound more confident and succeeding for the most part if not for the slight tremor in his voice. 

 “Yes, but it seems to have melted.” 

 Bim gives him a tumultuous grin, still wary but willing to believe the Host isn’t quite as horrible as Dark. At the very least, for all that his company makes him suspicious, he hasn’t asked for anything in return. 

 “I can fix that.” He concentrates very carefully on his powers of manipulation, putting his hands on the carton until it goes from luke-warm to properly cold. 

His eyes gleam with excitement when he sees that he’s converted the ice-cream back to its icy glory without altering anything else in the process. He’s actually a little surprised that he hadn’t altered anything through his whole emotional breakdown, though he suspects the Host might have had something to do with it. Bim hadn’t been able to catch everything he muttered as he tried to navigate his way through their interaction. 

 They’re rather content to sit on couch and share the ice-cream. They still don’t have a good handle on each other (Bim still finds the Host to be just a bit frightening and the Host finds Bim a little too much of a devotee), but they don’t hate each other. 

 It’s a start, and eventually, with the help of a violin and a few succulent plants, their acquaintanceship becomes a friendship. 

 … 

After all the strange injuries Dr. Iplier’s seen over the years of being the ego medic, a few bruises shouldn’t particularly bother him. 

 It starts, of course, with the damn bandage. Their eyes seem to gravitate towards it and as soon as they’re met with a crusty, bloody off-white cloth instead of the usual brown eyes of nearly any other ego, they’re compelled to look away. Dr. Iplier, like everyone else, wants to know what happened, wants to know the horror beneath it. And, to his surprise, he does. Just not in the way he’d thought. 

 Granted, he’d never thought he’d ever get to know either way. 

 He enters what he thinks is an empty room in an effort to look for a quiet space to breath, knowing that if he stays in his office, someone will inevitably show up to complain over something minor. It’s not quite as empty as he thought it was. Dr. Iplier’s astonished to find the Host in the room already, spouting a waterfall of hardly audible curses and, most surprising of all, not wearing his bandage. 

 In the place of his eyes are dark, empty voids, though there doesn’t seem to be any scarring that points out whether they were burned or scratched out. There’s more blood smeared on his cheeks than usual, beyond the teardrop patterns and looking more like someone had tried to scrub them away and failed, spreading it out more. The Host’s hands are spattered with drying red-brown stains and there's a mess of scattered bandages around him, all reddened to some degree. There’s a roll next to him that looks like it’s been thrown in frustration and his lips are pulled back in an irritated snarl. 

 Dr. Iplier clears his throat, surprised that he hasn’t been spotted yet (or read or whatever it is the Host does to interact with his environment. The Host jumps, startled, and growls as he thumps into the table, disturbing the badges on it. He whips around, face twisted in a defensive hiss, but deflates when he seems to sense him at the door. The Host shrinks in on himself, quickly gathering his things into his arms and doing his damndest not to let Dr. Iplier see his face. 

 “I’m sorry, you shouldn’t have to see this, I’ll go, I’m so sorry”, he rambles, stumbling around the table and chairs, leaving a trail of bandages in his wake and narrating sloppily to get out of the room as fast as possible. 

 He nearly trips, but Dr. Iplier catches him, not missing the way he flinches nor the way he trembles under his fingertips. the Host struggles almost wildly to escape his grip so he tightens his hold on his biceps to the Host’s terror. 

“Please, I’m sorry, let me leave, please, I didn’t mean to”, he nearly croaks, flailing, not even trying to narrate his way out though Dr. Iplier knows he has the power to tear him apart. 

 “Hey, calm down, I’m not gonna hurt you”, he soothes, concern coiling in his gut, his hold gentling, but still firm. He doesn’t know why, but the abject horror that shines clear on the Host’s face makes his insides churn. 

 “Let me help you”, he pleads, carefully pushing the host back into a chair. There’s more blood than before, wet and bright red streaks smeared on white coat. 

 He takes the wet wipes from the table and runs them against the Host’s cheeks, against his hands. He keeps as composed as possible and tries not let his apprehension leak. The Host keeps his mouth clamped shut and Dr. Iplier wonders if, from what he’s heard from Bim, this is the host’s way to keep himself truly blinded. 

 Dr. Iplier sets the wipes side and reaches for a clean roll of bandages. He wraps them with care around the host’s head, keeping them firm and neat, but not uncomfortable. it's always bothered him how messy his bandages were (among other things). He finishes up and wipes his hands on his already stained coat, not minding the mess. 

 “See? Not too bad”, he huffs with a wan smile, hoping to find some sort of levity. 

 The Host is quiet for a moment, lips pursed and hands clenched tightly into the material of his coat. 

 “Thank you”, he say faintly, looking oddly pallid. 

 “It’s no problem.” Dr. Iplier deliberates for a moment and continues. 

“Actually… would it be okay if I change your bandages regularly from now on? It would probably make life easier for you. And hey! If you’re nervous about the whole no eyes thing, it’s not a problem. I’m a doctor, trust me when i say I’ve seen worse.” 

 The Host is quiet and Dr. Iplier thinks that maybe he’s overstepped his boundaries on someone he hardly knows when the Host stands, walks up to him, and carefully brushes his fingertips against his hand. Dr. Iplier keeps still, aware that the Host is still one of the stronger egos. His face tightens for a second before he steps back, a strange look of determination on his face. 

“Yes, thank you, doctor. I accept you offer.” The fear from earlier melts away to a crisp composer. Dr. lplier didn’t expect him to take the offer, but he’s relieved he did. 

 Except now it’s a few weeks later and the bruises that ring around the Host’s wrists niggle at his mind like thought consuming parasites. He’d only caught sight of them by accident, had spotted them out o the corner of his eye and hadn't even registered them as bruises until the Host had hastily pulled his sleeve down, almost immediately shutting down. 

 He holds the Host’s forearm, his knotting insides making an unwanted encore as he examines the dark markings. Dr. Iplier is pretty sure bruises shouldn’t look that painful, nor should they last as long as they do. The Host doesn’t answer his questions about them and the one time Dr. Iplier had mentioned Dark, the Host nearly had a panic attack. 

 It infuriates him everytime he look at them, and hates that he can do little more than rub cream on them. He can’t talk to the Host about them and he can’t confront Dark about them because he knows he wouldn’t stand a chance.  

What’s worse is that the longer he spends around the Host, the more he’s exposed to Dark’s torture (his taunting words, his burning skin, and his terribly hypnotising eyes). Not for the first time, Dr. Iplier wishes he could see more than the worst things happening in the lives of others. 

 But at the very least, the Host allows him to touch him. Dr. Iplier’s learned that the Host isn’t welcoming of touch, isn’t entirely comfortable with it. Yan fusses about it sometimes, but otherwise understands that the Host prefers his space.  

He’s different with Dr. Iplier. At first, he’d hated it, jerked away every time Dr. Iplier went for his bandage, snatched his hand away if their skin brushed and generally hated being handled in anyway. Now, Dr. Iplier can rub soothing cream into his skin and the host won’t so much as tremble, almost as relaxed as when he wrote. 

 And he smiles more, wider, a hint of playfulness at the edges and Dr. Iplier feels something in his heart warm. 

 … 

It's at the end of his broadcast that the Host feels the icy finger of a vision, a bad one, sliding up his spine. He gasps, feels himself begin to tremble and scans around wildly for the nearest empty room. There's a janitor’s closet nearby, to his relief, and he scrambles toward it with fervor, not bothering to narrate himself around possible obstacles. He almost trips over a decorative plant in his haste. 

 The Host collapses into the small space, just barely managing to close the door. There's a broom digging into his back but it's nothing to the pain crackling in his skull, threatening to rip it apart. His breathing is harsh and his heartbeat feels off tempo, like a child new to marching band and unable to keep sight of the drum major. 

 He clutches at his chest, blunt fingernails digging into his skin through his thin shirt. The world around him shifts, moving from the usual darkness of his blindness to something that seems to have a presence of its own, a darkness that presses down on him like shrinking walls. There's hands around his neck, a furious voice hissing in his ear, both warning and threat. 

 He hears sobbing that's not his own, feels his heart squeeze when he recognizes Bim’s agonized pleads to please stop. Blood drips to the floor and Bim holds his hands to his ears the way the Host had held his to his eyes after his transformation. His skin feels like it's burning and he wants out out out but the vision is relentless, assaulting him with sights and sounds he can't make sense of. 

 The smell of burnt plants, acrid and terrible violates his nose, soft whimpers almost too faint for his ears to pick up echo in the distance, the feeling of being trapped with no way out snares his heart which beats like that of a cornered rabbit’s. He's never been able to get used to the intensity, worse than the migraines, worse than the bullet, the closest he's gotten to reliving the pain of the Transformation. 

 Finally, finally it fades and he's left choking in an attempt to draw air back into his lungs. He's curled into as tight a ball as he can manage, mutters furiously to try to get a hold of his surroundings in between gasps for air. 

It takes him a moment to realize he's torn his bandages off and that his eyes are bleeding freely. It takes him another to notice the door’s open and someone's standing there watching him. 

 It's Wilford. 

 He rips his hands away from where they're tangled in his hair and covers his eyes, unwilling to let Wilford see him the damage beneath the bandages. 

“Don't- don't look at me”, he rasps, shrinking away, legs still too weak to try to make an escape. 

 “Author?” Wilford whispers and the Host jerks back, feeling as if he'd been slapped. 

 “He's dead”, spits the Host, drawn so taut he looks like he'll snap at the slightest touch. 

 “Then who are you?” Wilford's voice is filled with a quiet desperation that twists like a knife in the Host's chest. He's still breathing heavily and exhaustion clings to his eyelids like anchors. 

 “What happened to the Author?” He's getting closer, but the Host doesn't have the energy or space to move away. 

 “He was shot. Dark thought it'd be better to get rid of him altogether because he was too weak. He wouldn't be the same. Dark was right; the Host is not the same.” 

 “Do you still like the violin?” 

 He's kneeling in front of him, radiating a mix of emotions the Host is too tired to identify. 

 “Of course.” 

 “Do you still tell a helluva story?” 

 The Host manages a quirk of his lips, as close to a smile as he can get. 

 “Only the best.” 

 It's cramped in the closet, but Wilford doesn't care, carefully cradles the Host to his chest, unbothered by the blood, letting him bury his face into his shirt. 

“I'm so, so sorry, my friend”, he whispers into his hair, eyes trained on the curious streak of gold in the Host's black curls. The Host sighs, for the first time relaxed in the embrace of another. Wilford's hugs had always felt like home. 

“It's. It's not your fault. I've never blamed you.” 

 The Host has never seen Wilford cry. He can't say he has, even as teardrops drip into his hair.

[kierongillen]

Writer Notes: The Wicked + the Divine 26

Spoilers, obv.

This felt like a big issue to us. I mean, in a literal sense it was a big issue. We normally are 20 pages of art (plus cheats). This is 23 pages of art, due to me completely fucking up and writing a 22 page script extremely early, thinking I'd go back to it and work out a way to compress it to 20. Except I forgot I had extra work to do on the script, so didn't leave enough time to rework it before Jamie had to get it. And then Jamie insisted on expanding a sequence by a page, because he loves you guys, or at least loves the comic.

I don't really think I could have compressed it without hurting the comic either. I compress the action at the start, and it leaves a reader cheated. I talked about false drama of cliffhangers last time, and if you don't have at least some manner of satisfying that promise, it's a cheat, and not in an interesting way people would thank us for. However, at the same time, that's not what we're really doing here. Equally, losing stuff from the back of the issue would move it into the next issue... and that is also sub-optimum, for reasons you'll see next time.

Put it like this: Jamie joked “can we split this issue in two?” and I took it entirely seriously, and started doing the math on making this a seven issue arc.

But no.

There's also one change which should be mentioned – we've gone up to $3.99 from $3.50. Why? Image suggested we should. There are very few Image books that are $3.50 now. The vast majority are $3.99. We've had our price set at $3.50 ever since 2006, with the exception of Immaterial Girl. We figured we should listen to our publisher. 50 cents across a decade seems reasonable, especially in an industry where $3.99 seems standard.

Anyway, let's do this thing...

Jamie/Matt's Cover The Norns, and they are kind of core to this issue, so more of a connection between cover and contents than for most of the issue. For reasons that become clear this issue, The Norns and Baal step forward as alternative protagonists for the story structure. They are key.

There was considerable EEEK! Over the wearing of masks.

Nicola Scott's Cover

Nicola's wonderful. I've wanted a candid photo cover for most of WicDiv, and I'm surprised it's only turned up now. It's also delineating Sakhmet and Persephone, which is a key note towards the end of the issue.

The Image 25th Anniversary Cover

It should be stressed, this was Eric Stephenson's idea.

You may wonder how we did it.

This is how we did it.

In short: we did it like an episode of Playschool. The lighting being a lamp, gaffataped to a wall is a particular highpoint.

And then Katie-west worked her magic.

All the good jokes on the covers are Jamie's, which is very annoying, but makes me feel better when I laugh at it, as at least I’m not laughing at my own crap.

Page 1

I love the first panel. I almost put it in the newsletter, but decided we should save that thrill for context. It's very much in the establishing shot mode, and a promise. Jamie and Matt executing things like Minervas concussive wind blasts out of the swirling body is lovely detail too.

I did have something akin to a NOT AGAIN! As a line of dialogue from Minerva here, but was obviously killed for breaking tone. See later in the notes for other thoughts on that whole sequence.

And by the end of the page, we've changed direction entirely. No, this isn't going to be a straight fight. We have other narrative fish to fry.

Page 2-3

RISING ACTION was basically four issues of straight punchy, with a middle act of woe. We're not the sort to do that again, and immediately try and make this feel different. That first panel where we get a very human observation of a superhero event. A glance out the window, and shit is going down out there. There is a lot to try and ground this as we go on, even as it escalates...

I suspect Amaterasu's realisation is one of the cruellest lines I've written for her.

Heh. Okay – want to hear another example of me messing up? I knew I needed Amaterasu here, ASAP. But I had also set the scene at night, so her long-range-teleportation doesn't work. This led to a rewrite to bring in the Woden-designed-arm-piece from Rising Action. And it helps in other ways – we get the interaction with her mum, which says a lot about Amaterasu. I do like the idea of Amaterasu having left this piece of fancy armour lying around on her bedroom floor and her mum tidied it up.

Jamie pushed a panel from page 3 onto page 2, which is obviously a smarter call, letting him keep a steady angle on the three teleportation panels, which nails the effect. The breaking up dialogue to show that things are instantaneous is obviously one of our tropes.

The lettering on this sequence involved some messing around with layers to get work, and to make the fade in operate. Nice work, Clayton. This is also an area where my suspicion of sound-effects was entirely over-ruled.

Page 4

And hulllllo Baal's family.

This strikes me as a very WicDiv take on a reveal. It could have worked with just a reveal of his family – we'd want to see that. But to reveal that, and juxtapose it to the creeping monsters, so mixing the excitement of meeting new people with the fear of losing them? That's WicDiv, innit? Sigh.

This was also the page which went through the most colouring notes. Getting the exact level of reveal on the Great Darkness creatures, of how much they're in the light or not took quite a few takes. We're very happy.

Page 5

We are totally not rated PG.

Page 6-7

If you follow me on twitter, you'd see me doing a crowdsurfed suggestion for a line of dialogue for someone to say when they're pulling someone out of the way. That was this page, and Persephone pulling the tentacles. I decided that any dialogue was too much. It even makes it jokey (clearly not the intent) or slows down the action. Even a “NO!” felt too much for me.

We're heading more towards action here, and doing a beautifully rendered fight-scene in someone's garden. This feels a very us thing to do.

I believe I described the Amaterasu laser beam shot in the mode of a Quietly moment, that sense of a still moment in time. Jamie and Quitely don't have a huge amount of overlap as artists for me – Quitely is all about the 3D space of a shot, which Jamie simply isn't – but this captures something really furious. The colouring from Matt on the heat vision is particularly A+.

The push and pull of Amaterasu is very much her thing. Her bravery is an open question, as is her capacity for anger and violence. From Persey-Poo to incinerating her foes in a couple of pages doesn't exactly make me feel comfortable about her. So nice work, J ane M.

Also Good Job Baal's Brother on spotting the baddies.

Page 8

Jamie and my debate on exactly how to (er) Biggify the Darkness creature was quite a thing. Of course, the creatures are granular. We can't just make the grains bigger.

We were a little worried that Persephone firing red thorns being a little confusing, when red is Amaterasu's signature. We may end up tweaking them green in the trade. Not that we've seen anyone complain about it.

I think Amaterasu's living-Darkseid-stary-beam is my favourite regular power signature in this book.

Lots of careful unpacking on what is said on the phone, to ensure clear storytelling. That we never actually show the Great Darkness Creature back at the shard defeated is an unsusual choice... but we need to make sure that people know it HAS been defeated and Minerva rescued. Equally, we come back to the nature of cliffhangers we mentioned earlier. We've promised a fight against the Great Darkness, but are much more interested in introducing Baal's family, showing Amaterasu's complicity in this, Persephone's powers, etc. So you DO get a great darkness fight, just not the one you were expecting, which is hopefully okay as the one you were expecting is a lot less interesting than this. Hopefully.

The Phone is a Woden design, as referenced later in the issue. Baal can't just go down any phone. You'll see one on his living room table in last issue.

Page 9

This is the sort of page I'd have ended up cutting if I tried to reduce the issue... and why would I want to do a thing like this?

There was a discussion of whether ALL I DO IS WIN was too much. It eventually worked around to obviously it's too much, but WicDiv is too much, so that's all fine.

This is a lovely set of colouring from Matt here. The white and purple is just a delight.

Notice tiny Scarab-esque thing shooting off in the top right panel. In a moving medium the Great Darkness' nature would be a lot cleaner, but we do stuff like this.

Page 10

And we're back to grounded colours. Just turn this page and see how things change. Isn't that a delight? Matt Wilson For Eisner, etc.

Yes, Baal's name is Valentine Campbell. Obviously we chewed it over a bunch. Valentine has so many connotations seemed to be useful.

I find myself thinking that in the first half of the issue Persephone is almost back to volume 2 Laura. She's primarily an observer, one who is taken places and sees thing. That does tend to make Amaterasu's final line particularly pointed.

Lovely pair of expressions in that final panel.

Page 11

The title for this was originally ONCE MORE, leading directly into Baal's first line, and hitting the beat again. That changed when I realised I wanted to do the whole sequence as a nine panel grid.

This is the first time all the surviving gods have been in a scene together, and it's a circular table. Luckily, when I mapped the gods to the seats, the ones who are most important to interact are actually sitting beside each other – imagine how difficult it would have been if Baal and the Norns weren't seated by each other.

(We'd have done something else, clearly, and had the Norns standing like Persephone is.)

So I was trying to work out how to panel all this political-meeting style chat, and hit the bit where the gods vote. And I realised that as there were nine gods voting, it'd work really well as a nine-panel grid. That rapidly expanded to... wait, especially with Baal/Norns sitting by each other (so minimising the need for wide shots) I could do the whole thing in a nine panel grid. That allows you to cut between individual characters speaking, and not have to worry about the interactions for most of it.

That unlocked the way to best dramatically sell the Persepone's final line. If we build a structure, we can get an aesthetic effect by demolishing it.

It's not the first time we've done a Nine Panel Grid in our work, but its' certainly the longest. And if we're doing Nine Panel, it brings it back to Watchmen, which means that we should highlight that. Hence, the title altering to THE WATCH, which obviously has all kinds of connotations.

I go through this to primarily show how much fun this job can be. Stuff builds on top of other stuff, and you eventually end up with something much more full than the original idea. For me, pretty much nothing is as good as writing is when it's going right.

Which is the sort of thing I'll get depressed about if I think too much about it, so let's not for now, eh?

Page 12

If we're going to do the nine panel thing, we need to establish the scene properly. Two panels, built on a nine-panel grid superstructure.

Obviously this was a heavy described panel, as we had to cram in all the character beats for all the people. Baph's slouch is particularly on point. The coffee that Dio is hanging onto for dear life another. The Norns not getting a seat.

One thing I particularly like about this page? It forefronts the visual element of the table with twelve gods around which people may not have noted. This, on a page after a big title saying THE WATCH is more obviously a clock face.

Yes, Watchmen was a big influence on me as a writer. Did I mention it? I may have mentioned it.

Page 13

Oh man – look at Matt's use of shadow here. Baal in the darkness on last page was great, but passing from the shadow to light in the first panel.

When I first saw Jamie had put Minerva in plaid I worried for him. “Er... Jamie. Drawing Plaid is a lot of work.” He noted that as there was only a few panels with her in, it'll be fine. Jamie is not entirely foolish.

The page does show one of the things about the nine panel – as in, you get more beats... but you have to be pretty particular to choose those beats. 9 panel is good for a writer, for certain things (most important: timing), but you can do less with any one panel. On the plus side your beats are more deliberate, more delineated.

In this case, showing Persephone's is relatively “expensive” in page space, but clearly necessary – Baal is saying the stuff he's never said before. We need to see her response.

And yeah... Baal finally lays out his main motivation. I suspect for close readers or re-readers, things make a lot more sense.

The seventh panel is one of four two shots I can see in this whole sequence, to get an idea of how sparsely we tried to use them. Maybe 5 if you include the one with Woden asking “Does she get a vote.” Though I say this having only skimmed quickly, and am sure I must have missed one..

The non sequitur panel of the 8th is one of my fave things you can do with a rigid panel like this. Drop a silent panel and break it up.

Page 14-15-16

Honestly, this kind of shit is stuff I love. Just lock characters in a room and let them argue. Political dramas. Legal dramas. It's just a fascinating writing challenge – who speaks next and why. How to delineate the information, how to lampshade information is questionable, etc, etc.

I mean, in some ways this sort of debate is pure exposition – here are some statements – but the fact that each is immediately interrogated turns it into something else.

Basically, if left to my own devices, I'd have just done a 40 issue series in the style of 12 ANGRY MEN called 12 ANGRY GODS.

In terms of my outline, I knew that the pantheon would have a schism at this point. Until Brexit happened, I didn't realise that it would be by something as clear and true as a simple democratic vote.

The hand on Cass' shoulders is the sort of thing I'd have only done in a nine panel grid.

Yes, Baphomet, there was a time for jokes, and it was in the first arc.

PAGE 17

This issue, for reasons which we'll get to shortly, had some consultants' eyes on. That bit was fine. The thing which was tweaked then, and tweaked time and time over is trying to delineate the sides. The first draft simply hadn't sufficiently. Hell, the second or third lettering tweaks didn't do the trick completely. At least from the comments we've seen, no-one seems lost, so the effort seems worth it.

The problem is that each member of the debate wants to phrase their position in the best way possible and their enemies in the worst way, which actually leaves it hard to say what's actually go on. This led to Baal in the final panel actually bringing it together – the PRIORTISE THE GREAT DARKNESS vs STUDY is the key thing. ANARCHY had to be introduced explicitly by cass to describe someone else's position as a label before it could be used here too.

In terms of minor fact drops? One of the things people always ask is what's going on with the skulls. Here we just let people know they're ornaments.

In terms of the nine panel grid, I think the single hardest decision was letting go of showing the Norn's response to Sakhmet's threat. Alas, everything else is more important.

The second one would be Baal doing something like counting people around the room, to ensure that the reader knows that Baal thinks he's won. In the end, we highlight that later, and with the ellipsis  in the eighth panel. And, of course, as always a Jamie McKelvie expression goes a long way.

Er... I'm writing too much about this stuff, but I hope it's useful for people who think about comic craft. And to double-triple stress, as always in these notes, I really am just telling the surface level storytelling basics.

Page 18

And the vote page. As said earlier, was where the 9 panel grid came as possible.

These lines were especially tweaked to sell the positions and why.

And Dionysus, for the first time in the scene, speaks. Obviously a key issue for Dio, where we move him into an explicit new position in the plot.

Page 19

Man, I don't even want to unpack this page.

But I can easily imagine how both Baal and Cass are feeling in the last panel. Uh... wait...

Page 20

Formalism doing its formalism thing.

This was written in a nine panel grid, but with descriptions of which panels are covered by Persephone's hair.

Page 21

And then we go into our quick cuts to move to the new status quo, the nine panel.

It's very much our aesthetic that we show the break-up but don't show the getting-together.

I suspect it's the sort of scene I'd like to talk about further down the line, but not now.

The gold prize for Jamie here are panels 3 and 4. For me, that's comic, and that's why I love comics.

Well, one of the reasons, anyway.

Page 22-23

Cass continues to be a gift for those who like reaction images.

The strangest rewrite of the issue for me was the “What's the saying about stopped clocks?” line, which was originally a lot more suggestive and less explicit. But 2 of the first 4 people to read it didn't get it in its more suggestive form, which meant that I was always going to dial back for clarity's sake.

So, yes, this is a Cass/Dio/Woden team-up for the Study side. Splitting your cast into smaller narrative units is a good tactic in a team book (I sort of learned it properly when I was writing my 9-core-person Uncanny X-men team). You also see it all over the place – if you listen to Community notes, you'll see how they split their cast into different arrangements and see how the characters interact. Having three characters who, on the surface, appear to have very different priorties come together under a larger banner is an interesting one.

In terms of the explicitly delineating at least part of the sexualities, this has been considered for a while. Let's start with Cassandra.

Early on in WicDiv, I saw a random comment of someone annoyed with something I'd said. Specifically me saying something akin to “I sometimes need room to discover a character's sexuality.” Her response – and one I completely get – was annoyance with suggesting people don't know their own sexualities. The “No, I know I'm Bi – don't say it's a phase. Don't say it's something I'm discovering.”

As I said, I get it, but that's not what I meant. I meant characters. Writing often feels like excavation. Not always, but sometimes, and especially in a book like WicDiv. You get to know them by writing them, sometimes in actually fundamental ways, ways which were always there but now come to the surface. For all my planning in WicDiv, it's also a living creature.

So when starting off, I always had a few feelings about Cassandra. There was the possibility that she was actually asexual. It would fit with her for a few ways, and the evidence for a reading of that was certainly there. However, I rapidly realised it caused huge problems inside the narrative in terms of what it was saying about asexuality. One of Cassandra's primary traits is that she doesn't experience the performances. If she's asexual, that implies that it's linked to that – especially when the performances have been linked so strongly to sex at various places in the narrative. I thought that'd be true even if we had another asexual character in the primary cast to show the contrary. I continued writing her and thinking, and having an awareness of the various potentials I saw in her. I didn't have to make a choice yet.

The flashpoint was issue 20, where I realised that it just was untenable for her to be asexual. Because if performances are linked in the readers' mind to sex, that eventually Cassandra does response to a performance is a sign that asexuals just haven't met the right person yet.

No. I'm not writing a book that suggests that.

There is also the real world thing that trans women are viewed through a hypersexual lens or an asexual one, which is certainly one feeds into the final dialogue on the page.

So everything re-arranged and solidified in the other way I saw them – a stable lesbian polyamarous triad. I saw with Imperial Phase ahead, that felt more and more necessary. WicDiv is... not a book where relationships are healthy. Every single romantic relationship in the book is openly dysfunctional. Relevantly, there is a lot of people doing polyamory very badly. It comes to a point where it looks like the book saying this behaviour is bad rather than this specific practise is bad. The Norns would be the counter-argument. In this issue, we show them in an private, loving supportive relationship that's arguably more unconventional than any other in the book.

We don't get to see any of the sex, of course, as it's none of our business and they're not there for the readers' pleasure. But with them in our story, it shows there's nothing implicitly wrong with kink, or polyamory or anything else... as long as you don't act like sentient burning trashcans.

That was the thinking. Some of it, anyway.

Oh – on the note of discovery, I only realised that she'd lean submissive as I wrote the page. It was a surprise to me as well, but seemed to align with everything else and make a lot of things make more sense.

In Dio's case, it was there as a possibility even as I first wrote him into the bible. I see myself writing around it in my notes, saying that I just didn't feel like sex was a big drive for him in the way it was for so much of the cast. The problem eventually came for the place to introduce it, and how, and in the same action where we move Dio towards the centre stage (or at least primary supporting characters) seemed to be it.

We've had a lot of supportive messages about both of these, so thank you. And thanks again to our consultants, who we will continue to high five at the slightest encouragement.

Page 24-25

This was originally written as a page, but Jamie insisted on MOTORBIKE DRAMA!

And how could we resist that?

I actually wrote a first draft of this, and wondered if it was too much, and then did a completely different end scene based on Persephone leaving the Shard. Arguing it over with Chrissy, we came down strongly on this. It's WicDiv. We crash motorbikes into walls for the sake of it.

Worth noting: this is a return to a non-cliffhanger ending structure. The “read the next issue” comes from the whole of the issue rather than a specific beat. This is about leaving it with a mood.

Favourite thing in colour – the circle of light on the wall, a half second before impact.

I'll give you one for free: Persephone is on the phone to one of her people, probably an agent. I could have put an explicit call in that to the dialogue, but it was too crass and fake, and the specific identity doesn't really matter that much. It's just someone who's clearly going to get her a new bike.

Also: the main reason why I wondered whether this scene wasn't too much, is because it is literally the lyrics to Icona Pop's I LOVE IT.

Page 26

“Hey, C, is referencing Kesha too much on the interstitial? It sort of is a trashy pop take on Watchmen's encroaching apocalypse feel.”

“No, that sounds like exactly the sort of thing you do.”

“Cool.”

See you next month, where we reach the penultimate part of IMPERIAL PHASE (I). It's just being put to bed, and we like it a lot.

Thanks for reading.

[pen-masta]

Duly Noted Part 4

1  2  3  4  5

Castel has been spending his Saturday morning pacing around his room again and again. He picks up the letter off of his bed to examine it again. He’s held his black-light flashlight up to it in search of some kind of hidden message or hint that this is a prank--he’s found none. He has letters and cards from the past spread out on his bed. He has cross referenced the writing with notes from his mom, letters from the Curtis sisters, and cards from Joy. He’s even looked at ones from his dad and his brothers, just to be thorough. But the tone doesn’t match with any one’s writing.

He huffs and plops down in his computer chair. He just can’t believe this is real, there’s gotta be some kind of catch or something! He skims the letter over again. Your teeth sparkle and shine and are just as luminous as your smile itself, he reads in his head.

Okay so this is obviously from someone who has seen him and she must be from school because she talks about the catastrophe in the lunchroom yesterday. Who has he seen though? He doesn’t really conversate that often with any girls--other than Joy. And anytime he does it normally ends in laughter, but this obviously is a girl he hasn’t spoken to--if he had she probably wouldn’t have laughed at him or anything like that.

He sighs and grabs a pen off of his desk and he begins to click it as he concentrates. The person focuses mainly on his smile, so she’s definitely seen him around. She also mentions his intelligence and humor, no one can make a judgement like that based solely on a smile so she must have heard him speak. So she must be near him at some point in the day, maybe she’s in some of the same classes. And that perfume...he knows he’s smelled that scent before.

He taps his foot to the tempo of his pen clicking. She wants to get to know him better and he wants to know who she is. And there’s nothing else he can get from this single letter so...he might as well reach out to her and hope for the best.

He sighs and spins around to his laptop. He opens an email to the address she gave him and he starts to type. He deletes and rewrites it several times within the hour. When his fingers stop moving he takes his hands away from the keyboard and reads over the email.

Dear Secret Admirer,

Thank you for the compliments and I’m flattered--I’ll be honest you’ve kind of caught me off guard. Your letter came as a great surprise and it really did kind of lift my spirits from yesterday’s incident; but I’m still a little skeptical about all of this. Please understand it’s not that I don’t believe your intentions are true I am just not that quick to trust people--but I do want to trust you eventually. You mentioned that Catch Less Cassie is not a name I like, which is true, but it means I am single. I am single and I’m guessing you are too? And from what I understand the place you’ve seen me is at school, but I’m not sure if I’ve ever seen you. ‘I know you from school’ is a very vague statement. Is there a more specific connection we have?

You have me at a slight disadvantage, you appear to know a lot about me and I know nothing about you. You seem so interested in me, but I can’t say I am about you until I get to actually know you. I’d really like to get to know you better, and perhaps it seems weird but I think the best way to do that is if I ask you a few questions. Please just bare with me on this.

1. What is your favorite quote?

2. Do you judge a book by it’s cover? Please don’t say ‘no of course not’ I want an honest answer.

3. What’s one thing you hope we share on common ground?

4. If you could meet anyone past or present who would it be? Why?

I’m sure these questions sound strange, but if you really want to get to know me better you will answer. If you respond I’ll know you’re serious and that this is real. I hope to hear from you soon.

-Sincerely,

Castel Cubs

There. Informative, direct, and gets right down to business. He nods and presses send feeling very confident. If he gets a response alright, but if he doesn’t it’s not like it was really detrimental. He leans back in his chair and smiles a little at the thought of getting a response, a little mystery in his life would be exciting.

“Your move admirer,” he says and closes his laptop.

He looks at his watch and sighs a little seeing it’s almost three in the afternoon. He and Joy didn’t really do anything yesterday other than work, he didn’t even stay for dinner. He knew she really wanted to hang out and stuff last night--after all it was Friday night. But he was still feeling kind of depressed and then this whole secret admirer bizz came up; he just wasn’t in the mood for hanging out and having Friend Fun.

When they finished their work she had tried to get him to play some video games, but he declined and asked for a rain check. He looks out his window to see the sun shinning high in the big blue sky. He smiles feeling the warm breeze float through the open window and into his room.

“The orchard just opened up again and everything is in bloom,” he thinks out loud and stands up. “Maybe Jo-jo will want to go for a stroll.”

Feeling energetic and happy he pulls on his jean jacket as he hops down the stairs smiling.

=============

Haley comes down the steps to see Joy sprawled out on the couch dawning her old band t-shirt and fuzzy shorty-shorts she wore to bed last night. Her hair is a mess as she quietly munches on a bowl of Fruit Loops, watching colorful cartoons.

She smiles warmly at her baby sister and hops into the spot next to her.

“Hey short stack,” Haley smiles. “It’s three o’clock, are you not planning on getting dressed anytime today?”

Joy smirks and swirls her spoon around in her half empty cereal bowl, “Nope I’m bummin’ it today.”

Haley nods, “I’m guessing Castel will not be making an appearance today?”

Joy shrugs and sighs a little, “Not today, hose-ah.” She smiles weakly, “He was still really down yesterday so I’m sure he’ll be brooding all weekend.”

“He did seem kind of out of it yesterday,” Haley nods.

Joy hums in agreement munching on another spoon full of colorful circles. Haley can feel her sister’s sorrow, Joy is never herself when she doesn’t get to be with Castel. Yeah he needs his time and she gets that, but when he needs time alone it effects Joy’s alone time greatly. She hates seeing her peppy, energetic, bubbly sister down in the dumps without her best friend. She decides to move the subject in a different direction.

“Did he get the letter?” Haley asks propping her feet up on the coffee table.

“He did,” Joy smiles. “He didn’t share it with me though so I’m not sure what he thinks of it.”

Haley nods, “So do you think he responded to our little note?”

Joy shrugs, “Not sure.”

“You haven’t checked the email?” Haley asks in surprise.

Joy shrugs again, “No I haven’t. I didn’t think he’d respond at all this weekend, what with the way he was acting yesterday.”

“Well maybe he did,” Haley says excitedly. “Come on get your laptop! Let’s see!” She says poking Joy’s side repeatedly until she giggles and bats Haley’s hand away.

“Alright, alright you win. I’m getting up.” Joy giggles and puts her bowl down on the coffee table.

She opens her laptop and logs into the email account she made the other day for Castel’s secret admirer.

“We should come up with a name for her,” Haley pipes as Joy logs in.

“What for?” Joy asks

“Well if Castel is as great of a detective as you say,” she smirks, “he’ll probably start trying to research her soon. So if we make a name for her and set up like an account on some social media cite it’ll kind of throw him a bone.”

“Well I don’t know that seems kind of--hey! He responded!” Joy squeaks and opens the message.

She reads it out loud and Haley skims over it as Joy reads. 

“Sincerely, Castel Cubs.” Joy chews her bottom lip before sighing loudly, “Gosh he’s so smart!”

“This is gonna get tricky,” Haley hums. “If you answer them like you would he’ll get suspicious. You gotta word them very carefully short stack.”

“I thought we were doing this together?” Joy asks

“No,” Haley smiles. “I said you were writing the notes to him, I’ll just be here for help and ideas.”

Joy playfully scowls at her sister and Haley sticks her tongue out at Joy.

“Alright let’s see,” Joy hums rereading Castel’s email. “Well I think we should start out the email just talking, maybe another compliment. Then go into his questions.”

Haley nods, “I agree.”

“I think it’s only fair to ask him questions too,” Joy smirks. “Because then his secret admirer will get to know him better.”

Haley smiles, “Yeah. Oh! How about Abby!”

“Abby for what?”

“Her name,” Haley says.

Joy wrinkles her nose, “Cassie would never be into an Abby.”

Haley scowls, “Ok how about Nichole.”

Joy snorts, “To pretentious.”

“Taylor?”

“Too plain.”

“Mary?”

“Too basic.”

Haley huffs, “Ok Miss Know It All how about you pick a name.”

Joy pauses for a moment searching for the perfect name for their mystery girl.

“How about Robin.”

“Robin?”

Joy smiles, “Yeah Robin Violet Gray. Kind of unique, interesting, and mysterious.”

“Alright,” Haley agrees. “Robin it is.”

Joy smiles and looks back at the computer screen, “Ok so let’s get down to business.”

“To defeat,” Haley smiles.

“THE HUNS!!!” The two girls sing loudly before giggling.

“Alright seriously though,” Haley smiles. “Let’s start with the compliment. What else is great about Castel?”

“Well we’ve already complimented his smile, his humor, his brains, and his body...” Joy hums and twirls her hair around her finger thinking. “I think we can go with--”

Joy is cut off by a loud knocking. The two both eye the door from the couch then look at each other. They have a quick rock, paper, scissors battle to see who will get up to answer the door. Joy growls pouting that she lost as she waddles to the door.

“Little hi little low,” she smiles as she opens the door.

“Little hey little ho,” Castel grins back completing the movie quote.

Joy blinks in surprise, “Cassie! Wow I didn’t expect to see you today.” She grins hearing Haley slam the laptop closed behind her.

Castel chuckles, “I see that.” He says gesturing to her attire.

Joy playfully sticks her tongue out at him, “What the hey hey why you over here?”

“What am I not welcome anymore?” He teases

Joy rolls her eyes, “No dum-dum I just figured you were still upset about the whole...you know and I wouldn’t be seeing ya at all this weekend. Not to mention I haven’t heard from you so...” she shrugs.

Castel rubs the back of his neck and smiles sheepishly, “Yeah, yeah I’m sorry about that. I should have just let it go and stuff.”

Joy smiles kindly, “No need to be sorry I know it was really upsetting for you Casanova.”

He smiles softly before clearing his throat, “Anyways I was wondering if you were busy?”

Joy chews her bottom lip, “Well I’m actually in the middle of something with Haley right now.”

His eyes show his hurt, even though he manages to hold his smile. As soon as Joy sees the darkening of his eyes she knows she’s made a grave mistake.

“Oh well if you’re busy it’s ok.” He nods and turns to leave, but she grabs the sleeve of his jacket.

“Cassie what is it?” She asks concerned.

He shrugs and suddenly finds the ground really interesting, “I was just wondering if you wanted to go down to the orchard with me. It’s a beautiful day out I thought maybe we could just...” he clears his throat. “But it’s ok no worries, I understand you’re busy.”

Sugar! His rain check! Ugh! Why did she say she was busy!?

“Cassie,” she starts but he smiles and shakes his head.

“It’s cool Jo-jo you’re not even dressed to go out. We can go another day or--hey!” He yelps when she pulls him inside the house.

“Give me ten minutes,” she instructs tossing him onto the couch before spinning around to Haley. “We’ll finish up later sis.” She says before dashing up the stairs.

Castel sits up on the couch and readjusts his jacket. He nods to Haley as his greeting and she smiles back at him.

“What were you guys working on? Not something super important I hope.” He smiles a little truly worried he’s interrupted some major project or conversation between Haley and her sister.

Haley shakes her head and tucks the laptop under her arm, “Nothing important at all Cas, I assure you. Don’t worry about it, just some girl stuff.” She stands up and heads to the den, “Go have fun with her Cassie.” She says before disappearing.

He sits alone on the couch hearing the sound of muffled footsteps running back and forth on the floor above him. A smile curls his lips looking forward to spending some long over due alone time with Joy. He’s glad he came over.