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lizzieraindrops · 4 years ago

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Your chance to make the sun rise thrice (Chapter 3)

that a garden will grow (11,143 words)

"There are no happy endings, because nothing ends." - The Last Unicorn, Peter S. Beagle That does not mean that there is no joy.

Veera is alive.

Also on AO3 | Playlist soundtrack | Aesthetic sideblog

Happy autumn equinox, everyone.

When I started this story as a oneshot back in 2016, I had no idea that it would turn into a series spanning four years of new life for these characters, much less that it would end up taking me nearly the same amount of time to write it.

I wrote the first part during the darkest yet time of my life as an abstract fantasy of being in a better place. I finish writing it today from a better place, physically, mentally, emotionally, and even spiritually. If I've learned anything from this, it's that your own creativity saves you and is powerful enough to call the better things that seem so impossible into existence.

This is my tribute to Veera as a character and everyone like her and anyone who has identified with her. She changed my life. Even with all OB's many, many flaws (dear god there are SO many), without the explicit representation of Veera's neurodivergence in the Helsinki comics, I don't know how I would have figured out that I'm autistic. That has been both the biggest hurdle and the greatest blessing in the trajectory of my healing. Since it's been so central to this story and its writing, I've included a link to some resources for autism spectrum self-diagnosis.

Part 1: Herbs on the windowsill

Part 2: Someday colors

Part 3: Your chance to make the sun rise thrice | Chapter 1 | Chapter 2 | Chapter 3

***

Veera wakes gently, early, unexpectedly so. As she sits up, her weighted blanket slips off and crumples around her waist like a shed skin. Bands of muted morning coming through the blinds slide over her as she rises from the plane of the bed. The summer sun has still risen first, of course. True dark never falls here in the summer, at this high a latitude. But right now, its light is softened and diffused by a thin veil of cloud over the city. Listening, the others aren’t up and moving yet.

Slight shifting of her relaxed limbs makes the softness of the sheets into an extravagance. She’s in a rare, delicately balanced state, one where her senses have sharpened just enough to turn ordinary sensations exquisite without overwhelming her. She’ll have to spend some time listening to music – and with Niki and Beth. That was the plan anyway. But the others aren’t up yet.

Today, there’s a restlessness in her. Most days, she gets up slow, simply waiting until her body is ready to go about the day. Yet a quiet kind of discomfort has made a home in her core, nudging her to get moving. The feel of it is neither full nor hollow, not exactly painful yet nothing like comfort. It’s just there, a subdued directionless yearning.

But her mind needs to go at its own pace waking up. Inertia drags at her when she tries to move too fast or cut corners in her daily ritual. Subtle distress quickly follows that inertia if she tries to press the issue. It shows in the incrementally increasing fine tension of her muscles, slowly winding her up like clockwork. So she sits with the feeling. Motionless except for her breath in the middle of her bed, she thinks.

Light. Leaves. Home. Hunger. She should eat soon. They’re out of cereal, though. There’s a farmer’s market a few blocks away that should have fresh summer fruit. She could go. She does, sometimes, early in the morning like now, before Niki wakes up, and just wanders around. As long as she keeps it short and doesn’t talk much, she should be able to manage it without giving herself a headache.

Twenty minutes find her feet traversing muted pink granite. Neat rectangular stone cobbles pave the street below her living room window. The rumble of a loud truck passing right by close makes her flinch, but she manages to shake the discomfort out of her neck and shoulders easily enough once it’s gone. Other than that, the streets are unusually peaceful. Most people like get out of the city this close to midsummer.

She steps lightly over the stone in snugly laced canvas shoes, toes touching down first. There’s some sort of bird hidden in the trees lining the street, singing two repeated notes on a slow loop. A flycatcher, she thinks.

Being in motion somewhat soothes her restlessness as she slips through broad swathes of clouded morning light between the shadows of buildings. The persistent sensation is nothing so strident as the hypervigilance that used to keep her so high strung. But its subtle company has been constant, lately. She can tell she’s internally processing something, but she can’t quite pin it down. Maybe that’s why she’s been waking up so much earlier than normal.

Lately, a strangeness has been gently tugging at the edges of her mind. In part, she knows it’s a growing awareness of how much things have changed since four years ago. It’s happened so gradually. It was nigh invisible until she cast far enough back along the path of her own footsteps to see how far she’s come. She almost died, but she didn’t. She’s no longer in a desperate race to survive. Now, she’s alive. The question of who and what she is now is an unnervingly open one.

These days, she wakes within a body that is soft and scarred. She is both a wounded creature walking this world with strange steps and a thing healing yet already whole. More often than not, she finds her shoulders loose and her chest open, instead of curled tight into a semblance of stone. They can still seize up when her fears circle back around to worry at invisible scars. But it’s not an endless anxious state. It isn’t everything she is anymore.

Likewise, her nightmares don’t spend as many nights haunting her. Weeks pass between them, sometimes. When they do steal back to the surface of her psyche, the quiet fear they stir up saps all her energy and trails lazily through the daylight hours like an oilslick. She spends those days baking something sweet in the apartment’s warmly lit kitchen. Or she takes inventory of the shapes and textures of the leaves that hang suspended in the air of every familiar room.

It helps, even if dreams or memories linger smoldering in the back of her mind the whole time. The sensations and sense of space keep her grounded, both within herself and outside of the fickle fear and pain that flares and fades and keeps returning. Of course, nothing is so immediately comforting as the presence – and, in this searingly ephemeral moment, presences – that remind her she is not alone. But even when they aren’t there, the space itself reminds her that she lives with and in this place she’s chosen to call a home.

The apartment is the first home she can remember that feels the way she suspects one is supposed to. It fits around her, small and enclosed enough to know every inch without uncertainty scratching at the bounds of her awareness. Tucked away up on the third floor, it nests in a quiet old brick building that’s as comfortably worn in as her favorite hoodie. Its wide windows spread big and bright in every room, reminding her to breathe freely. She is no longer a creature caged. Shadows are soft in this place, and the sunlight is as much a part of it as the walls. Its radiant forms lance through glass and smile through aches, never failing to wrap her in warmth.

Leaves unfurl gently in every window. She likes to run the living silken or waxy greenness of purposeful growth between her fingertips. Perhaps their green faces are outnumbered by all the strangely familiar human ones in the photos along the whitewashed walls, marking where friendships have germinated. But then again, perhaps not. It’s a close call, and there’s always more of both growing. They’re still something of a miracle to her, after so long alone.

Low murmurs of outdoor conversation bring her back to the pop-up stalls of the market hovering just ahead. She’s there.

There are somewhat fewer visitors than normal, but the market still appears to be proceeding about business as usual. Early on, this Saturday market tends to be quieter than the Sunday one, not quite as full of people. It's that perfect balance of un-crowded enough that she can keep to her own internal world without interruption, but bustling enough that she doesn't stand out. She's just another woman at the market. Once in a while, gazes will slide over the scars on her cheek, or her upper arm if she’s wearing short sleeves (not her leg or ankle, as she never wears anything except pants). Her skin begins to remember to crawl - but then the eyes keep on sliding past, on to the peppers or the green beans or the fresh cut flowers.

Weaving her way into the dispersed crowd, she heads for the egg stand first, just in case they run out. They often do. With a dozen blue and brown eggs in tow, she roves about until she finds a stand with peaches she can smell from several paces away. Their sweet tang fills the air as she picks them out. She also gets some fresh apricots, brushing her fingertips over their velvety little coats of fuzz. She tucks the stonefruit and eggs safely into the backpack she brought and keeps moving. A yeasty oaf of fresh bread for picnicking later joins them. The rounded tip of the long loaf pokes out the top of the zippered pocket, hovering just behind her ear. She leaves the top of its paper wrapper open so it stays crisp.

Live music rolling out from the street corner captures her, pulling her out of her trajectory mid-stride to swing toward the unadorned sidewalk stage. The resonance of shimmering metal strings and singing wood flows over her and through her, and she simply sways with it, part of it. It sparkles over her skin and hums along her bones, making her flutter her fingers in pleasure, and it’s blissful. After everything she’s been through, the long gauntlet of near misses and fires and nightmare flames, it still seems wrong somehow for things to be this okay, to feel this good.

That’s why, when visceral self-consciousness swoops down on her again without warning, its familiar fear is as much something like relief as it is a thorn in an old wound. Nothing even causes it, really: just a stray passing glance from a stranger that slid over her hands instead of her scars and didn’t even linger. But it makes her remember the oddness of the ways her hands move, when she’s happy, when she’s stressed. It makes her stand out if she doesn’t make the effort to hide them – or if she takes a little too long to think in a conversation – or if she lets on that she can be hurt so easily by the smallest, normally inconsequential things.

In more dangerous times, standing out could have ended very badly for her. The feeling of being hunted might have retreated to the back of her mind, but it has never truly left. In moments like this, she still snaps back into old habits. Her fists clench into stillness, her mind into sharp wariness, her whole self into the ache of immobility except for consciously calculated movements. It’s not quite the old full-body taut-wire tension of terror. Nonetheless, it’s a painful tender twisting inside, pulling things skewed and wrong in her chest.

The thing is, she knows she’s one of the lucky ones. For so many people, the fear never gets to recede at all. Either the danger remains ever-present in the casual cruelties of the world, or their wounds never get the care they need to heal. Not everyone can be set free by toppling a single old castle of corruption into the sea. Veera gets to try to heal, as impossibly hard as it is and always will be. She has support to fall back on now, kind hearts that hear her, arms that will hold her when she hurts. Though they’re rare, she has days where she doesn’t feel like she has to hide at all. It’s so strange. Even before the Helsinki fire, she spent so long becoming acquainted with the wariness of attracting too much attention. She’s still trying to understand who she even is if she’s not hiding.

That’s why she’s doing the work she does with CYGNet. They’re all muddling their way toward healing from their one-off odd brand of hurt, but the support system they’re building could be useful for so much more. In her mind, they’re just the beginning. One day, maybe they can expand to help even more people beyond the Leda project. The Beths with different faces but surviving the same family history. The Nikis with different nightmares but recovering from the same betrayal. The Veeras with different scars who are just as overwhelmed by the everyday world, but deserve just as much of a chance to experience it without having to hide their truth in shame and become someone they’re not.

Well. Maybe one day. For now, one thing at a time. She has to take care of herself and her own healing if she’s going to make any progress down that distant path. Sometimes, the path she’s on right now still seems to stretch so much further ahead than she can fathom.

Eyes closed, Veera takes a breath into her tense stillness. To her own fragile heart, she whispers, It’s okay, it’s okay, it’s okay. She breathes; it passes.

Giving herself a few minutes more to listen to the music, she waits until the grip of physical memory lessens. The sound is still lovely, even if she can’t quite fall back into the two-piece symphony the way she did mere moments ago. She calms further as she carries herself onward again down the tent-lined street. Under the surface, though, in the same hollow where her restlessness lives, her heart remains sore where something still won’t settle into place.

Fortunately, there are other good things at the market that help soothe the ache. Even for someone like her who needs to limit her exposure to overstimulation and crowds, they make it worth braving all the bustle now and again.

A small smile tugs at the corner of her mouth at the sight of a profusion of green fronds leaning out from beneath the awning of the stand up ahead. It's bursting with foliage in more shades of green than she knew existed, and chock full of rows of those knobbly little succulents she loves so much. The vendor is a quiet man with a ponytail and a kind face. He merely smiles at her whenever she comes by. He’s one of those strangers who are friends by the shared appreciation of silence. Sometimes words get in the way.

He nods at her in recognition as she ducks into the stand to avoid a loud group of shoppers. Though there are people in there, something about the vendor and the greenery keeps things calm. The tiny forest is an island in the flow of people. It’s nearly on the opposite end of the market from where she started, and it always provides a brief respite where she can recover a little before heading back. Besides, she likes to look over the lacy ferns and trailing philodendrons and all the tiny succulents in every color of the rainbow, even if she already has too many.

She still leaves most of the houseplants to Niki to look after. But to her own surprise, she’s quite good at taking care of the succulents. For the most part, she leaves them somewhere sunny and ignores them. They love it. Sometimes they even treat her to little shiny-papery flowers in brilliant pink or yellow.

Ranks of mini succulents line one of stall’s tables. She’s barely skimming her fingers over the surfaces of a row of flat, stone-like lithops when she sees it. One of the tiny pots is filled with what appear to be little green spheres like peas. Looking closer, they’re round, succulent leaves attached to thin trailing stems. Sprouting from the end of one string of them is a long, spindly stem curving up to a closed flower bud that bobs in the breeze. She’s never seen anything like it.

The man running the stand notices her looking at it. Veera points at the plant and tilts her head in a question. He smiles and extracts a sheet of paper for her from a messy pile half tucked under the cash box. Its a care sheet for Senecio rowleyanus, or string of pearls.

Veera did promise Niki she’d stop bringing home so many succulents. But the plant man’s pressing the little pot of pearls into her hands, waving her wide eyes away with a smile when she reaches for her wallet. This one will have to be an exception. Her small smile and wave of thanks receive another nod in acknowledgement and farewell. Cupping the pot in both hands, she ventures back into the mid-morning river of people to take herself home.

On the way back down the street, the plant cradled against her chest draws smiles from the crowd. They often transfer to her as well. Something about the green thing in her arms softens people’s expressions, even when they see her scars. It makes it easier to walk softly, and to carry her dull ache of residual fear just as gently.

As if struck, she stumbles when she remembers that today, she gets to go home to her two best friends in the entire world. The ache that knowledge calls forth is just as arresting as the kind that comes with the clinging oilslick fear, yet different. This is far stronger and far sweeter, its truth a soft clarity. Veera clutches her plant close to her chest with one hand as she catches her balance on a fruit-covered table with the other. A handful of little oranges roll off as she bumps into it.

Stammering apologies, Veera scrambles to gather up the fallen fruit. A nearby woman browsing the citrus in a purple sweater kneels down to help her. Veera wasn’t planning on buying mandarins, but she can hardly knock them all over the ground and run off. She hopes she has enough cash left. Straightening up, she looks for somewhere to sit the fruit down so she can check her wallet.

But the woman in the sweater holds her hands out for them. She’s already put the ones she picked up in a canvas bag.

“I’ll take them,” she says. “I was gonna buy some anyway.” Her sweater is a few shades bluer than the warm purple of Veera’s own hoodie.

Veera blinks at her. “Are – are you sure?” She holds out one of the mandarins, showing its dented skin, fragrant with released citrus oils.

The woman gives her a small smile. “Yeah. I’ll eat that one first.”

“Oh. Um. Okay.” Veera delicately hands three more mandarins over. “Thank you.”

“You’re welcome. Don’t worry about it.” The woman’s voice is like her smile: small but kind.

Veera whispers her thanks again, then hurries home before she can be waylaid by any more painfully kind gestures from strangers.

***

Veera’s so relieved to walk through her own door into the kitchen that she doesn’t realize someone’s in the living room, not until she hears a soft sob. Her head snaps up. Niki’s on the couch with her face in her hands and Beth next to her with an arm around her. Alarmed, Veera drops her bag on the kitchen counter and begins to make a beeline for her. But she hesitates. She’s used to offering Niki comfort whenever she can, but is she interrupting?

Too late. Beth makes a small sound of surprise when she notices Veera hovering halfway into the room. Niki looks up too, but she wipes her eyes and gives Veera a watery smile. It’s okay.

Niki holds a hand out as Veera makes her way over to the couch. Gladly, Veera takes it. As Veera stands there before the scruffy secondhand sofa in the hazy light from the window, the three of them are briefly an interlinked chain. Beth watches the other two with soft, understanding eyes, her arm steady over Niki’s shoulders.

Niki heaves a shaky sigh. Then she gives Beth’s knee a thankful squeeze and uses Veera’s hand to lever herself up to standing. She briefly embraces Veera, who returns the gesture. “I’m okay,” Niki whispers. Veera nods. Then Niki slips away into the kitchen and starts bustling around, half-seen behind the half-wall that divides it into an alcove off the main room. Presumably, she’s taking a moment to collect herself while unpacking Veera’s groceries. She does that. Niki doesn’t mind if Veera sees her cry – or Beth, apparently. But she always takes a moment alone afterward to put herself back together.

Veera shakes her head to clear away the traces of her second unexpected fright of the morning. In its wake, the empty spot on the couch is too inviting.

She flops onto the cushions next to Beth with a sigh and goes limp. Maybe going to the market was a little too ambitious for today. She’s already had too much excitement this week with Beth visiting, and she hasn’t slept well because of it, which only saps more of her limited energy. Even good things can be so exhausting. She knows she needs to get more rest than most people do, especially when there’s so much happening. But that’s so hard to remember when she knows that this moment is such a rare blessing. Both of her most important people are right here with her right now. It’s so hard to not throw herself completely into every possible joy she can have, in this transcendent sliver of time.

She rolls her head where it rests against the back of the couch to look at Beth sideways. “I got breakfast,” she offers.

“Looks like you wiped yourself out doing it.” Beth leans against the arm of the sofa to look at her. “Morning.” Her own tired eyes twinkle.

Veera smiles. She tries to fix this moment into memory: the wisps of Beth’s unbrushed hair catching the light, the wooden clatter of Niki opening and closing cabinets in the kitchen.

“Are you okay?” Veera asks.

Beth runs a hand through her hair. “Yeah. We were just talking, about,” she waves a hand around, encompassing all the faces in all the photos on the walls, “everything. We’re so different. But some of the stuff, it’s the same. The things we’re all going through. You know?”

Veera does.

The kitchen clatter intensifies as Niki starts moving pots and pans around and clinking them down on the stovetop.

“How many eggs do you want?” Niki calls, voice more steady now. When Veera and Beth come over to investigate, she’s already got a skillet out and is debating with herself whether to start a pot of porridge, too. Veera’s always in favor of porridge no matter what, and Beth’s never had proper Finnish porridge before, so that settles that.

Niki starts scooping the mixed grains into the pan without measuring, like normal. She fills it with an unknown amount of water from the sink with some arcane skill of estimation that Veera has never understood. It always turns out fine. As Beth gets to work slicing some of the fresh fruit, Veera sidles up to Niki and lays a light hand on her arm.

Niki meets her questioning eyes. “I’m okay,” she says again. But she leans into Veera’s touch and stays there. Veera says nothing, just strokes a thumb over Niki’s shoulder and holds the space. Oats and rice swirl in the saucepan as Niki stirs them into the water with a wooden spoon.

“I was talking to her about what happened with Aleks, and mum and dad.” Niki’s voice goes soft, but not hushed. Her words aren’t directed at Beth at the other counter, but they’re not hidden from her, either. “How it made it so hard to trust anyone anymore. Especially Suvi, ‘cause she was there before. And you know how that gets me all... ugh.” She twiddles her wooden spoon in the air. Then she leans even more into Veera, into the arm that curls around her in half an embrace. To think, that Veera is someone who offers such gestures now with hardly a hesitant thought.

“She just gets it, you know?” Niki continues. “Not that you don’t, but it’s different. Like, you understand about how people are always expecting things from you. People see what they wanna see, and only take you seriously if you play along with it. It’s so frustrating. And it’s bullshit! I’ve never met anyone who understands that better than you.” She stirs the porridge again.

“And Beth... she was telling me some about her dad. She knows about having someone close to you just pull the whole rug out from under your world.” Niki pauses her stirring, and looks at Veera. “I’ve always been amazed, how you just landed on your feet and hit the ground running, when you found out. I couldn’t have done that, if I was alone.”

Veera shrugs, incidentally squeezing Niki sideways. “I never was very close with Matti.”

Watching her, Niki’s face falls a little. “I’m glad he didn’t hurt you that way. But I wish... I don’t know. I wish you’d had someone who was there for you, then. Everyone deserves that.”

“Huh.” Veera blinks. “I’d never thought of it that way.”

Arms suddenly wrap tight around her middle, a face tucked into the crook of her neck and shoulders. The handle end of a wooden spoon presses into the muscles between her shoulderblades.

“Niki!” Veera exclaims softly.

“Hey, look.” Her voice is sniffly again. “I’m having a day, okay, let me just –” She holds Veera tight.

“Nikiii,” she cajoles. “I’m fine.” Her eyes flick toward Beth over Niki’s shoulder. Her hand hovers over a peach on the cutting board as she meets her eye. Veera tucks her head down a little, embarrassed. But Beth’s smiling, if also looking a bit watery.

“I know,” Niki says into her shoulder. “I know you’re fine. You’re wonderful. But I’m here, okay? You’re always here for us. But we’re here for you, too.” Niki reaches an arm out blindly toward Beth until her fingers make contact, then gathers her in as if calling in backup. Beth gladly lays down the knife and joins the impromptu embrace next to the stove.

“Um.” Veera automatically relaxes under the extra pressure. It’s nice. But she’s still flustered. And the vociferous burbling of the porridge is getting a little concerning. “I think the porridge is going to boil over.”

Niki releases her with a groan. Veera’s sure she’s rolling her eyes, even though she’s a little too overwhelmed to look at either of them.

“That doesn’t mean you’re getting out of letting us be nice to you,” Niki says as she returns to the stove. Soon, the porridge is placated and eggs sizzle in the skillet, providing a crackling accompaniment.

When the food’s ready, they crowd around the table squeezed into the little kitchen nook below the window as if they do this every day. They pick slices of ripe peach and apricot off a cutting board in the middle. Spoons click in bowls as they do their best not to elbow each other. Stonefruit and cinnamon mix in the air with the light sulfur of fresh eggs and the pervasive aroma of the basil in the windowbox.

After a languid breakfast and a long morning spent simply enjoying each other’s company, the cloud cover is well on its way to burning off. The three head out to the nearby park, determined to make the most of the sun while the two Finns show off the splendor of the Helsinki summer to Beth. They pack up the fresh bread and cheese and the rest of the fruit for a picnic later.

Veera’s companions’ eyes are bright and animated as they leave behind the crisscrossing tracks of the train station and step into the shelter of the park’s old trees. Boughs bend and leaves whisper lazily in the light wind breathing over the bay. Veera follows them. With the hood of her jacket pulled down, the cool and verdant breeze caresses her short hair. Shade and sunlight dapple the grass between the footpaths and spatter the old blanket that they throw over the green, the one that usually lives on the couch that Beth’s currently taken over. They’re exposed to the open sky and anything else that might wander the earth with them. But branches lace and lattice across the blue, and the handful of other park-goers are too immersed in their own summer reverie to pay them any mind.

It’s surreal, almost. Niki basks like a lizard, looking like she needs nothing else in the world to keep her happy. Beth keeps running over to stick her toes in the salt water of the little bay. She takes every deliberate step into grass and gravel as if both she and the world are fresh and new. Peace settles into Veera’s bones. She spends half her time watching the others while reading an old fantasy novel in the shade. The other half, she looks upon the scene as if watching herself, absolutely bewildered by the way she both sees and cannot see the pain that still lives in the three of them, even as she still feels the scores it left trailing across her heart.

It's a long and lazy afternoon in the best understated way. By the time they return home sunwarmed, though, Veera’s starting to feel the effects of having been out all day doing too many things. Her skull is beginning to ache. But it’s familiar and cool and quiet here. She can rest.

Once they unpack the remains of their picnic, Niki makes good on her earlier threat of not letting Veera get out of being fussed over. She chivvies the other two into the living room and onto the couch. To Veera’s mild bemusement, Niki sits next to her, across from Beth, looking far too pleased with herself.

Then Niki pulls all three of them into a cuddle pile with Veera caught in the middle.

Veera lets out a little squeak of surprise as she’s smothered in limbs and warm laughter. Beth’s only too happy to help Niki tag-team her, the traitor. She squeezes Beth’s wrist in retaliation, but all that gets her is Beth slipping out of her grip just enough to tangle her fingers with her own.

With a little shuffling, Veera ends up with Niki pressed comfortably up against her side leaning her head on Veera’s shoulder. Niki also tucks an arm around her, as natural and necessary as breathing. Curled up against her other side, Beth backstops her. She lets Niki play with the ends of her long dark hair with the hand that reaches around Veera’s shoulders. Beth’s still holding onto Veera’s hand, steady like she’s never planning on letting go. The intense late afternoon light slants into the room, sending stars refracting off of the glass bottles on the sill that trail green-leaved vine cuttings.

Veera doesn’t know that she’s ever been as happy as she is right now. She watches herself in half-believing wonder, then stops. She breathes. She feels the others’ breathing like her own. She reminds herself to just be here, just exist.

But the restlessness that she awoke with doesn’t cease, even now with the two presences she treasures most on either side of her, tucked almost as close to her body as they are to her heart. It still aches and whispers in her ear with a soft insistence. Something about the fragile intensity of this moment calls to that unknown quantity like its own.

This little apartment on the edge of the city was never meant to be more than just enough for her and Niki to carve a safe space out of a terrifying world. And it has been that. But then there was more. There were the herbs keeping the kitchen and the succulents dotting the shelves. There were the colors covering the floor in rugs and memories covering the walls in photos. There was ample quiet to replace chill silence, and the fullness of kind words spoken like truth. There were pancakes. There was sunshine. There was Jade and Justyna and Janika and Sofia and Sarah and Helena and Katja and Aryanna and Danielle and Alison and Cosima and Jennifer and Tony and Femke and Fay and Krystal; and there was Beth, and there was Niki, and there was her.

Perhaps that’s the strangeness that keeps plucking at her mind. Not only have her situation and surroundings strayed so far from what her life used to be, but she herself is someone different now. She emerged changed out the other side of the two fires that consumed her entire life. Maybe the flames were bookends. She doesnt remember anything from before the first, and the space between them was long and lonely. The person she became during that in-between time is still fused into her foundations.

And yet, so much of the structure of her self has shifted. New parts of her unfurl daily. Being within her own body feels both utterly familiar and completely new. She can look back at the strange girl she once was and still recognize parts of her as the strange woman she is now. Now, she’s someone who gets called Veera with a voice full of love and Mika with sense of wonder and Leda with mild curiosity, and they are all her.

The unexpectedness of being given so many names still leaves her bemused. There’s a surprising intimacy to them, the way people speak them like they’re describing the shape of her in so many other lives. She’s unaccustomed to it. As difficult as people can be, what she has now is... good. When she thinks on it too hard, it makes her ribs feel like they’re closing in on her heart even while her lungs expand to take in the whole sky in an single endless exhilarated breath.

She’s thinking about it now. It’s not just a thought. It’s a longing and a fulfilling, an ache and a balm, a memory and a future, a call and response. It becomes all of her in this moment, and she shivers with its intensity. The shiver ripples into the bodies nestled on either side of her. Only a few years ago, she could never have imagined being so close, or wanting to. Sometimes it’s still too much, even with Niki – even with both of them, now, who are both so inexplicably easy to be around. The companionable solitude bathes her soul like the green breathing of a forest in eternal spring. She thinks about the unlikeliness, the flouted impossibility of it all. The feeling that it calls into bloom from her seed of a heart is almost too much.

“Veera?” Niki turns to face her in response to the shiver, her golden head catching and holding the gilded afternoon light.

“You alright, Veer?” She blinks at the new sound of the new name spoken in Beth’s softest-leather voice. It fits, too.

Veera inhales to speak, but words evade articulation. She releases the breath again to its own wordless purposes. The hand that’s been interlaced with hers squeezes gently as Beth makes a little questioning sound like a cat and shifts the comfortable weight of her knees in Veera’s lap. On Veera’s other side, Niki leans even further into her than she has been and rests her chin on Veera’s shoulder.

The press of their affection and concern envelop her in dearest aching, and it’s so much. She wants to stay right where she is. But she’s hardly slept for the past two nights and she’s tired and aching from overextending herself and her words have left her again. The immensity of feeling blooming inside her on top of everything else is just too much. She won’t be able to stay like this much longer. She needs to be by herself, to quietly sort through the backlog of everything she’s experiencing that’s stacking up faster than she can process it.

First, though, she needs them to know how much this means to her. Her ears pick up every breath and brush of smallest movement, and her world is filled with little strokes of sound that fall across her skin and hum in her chest as if painted there. They’re closer and dearer to her than anyone has ever been. Veera lifts Beth’s hand with her own and sweeps Niki’s hand into her grasp as well. Then, she presses both of them hard against her heartbeat. She bends her head down and locks her arms over her own chest to hold them there. No sound escapes her except a minute whimper.

Wordless murmurs and small shufflings to stay close tell her that they understand what she can’t say right now, and tell it back to her twofold. She sniffles a little, then begins to untangle herself without yet letting go. She doesn’t want to leave. But if she doesn’t, the waves of overwhelm that currently shove at her will become a tide that pulls her under and leaves her head pounding.

Niki’s voice, low. “You getting overloaded?”

Veera nods.

“Okay,” she says gently. “Go wind down. We won’t be loud.” Niki’s always been so understanding, right from the very first moment she’d shared her strangeness. Secret for a secret, she’d said, guarding Veera’s like her own and holding her trust like a treasure.

“Take care, Mika,” Beth says, mimicking Niki’s tone. Beth’s never been here here for this before. But Veera has texted with her at length numerous times in the past, when she can’t bear conversation out loud but still wants company. Veera can still hardly believe that Beth’s really here, proving herself as compassionate through soft sounds and touches as through a keyboard. “Don’t worry,” she adds as Veera still hesitates to let go. “We’ll be here later.”

Veera breathes out and nods again. She manages to stand, still holding one hand in each of hers. She squeezes them one more time, one after the other. Then she picks her way around the blue-and-brown mess of clothes spilling out of Beth’s suitcase onto the living room floor and steps softly into her own room. She closes the door.

With the blinds half shuttered against the afternoon light coming through the west-facing window, it’s cooler, dimmer, quieter than the main room. Veera likes it that way. She needs its restful seclusion as much as she needs the sun-glazed warmth of the rest of the place. Filled with muted purples and greens, there’s no dizzying array of photographs here. The only picture on the walls is a large cream and gray poster of a detailed sketch of the moon with all its craters arcing over its surface. Stubby succulents dot the heavily book-laden shelf and her cluttered desk in front of the window. They sort of glitter in the sunlight. The beams catch the water stored in the overlarge cells of their chunky little leaves, brightening their soothing shades of green, grey, dusty lavender, and mauve.

Nerves spangling, she changes out of her jeans into something softer without looking at what she’s doing. Sometimes, even just looking at things gets to be too tiring. Her hands know exactly where she keeps everything stashed in her dresser drawer, and her fingers are familiar with the texture of nearly every piece of clothing she owns. She doesn’t need to see them to tell them apart.

Veera sinks into the soft give of the comforter spread over her bed with a sigh. When she pulls the weighted blanket at the foot of it over herself with the rain-like rustle of plastic beans in its quilted pockets, it wraps her in gentle even pressure from above and below. The heaviness of it flattens out the frayed edges of her nerves. Laid out flat on her back with her arms floating loosely on either side and her elbows bent upward, the blanket covers everything except her face and hands.

As the creeping tension begins to trickle away, another sigh escapes her lungs. It’s a slow process. With how large her emotions are now, and with all the excitement and exhaustion of the past three days, it will take a few hours to wear down the worst of it. The tightness of her shoulders and the pinched feeling in her neck will fade. But they won’t completely disappear for a day or so – and that’s if she does nothing but rest her body and mind. The strain is mental as much as it is physical. Her brain just does what brains normally do, only sometimes slower and sometimes faster, and getting there via unorthodox roads. When rushed, the process only gets backed up, the road blocked, the paths tangled. Pushing it is like trying to run with a twisted ankle. It only makes it worse.

At times like this, it’s even easier than usual for the world to turn into sandpaper on her soul and senses. Overexposure to the riptide of existence all around rubs her nerves raw, living faster than she can think and burning brighter than she can bear. Sounds become ocean waves with weight behind them and lights fill her eyes with their intense brilliance. Gentle touches catch her skin like fire, while firm pressure forms a gravity well that could either pull her into a stable orbit or sling her satellite round reeling. It’s so easy for her to get overwhelmed by pain and pleasure alike. The line between them is faint and fluid.

To some degree, that vibrant intensity was always going to be part and parcel of the way she experiences the world. She was always going to be strange. Maybe if she hadn’t been put through two fires, it wouldn’t be quite so overwhelming quite so often. Probably. But she doesn’t know where the scars end and the inherent self begins, because they’re the same now. Whatever the cause, the person she is now is someone subject to both exquisite sharpness and terrible softness, captivated by so many infinitesimal pangs of ache and grace. It’s a lion’s share of pain and wonder across a lamb’s shoulders.

She wouldn’t change it, if she could. She didn’t choose it, but it’s hers. It’s her. It’s given her an unprecedented ability to be gentle in just the right ways with the people who need it most. That comes in handy considering how many traumatized Ledas she works with. Besides, she’s found all sorts of unusual yet efficient ways to do what she needs to do, because the normal ways don’t work for her. Sometimes that results in really neat new things, like the advanced cyber-security system she personally designed for CYGNet. It hasn’t been beaten yet, and if her constant updates have anything to say about it, it never will. If she ever gets tired of co-running the organization with their board of Ledas, she could always actually go into the tech field.

Right now, ever leaving CYGNet seems such a remote possibility. After a couple years of a reduced workload so she could actually finish school and take a few courses in database management to supplement her work, she’s finally returned in her full capacity. It feels good. Between her responsibilities managing the sheer volume of information DYAD had surrendered to them and protecting both it and their secure communication network, she has plenty to keep her mind busy and satisfied.

Now that Sofia and Aryanna take care of most of the administrative work, things run a lot smoother, too. Sofia’s steadied into tenacious steadfastness as her confidence grows, and she’s got a level head and a killer knack for budgets. Aryanna’s a great project manager and she’s got plenty enough charisma to handle the public-facing parts of CYGNet that Niki used to wrangle.

Niki’s stepped back a lot from CYGNet since Veera came back full time. She’d only been involved out of circumstance and necessity in the first place. For years, Niki had been the smiling face of Leda to the world, giving their story the life it needed to be told. Veera doesn’t know how she’d ever have done any of it without her. But really, all Niki wanted was a quiet life with the people she loved. So now that things were steadier and the world’s scrutiny had moved on, she was taking more time for herself. She worked part-time in a cat café downtown a few blocks away from the park, went on dates with Suvi around the city, and came home smiling to Veera and their little apartment.

Niki seems softer these days, happier. It’s like she’s settled into her natural gentleness, rather than defiantly clinging to it like a lifeline after the fire tried to burn it out of her. Her recovery is a thing of beauty. Sometimes Veera is stricken into stillness at the sound of Niki humming to herself in the next room, or at the sight of her smiling to herself while reading in a patch of sunlight, her legs stretched out on the couch. Sometimes, the memory of almost losing her so soon after finding her four years ago floats forth, casting Veera’s current joy in a sickly shade.

But they’ve talked through that fear they both have, many times. They’re both here, alive. They both care too much about the closeness they’ve created to ever choose to be too far apart. Anything else that might separate them will just be the ebb and flow of life, and that’s always true for everyone. Veera tries not to worry about it too much. She’s lucky to have Niki in her life. And these days, Veera’s gotten better at believing her when she says she wants to stay.

She finds her mind going unfocused, her body gone heavy like she needs a nap. It’s been an eventful day. Veera curls up on her side under the blanket, burying the rough texture of her scarred cheek in the softness of her pillow. To see her now, anyone might assume she was one of the others, marked only invisibly. Instead, a chapter of her story is written all down the right side of her body in curlicues of too-light ridges and and too-dark indentations, dappled from face to elbow to ankle. People don’t always read past that page to reach the rest of her. Much of the time, she still can’t, either. But at least there is another chapter now. It’s right here where she’s living in this strange new moment.

Her already heavy limbs go slack. Thoughts shift and sift and slip over each other half-defined. Maybe there will be more chapters she can’t even imagine yet, even better than this half-healed, aching glory.

***

When she wakes once again, Veera finds evening falling in its long, slow descent. It’s late. The sky glows with that particular kind of soft, omnipresent golden glow that only comes with the midnight sun at the height of summer. Niki and Beth have probably gone to bed already. They’re both early risers, and Beth is adjusting relatively well to her jetlag. As usual, the evening belongs to Veera.

Evening here is a half-seen time, gilded in twilight in the summers and shrouded in restful darkness throughout the long winter. Her eyes get a reprieve from the sharp definition of day among the soft placement of shadows. Even in winter, she rarely turns on the lights. Navigating the familiar space is easy by the sound of her feet on thin carpet and linoleum, by the brush of her fingertips on the matte whitewashed walls. She’s usually the only one awake. Even when Niki wakes up with bad dreams and seeks her out for comfort, they don’t talk much. Voices are kept low. Most of the time, it’s a space for her to be alone with her thoughts, turning them over and laying her experience of the day to rest before she sleeps.

Cautiously, in case Beth’s asleep in the living room, Veera pries her door open so it doesn’t clunk in its uneven frame. Sure enough, Beth’s curled up in her nest of blankets on the couch. Niki’s bedroom door is ajar, and through it she can just catch the barely-heard sounds of an occupied room, the imperceptible breath or rustle of presence simply felt. It’s the difference between quiet and silence. It's subtle, but worlds away from the dullness that permeates an empty space. Having grown up roaming two floors of dim, silent rooms with only the click of the keyboard from ‘uncle’ Matti’s office for company, Veera is endlessly familiar with that emptiness. This is something else: a living seed hidden under the soil; a flower that’s closed its petals for the night.

Pulling the hood of her well-loved purple hoodie up to shield her ears from the mechanical hum of the fridge, she slips out of her room and heads into the kitchen. Things are less sharp now, but she's still unusually sensitive, especially her ears. Retrieving a tall glass of room temperature water and a tin of chicken soup tipped into a bowl takes only a minute. She doesn’t heat it. The quiet is worth more to her than the warmth, in this comfortable stillness. She retreats to her room with the bowl clutched in her hands and curls up at the foot of her bed for a quiet dinner.

She’s far more relaxed and grounded now than she was earlier. But, checking the clock, she’s just woken up from one of her exhausted five-hour recovery naps. She’s too awake, if in a mild and focused sort of way, to go to sleep like she normally would around now.

Well. Though she’s mostly taking the time Beth’s here off from CYGNet work, she has been checking once a day just to make sure nothing critical or time-sensitive has come up. She hasn’t done that yet today because she was absolutely and completely passed out and dead to the world for half of it, so she might as well get that done now.

She cracks her door partly open so that the presences of the others can better keep her company at a distance. Then she boots up her computer and dials down the display to a dim setting in the endless dusk.

Everything looks fairly normal. There’s nothing of note in the security reports, just the usual bots automatically blocked. Other than that, there’s only two messages in her inbox that have been flagged for immediate attention by her custom filters.

The first is a notice of identity confirmation for Jennifer Fitzsimmons in the States. She filed a request not long ago for all her information retrieved from DYAD to be destroyed. It’s one of the solutions they originally came up with to make sure CYGNet didn’t just replace DYAD as a repository of excruciating detail. The whole point of the organization was to help them all reclaim the autonomy that had been stolen from them. That meant making sure every Leda had full control over their own records. CYGNet couldn’t do much for those who didn’t contact them except seal and guard their data in case they wanted it someday, which Veera did dutifully. But they could make sure that anyone who heard about the organization knew they had the option to cut that unauthorized tie.

Veera was surprised how few chose to do so - only 34 of the 113 Ledas in contact with CYGNet. Many seemed to simply consider it a comprehensive if unnervingly detailed medical history that they could refer to for their own use. Others, like herself, saw the data as a window into otherwise lost parts of their lives. After she’d decidedly parted ways with Matti, she had no one to tell her anything about the times she was too young to remember. Still others, like Beth, wanted nothing to do with their records, but chose to preserve them as proof of their ordeals.

On the other hand, a minority including Jennifer had made contact for the exclusive purpose of requesting their data be destroyed and didn’t seek any engagement with it. CYGNet verified their identities to make sure the files in question pertained to the one who was actually making the request. But they made a point of doing the verification by traditional means. They’d all had enough of blood tests and lab rats.

It was more common for people to decide to delete their data after actually accessing some of their records, the way Niki did. After confirming the identities of her monitors, she’d wanted nothing to do with any of it. She said all it did was hurt. She’d already experienced enough of the sharpness of betrayal without knowing the prickly details of every last lie. Her DYAD records were the first ones they erased. Veera deleted the digital files, and Niki burned the hard copies herself, her smile strangely grim yet satisfied as she set them alight with shaking hands. She seemed lighter, after, and less wary of the warmth of flames.

Veera spends a few minutes completing the second half of double-authorizations for Jennifer’s digital and physical record destruction (permanent removal needed confirmation from two board members) before initiating file deletion. She watches the progress bar creep toward 100% while sending the requisite forms off to Danielle in record storage. She’ll put the hard copies in the incinerator. Set to its lowest volume, Veera’s computer gives a small congratulatory bloop as Jennifer’s digital data disappears for good.

Finally, the only other thing that needs her attention is a request for the general Leda health packet from a new sender, [email protected]. Piquing Veera’s curiosity, it specifically asks after the packet’s chapter on the autism spectrum and common comorbids, even though the sender “would hardly deem it necessary, but my new psychiatrist wants to be thorough.”

As she delves further into the odd letter, it hurts a little to read. It’s laced through with the kind of disdainfully certain air of superiority that reveals just how deeply someone has internalized the cruel views that the world holds of certain ways of being. Veera’s found that this attitude is particularly common in people who actually are on the spectrum, but have been taught since before memory, consciously or unconsciously, to suppress every natural expression of their own differences from the norm. They’re more likely to notice and disparage any deviations in others, specifically because they’ve spent so long trying to disavow their own. They’ve gone so long unsupported, learning to see support only as a weakness instead of as a natural and too-often-denied necessity.

It’s heartbreaking, because Veera’s recognized so many of her own eccentricities in so many of the others, and hardly any of them know what it probably means. She sees it again and again, over CYGNet video conferences and at the occasional Leda meet-ups. Cosima’s hands dance while she talks in much the same way that her own flutter when she’s nervous. Tony’s always blasting his music like his life depends on it, and as far as sensory regulation is concerned, it probably does. Rachel deliberately tilts her head in just such a way that Veera can tell she’s masking, trying to remain poised while she takes an extra moment to process and adapt to a situation.

It’s not that surprising, really, since they all share the same genetics. Most people don’t notice, though, because they only know the broadest and most inaccurate stereotypes. That’s why Veera had insisted on adding the neurodiversity chapter to the health packet.

Veera lightly skims her fingers back and forth over the keyboard without pressing down, thinking. The clicks of the barely jostled keys clatter out a tiny rhythm. Normally, they’d want new contacts to establish a secure CYGNet account. This email’s tone and its throwaway address, though, suggests that it’s either from someone who either isn’t comfortable making contact, or who is struggling too hard with internalized shame to ask for help without doing so anonymously.

It’s an easy decision. Veera attaches the health packet PDF to her reply and sends it along with just a few words of her own.

Hey,

Here’s the health packet, including the neurodiversity chapter. Whether or not any of it applies to you, I hope it helps you find your way closer to yourself. We’ve all got a long way to go if we’re going to build lives we can call our own.

Veera’s fingers hover over the keys. She wants to somehow tell whoever this is that it’s okay. It’s okay to wonder, to look into their own strangeness, to perhaps embrace it. But they’re probably not ready to hear it.

If looking into neurodivergence ends up being a path you need to walk to do that, you’re not alone. I’m here, and so are a lot of the others. You know where to find us.

She signs off as merely MK, hoping that whoever it is might feel more comfortable with another semblance of anonymity. That’s all she can do, and for herself, that’s enough.

All at once, weariness weighs her down. Synthesizing such a delicate appropriate response takes so much effort. She’s gotten better at it, especially when she has time to compose and distill her thoughts. But such nuances don’t come naturally to her. She sags, shoulders loose. Though the light is still golden, it’s actually past midnight now. She hadn’t realized how long she spent trying to craft her words into the right shape. She folds her laptop away and sits on the end of her bed, opening the blinds to stare at the glowing amber of the summer night sky.

Now that her senses are less flooded than they were this afternoon, they itch in the way that means they’re craving some kind of input to regulate them, to calibrate her back into balance. Her vast collection of shared music is her go-to for that. There’s really nothing for it quite like becoming a song for a little while. It lets a steady measured flow of clean water smooth down the troubled riverbed of her nerves, torn up by the passing of the flood.

With her headphones on, she’s bathed in a swell of sound that washes over her like the cool sea on a warm day and just as refreshing. Her widely varied tastes change from hour to hour and minute to minute, but she always comes back to metal. The density and intensity of it literally drown out everything else with that single symphony of sensation. Now, she sways to its current in much the same way she wanted to at the market earlier – was that just this morning? Except now she can because she’s alone, and the only people near are the ones she trusts most. She lets herself dance in it, soothingly rock herself back and forth within its waves, shake out her hands along its endless ripples. She forgets the passage of time for awhile, existing only in the sound and the single present moment.

She emerges from her reverie far more relaxed and substantially more grounded. Setting the headphones aside and stretching her spine out along the bedspread, her limbs have gone soft and slow. Even with her long nap earlier, her overload was exhausting enough that she can probably manage to sleep again til morning. The thought is barely formed before she’s already drifting off.

***

She knows what’s different, when she wakes in soul-deep stillness. Lingering tendrils of vague golden-glazed dreams might just be yesterday’s memories. They retract from her consciousness like opening petals, only to birth her into that same sunlight. She can see the brightness without even opening her eyes, warmth flooding into her room through the door she’s left open.

It’s not just that she’s different now; it’s that she’s actually okay, sort of. And even after years, she’s also clearly not. And somehow... it’s enough.

The truth of it holds her in stillness for a nascent moment, like gentle hands around the wings of a bird about to be released into the sky. Then her eyes open to a room washed in brightness. Her neck and shoulders still ache, but her sight is sharp and clear. The bedroom is the same it’s been for years now, furnished simply, with a mess of cords spilling over her desk to the power strip and the too many favorite books crowding the shelves. But she can see it now, the way it’s filled with life in a way that these traces only barely begin to show. It’s not alive because she moves things around and grows plants in it now. She grows plants in it because she is vulnerably, tenaciously, heart-breakingly alive. She is what is filling the space.

Her life is now full of joy in ways she once could never have imagined. Her happiness feels strange because she is not used to it. She is healing, but she is also just beginning to understand the shape and nature of the scars on her heart and mind. They are just as deep and real as the ones on her skin. They may never truly leave her, and she has made peace with that. But that has done absolutely nothing to stop beauty from seeding her life and springing from every fracture like grass from cracks in concrete.

The restless discomfort that’s been plaguing her has been nothing more than her own hesitance, holding back from fully inhabiting this current joy. Some part of her must still believe that it’s undeserved, or that it’s impossible until she is completely okay.

But it’s not. It’s right here and already making itself hers, as broken and whole as she is. She’s been looking at every new leaf wondering if she’s allowed to love it, even while it’s sinking roots into her life and breathing life into the air.

Few people like her get the opportunities she has; to heal, to help, to grow. She’s already trying so hard to give back as many of those chances as possible, even if it's just to the handful of Ledas she’s been able to help. But that doesn’t change the fact that these opportunities are hers; and yet she’s still half holding back.

She could take them. Not from anyone, but for all of them – and for herself. She could choose it in the unknown names of all her people who have been so lost and alone and longing, the ones who never will be found and the ones who are still hoping. She could believe for all of them that she deserves the joy right in front of her. Maybe this whole time she’s been trying to help the others, she’s been trying to heal herself.

It's a terrifying prospect. But maybe doing right by people like her means doing right by her self, too. Maybe it’s as simple, as impossibly hard, as just letting herself be where she is.

With a shock that catches her breath, she realizes that she’s already made her choice. Somewhere deep inside, something has already shifted like a flower turning toward the sun. She has changed.

It’s never going to be easy. She is going to be healing for the rest of her life. Not to mention, she’ll have to do it in a world where she knows all to well that people are often cruel. But there are also people it’s easy to be around. People like her, and unlike her, but kind people, understanding people, even strangers like the plant vendor at the market and the woman with the oranges. Perhaps she needs to mourn the fact that it took her so long to find any. But now... oh, now.

She tumbles out of bed in yesterday’s clothes. She makes her way out of the room past the crusty soup bowl that she left on her desk last night. Brushing past the great glossy leaves of the swiss cheese plant like a forest creature through the undergrowth, she steps into the central room that’s blazing with light and color and life.

As she enters the kitchen, she ignores the twin cries of greeting from the stove. She casts about for her new little pearls plant. Looking around, she spies it in the kitchen window half hidden under the canopy of the basil. She marches right up to it and into the vault of sunlight streaming in.

One by one, each round little bead of a leaf leads up to the stem holding its spindly floating flower - and it's actually a compound flowerhead. It’s opened up several miniscule pinkish-white flowerets with five pointed petals each. They’re giving off the most incredible, intense smell that fills that whole corner of the kitchen and seems like it couldn’t possibly be produced by something so tiny. Her hands flutter near her shoulders in absolute delight. As she breathes in, the little flower’s fragrance mixes with the pungent aroma of the herbs growing next to it. She drinks it all in deeply, breathes in the smell until it fills her lungs. Sometimes she feels as if she could survive on the richness of such things alone, like a hummingbird subsisting on nothing but nectar.

Nonsense. Her world is so much larger than she ever thought it could be, and she wants it, chooses it. Unlatching the window, she flings the shutters open wide to the trees just outside dancing in a kaleidoscope of green and brown and gold and the sunny city beyond and the blue sky above. The summer breeze that rushes in ruffles her messy hair with a wonderful effervescent sensation.

She laughs out loud, then turns around and practically throws herself at Niki and Beth with arms outspread. She seizes them both in a messy hug that somehow manages to include that wooden spoon again. Veera still laughs, and she feels tears on her cheeks, too.

“Whoa! Hey, girl.”

“Oh, shit! Hi Mika.”

“Hey, Veera, are you okay?”

No. Yes. Always. Never. She finds herself crying harder than she’s ever cried in her life. But she’s still smiling, steeped in a deeper kind of joy and certainty than she’s ever felt before. Someone threads their fingers through her hair and strokes her head until the tide turns and sets her free. And then, still, she is held.

None of this will last. Nothing does. There is more elation and agony and monotony and uncertainty and wonder up ahead. And yet, they’re still here, and she’s beyond grateful. She’s never stopped being here. Maybe this really is exactly where she needs to be. Maybe all she needs to do is tell the garden of her heart that it doesn’t have to stop growing.

When she can, Veera breathes in deeply, her ribs pressing against the arms circling her. She feels the way her exhale blusters soft and warm in the small space between her face and the shoulders she leans it into. The yielding soft pressure of the embrace engraves itself into the very bones of her arms, and she will never ever be able to forget the ache of it and will never want to.

Fuck the fires – this is what’s real now. She wants this to be what makes her who she is. This dance of joy in strangeness can be the story she makes of the rest of her life. All she needs to do is remember her choice, and make it, again and again and again.

“Hey, there, hey... there you are,” Beth murmurs. “You’re here. I’m here. We’re here.”

She is; they are.

They are.

#orphan black #clone club #veera suominen #beth childs #niki lintula #mk ob #fic #long post #herbs on the windowsill au #queerplatonic #aroace #lizzie's adventures in writing #lizzie taking up space #it's here!#it's done.

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nthnstrky007 · 4 years ago

Text

Unit Alias #1: “The Flow of Water Breaks the Dame!”

As the bullets whizzed passed my head, only one thought stood out from all the noise and panic around me: I know I should have eaten toast instead of that bagel this morning. It’s just, I get so tired of the same old whole wheat toast and almond butter; it’s not my fault the fabric of reality starts to fold in on itself everytime I choose something new for breakfast. After another twenty seconds of some mindless brutes trying to turn my apartment into a modern artist’s tribute to swiss cheese, a voice of remote reason finally speaks up:

“Leonardo Crews, please step away from the bean bag chair”.

I can’t help but roll my eyes. It’s her: Sharon Winstead. The woman who would surely be my handler if the US government had their way and I became a secret agent or lab rat or whatever the heck they’d want me to do with these powers. I stand up and make a couple steps to the right as I put my hands on my head. At least the government sent a nice pair of legs to yell at me.

One of the armed boneheads she brought with her speaks up, ‘Why would you hide behind a froggy bean bag chair?”

“Cause who the hell would ever shoot a froggy bean bag chair?” I challenge him and the two other armored doofuses.

They all mumble and meet eyes until one of them sheepishly says: “he’s right…”

Sharon, the not so love-able stick in the mud that she is, won’t let me have fun for too long. “Your work here is done unit Alias. Go downstairs and do the usual routine with the landlord; come back, as I planned, when you’re done”.

A couple ‘yes ma’ams’ and military mumbo jumbo is thrown around as they leave. I can’t help but feel sorry for guys who would willingly join an organization that has the loyalty of a teenage boy after a positive pregnancy test.

“Real smart fellas you have there.”

Sharon looks at me, I guess with a hint of disappointment. “You know as well as I that if they were going for the kill, you’d be dead”.

“Along with a couple billion realtites and, knowing how much the universe seems to adore me, time itself. And what’s up with ‘your plan’ anyway? The military never came in guns blazing before. Don’t you geniuses know how important I am?”

“Are you threatening us now Leonardo?”

I relax my arms at my side as I walk into the pantry. The universe is on my team, as always, when I see one of the only undamaged things is what I’m looking for. I walk out in a sufficiently better mood with my packet of poptarts. “I’m just asking questions that pertain to the continuation of existence itself”.

Sharon scoffs and continues on: “Do you understand the magnitude of such threats, Leonardo?”

I wave her off with my free hand after opening my second breakfast. “ What threats? And please, it’s Leo; I’m not an award winning actor, just a potential destroyer of the timestream” I see the red emerge in her face and can’t help but chuckle. It's a mystery to me how she was able to secure one of the most secretive and ‘important’ jobs in the world with such a short fuse. Despite the fact that she is totally unlikable, the babe has grown on me over the years so I give her restless mind a break: “Y’know I’m not gonna go awol, especially when you pay for all my streaming service. And, uh, time wouldn’t be destroyed, just altered in some terrible heinous way. Such as your occupation being changed to stripper.”

She gives me one more uneasy look before moving on. “You have a place I can sit?”

“You mean a place you geniuses haven’t shot up yet? Don’t make me say it.”

“The frog chair?” She groans.

“I do believe it's pronounced froggy bean bag chair.”

She gives her eyes another roll as she sits down in the thing. “Can you sit with me?”

Sharon likes to remind me that in some ways I’m still a normal human. An example of

this being a woman with a face and a body like hers asking me to sit down with a voice like hers using a tone like that, regardless of if she is a facist pig or not, I’m probably gonna sit with her.

“What’s the prob Bob?” I sit criss-cross applesauce a yard or so across from her.

To my disappointment, not exactly my surprise, she grows serious as soon as I sit down.

“We can’t keep doing this dance Leonardo.”

“Doing what dance?” I let out the question with a bit of playful innocence.

“That.” She takes a moment to think before she begins her spill. “The U.W.O is not going to remain patient. The fate of existence potentially depends on what you have for lunch and you refuse to follow the guidelines that we give you. You probably can’t count how many times you’ve been told this, but you’re an anomaly. The only thing we have to go off of is my father’s theories: the regular flow of time is completely dependent on you. Every decision you make can drastically change our world’s past and half the time we can’t even detect those changes. Not to mention, if certain parts of that theory are true, the effects you can be having on our future. Leo, history is a book that you can rip up on an unknowing whim and the future is more uncertain that it has any right to be”.

“And yet we keep dancing…”

“Excuse me?”

I look at her for a second thinking that she for sures knows where I’m going, but it becomes clear to me she doesn’t. “You’re coming here to warn me. The U.W.O knows that you’re the only person I can stand getting yelled at by so they send you here every time I decide to live my life so you can flutter your eyes and tell me not to. How many times have you been here this month? I admit the whole shoot-em-up bit is new, but other than that this is the same old routine we’ve done for the past year. The only difference is I’ve been doing it my whole goddamn life and you’ve been doing it for a fraction of yours”.

The woman actually cracks a smile as she comprehends what I’m saying. I don’t know if it’s mocking or understanding me, but, seeing as I have nothing else to do, I let her spill. “You call this living Leo? I don’t know what you do to mess up the timestream, but, judging by the hours of footage that features you exclusively watching ‘He-man’ reruns, I sure as hell know it’s not living. What, you played a new video game? Flushed the toilet too fast? You’re not living; the life you’re leading is not worth risking history for”. The sarcasm and aggression starts to leave her eyes as she looks at my face. I begin to open my mouth in defense when she shushes me with a new, almost maternal, attitude. “But I didn’t come here to play our twisted game of house. I’ve been in contact with my father”.

The news strikes a rare chord of hope in me. Sharon’s father was the closest thing I had to a dad when I grew up in the compound. He was also the one who convinced the board of directors to let me out when I turned eighteen. “Let out” is an odd way of saying letting me live in a heavily guarded cell that just happens to be in an apartment building. He ended up deciding he didn’t want to be a mindless puppet and left the U.W.O along with all his research. Last I heard, which was a very long time ago, he was up to a more scholarly pursuit. “How is he?”

She smiles as she thinks of her father. “He’s getting philosophical in his old age. After he left, he started living like a hermit in some remote island in the Atlantic. A place they’d have trouble finding if they ever were to look; he’s getting into some rebellious stuff there Leo. He wants you to leave and come see him. He wants to end this dance.”

“By ‘rebellious’, do you mean some dooms-day shit?” the words come out as the hope comes out of me. “We don’t know what the reaction will be if I get in a boat or plane. We barely know what’s gonna happen if I leave this building again. Make fun of me all you want, but, you basically said it yourself, 80s tv is the only life I can safely lead”.

“He told me to trust him. If he’s wrong, the situation will be no worse than it was before”. I could easily read the doubt in her face. “Or at least to him.”

“So what? The world ending is the same as the world not ending? Existence is all a lie and it doesn’t matter anyway? Don’t tell me he’s become some quasi-intellectual pothead who posts on psychedelic-themed online forums.”

She rolls her eyes in response to my joke. “He’s disillusioned with our current world authority. He lived his whole thinking a plantery world order would be a good thing, so much so he helped to achieve it. Apparently after all those years and work, he thinks their practices are going to end us all. The way he sees it, the world may just end tomorrow; it’s any day now to him. In a certain manner of words, he’s desperate.”

“And you?”

She gives me another genuine look. “I trust my father as a leader and I care about you. He believes it's the right thing to do and you can’t keep up like this. Some of the things I’ve had to do this past year is enough for me to give up on doing the right thing through the government. Your problem is a problem that we might be able to fix on our own and trying is a lot better than you just rotting here waiting to die. Any ‘director’ who doesn’t like that can screw off.”

I let my eyes widen. “No one’s in on this? Why’d you bring the unit with you? Surely the bigwigs wire you up before you take their dogs for a walk?”

“Watch your words; dogs we are no more, unit Alias, at least, is on this. No wires or strings attached. The general consensus is the current plan of keeping the world safe from you is eventually going to collapse without change; I can’t say they have the personal stake that my father has with the way he views us as siblings”.

“Can’t really blame them for being worried or not particularly liking me, but they’re not here because of what happened because of my bagel?”

“What?”

“You came here to break me out, not to punish me for eating a bagel instead of toast?”

Sharon pulls a phone out of her pocket and scrolls through. “Oh…”

“What?”

“The ephilfel tower was built in Germany”.

#comedy #superhero #hero #comic books #action #adventure #ya #young adult #smart

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thecomicsnexus · 5 years ago

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SUPERMAN #423, ACTION COMICS #583 SEPTEMBER 11986 BY ALAN MOORE, CURT SWAN, GEORGE PEREZ, KURT SCHAFFENBERGER AND GENE D’ANGELO

This is an imaginary story (which may never happen, but then again may) about a perfect man who came from the sky and did only good. It tells of his twilight, when the great battles were over and the great miracles long since performed; of how his enemies conspired against him and of that final war in the snow-blind wastes beneath the Northern Lights; of the two women he loved and of the choice he made between them; of how he broke his most sacred oath; and how finally all the things he had were taken from him save one. It ends with a wink. It begins in a quiet midwestern town, one summer afternoon in the quiet midwestern future. Away in the big city, people still sometimes glance up hopefully from the sidewalks, glimpsing a distant speck in the sky... but no: it's only a bird, only a plane. Superman died ten years ago. This is an imaginary story... Aren't they all?

SYNOPSIS (FROM SUPERMAN HOMEPAGE)

Summer has come to the Midwest, and the only thing that breaks the warm peacefulness of this little village this afternoon is the ring of a doorbell. The door opens framing a beautiful woman. "Ms Lane?" a young man asks. "It's Mrs. Lois Elliot, now," corrects the woman, opening the door for him to enter. "You must be Tim Crane, from the Planet," she says, and the young reporter the Daily Planet had sent to interview Lois for the Superman Memorial Edition makes himself at home on the couch.

To break the ice, Tim Crane tests his tape recorder then begins by asking about the two year period leading up to Superman's disappearance. "Were those happy times?" he asks. "Happy?" puzzles Lois. "I don't know... at least they were quiet," she begins. As if in a trance, Lois starts to tell her story. "Luthor had been quiet," she began, and "Brainiac had been pounded into scrap metal, save for the head that had never been recovered." Mostly, Superman worked in space doing research for the government, until one day he returned and found complete city blocks horribly destroyed. Jimmy rushed up to tell him that Bizarro had gone berserk, smashing buildings and injuring innocent people.

Walking into the shell that had once been a department store, Superman saw the destruction Bizarro has caused, and called to his imperfect replicate. "This am part of genius Bizarro self-improvement plan," laughed the grotesque creature, telling Superman that he had already destroyed Bizarro world, as Krypton had been destroyed. Then, realizing that to be the perfect imperfect double he must do everything opposite of Superman. If Superman cannot kill, Bizarro must kill millions, and if Superman is alive, then Bizarro must die. Holding a large piece of blue Kryptonite before himself, Bizarro collapsed to the floor, smiling. "Everything...him go dark," whispered Bizarro. "Hello, Superman. Hello." It didn't make sense even by Bizarro standards; genocide, homicide then suicide.

Several days later, at the WGBS television studios, two packages arrived just before Clark Kent made his daily newscast. Opening the smaller box, Lana Lang saw a group of Superman action figures and told Clark that they worked when the legs were squeezed together. Lifting one from the box, Lana demonstrated on one, and suddenly heat rays shot from its eyes. Suddenly, all of the figures became animated, and flew out of the box focusing their beams on Clark. "They're slicing him up," screamed Lana racing toward Clark, but Jimmy grabbed her. "It's too late. We can't save him," he yelled. But as the smoke cleared, Clark stands before them, his suit torn and burned revealing the familiar blue and red costume of Superman. Lana stared at him in amazement. "Clark, it was you. All of these years...it was you all of the time."

Their amazement is challenged when the voice of the Toyman and the Prankster crackled over small speakers in the figures. "He just combed his hair and stuck on a pair of glasses!" they laugh. "What a great gag!" "How did you know that I was Clark Kent?" screamed Superman. "Why don't you look in the big box," they replied, laughing wildly. The box was lead lined, but when Superman ripped it open the body of Pete Ross, who had known Superman's true identity since they were boys in Smallville, fell into view. The Prankster and Toyman continued to laugh hysterically at their apparent victory. "Do you know what radio waves look like..." Superman yelled, taking off faster than the eye can follow. Seconds later he smashed through the walls of their hideout. "...Because I do!" The next day, the world is shocked to read the headlines of the Planet that no one would have ever thought true: "Clark Kent Exposed as Superman." Later, at Pete Ross' funeral, Superman mused, "They were all just nuisances. What turned them into killers? If the nuisances from my past are coming back as killers, what will happen when the killers come back?"

Using a sophisticated detector, Lex Luthor searched the arctic circle, and finally located Brainiac's head. At first Luthor is ecstatic, but then he noticed the mask amazingly disassemble, then moved rapidly up Luthor's body to his head. With a disgusting "sludge", probes attached themselves to Luthor's skull, and took control of his motor and vocal pathways. The new Brainiac-Luthor team had been born. Turning slowly, Luthor began walking, stiffly, inexorably toward civilization one step, and another, and another, and another, and another, and another...

Several days passed before another event, almost as an omen, took place. In front of the Daily Planet building, an army of Metallos, hundreds of them, began climbing up the sides of the building, crashing through the glass breaking into the newsroom. Each of the Metallos attacked a member of the staff, a friend of Superman. But one sought Lois Lane, grabbed her, and threw her out of the broken window. "You alien loving tramp," he screamed at her. The reds and blues flowed together as Superman sped down and saved Lois as he has done countless times before, then turned upward to the roof. Using super-speed, he magnetized the giant planet on the top of the building and used it to gather up all of the Metallos.

But the danger was obvious. Superman decided that he must take all of his closest friends to the Fortress for safety. One by one, Superman transported Perry and Alice White, Lois and Lana, then Jimmy Olson. Almost on cue, Krypto returned from space, and stared at a life-size photo of Supergirl, almost tearing that she was killed in Crisis. The tension was so thick that focused heat vision could not cut through. Perry and Alice, at ropes end in their marriage, headed off to separate rooms. Lois and Lana, for so long rivals, consoled one another and themselves in their own fears.

Suddenly, the air crackled and the time bubble of the Legion of Super-Heroes appeared. Stepping from the bubble were all of the Legionnaires, including a young Kara... Supergirl. Brainiac V moved forward. "We thought you might appreciate the sight of a few friendly faces," he said. Then Kara greeted her cousin with a hug. "Is it cheating if you tell me if I grow up to be pretty," she asks. "You... grew up beautiful, Kara," choked back Superman. As the Legionnaires looked around the Fortress, Brainiac V took Superman aside and presented him with a gold statue of him holding a Phantom Zone projector. "We came here to meet with you again, and salute you," said Brainiac V solemnly. Superman looked at him sadly. "And pay your last respects, is that it?" Supergirl interrupted the tense moment. "I just thought of something," said Kara. "I thought I couldn't materialize in an era where you already existed?" "You're right," says Superman. "Right now, Supergirl is in the past."

Tearfully, the Legionnaires boarded their time bubble and slowly disappeared in an electric crackle. Left alone, Superman and Krypto sat quietly among their many trophies, the tributes to their heroic deeds... and their thoughts. "He never told me exactly what had happened the night before the siege began," says Lois. "But as soon as I saw him the next morning I knew something had upset him. He looked funny. He looked as if he had been crying."

Lois and Tim Crane take a break to have a cup of coffee. The wonderful aroma attracts Jordan Elliot, Lois' husband into the room. Sitting at the table, Crane looks at Elliot and asks whether he minds that his wife is being interviewed about her life with Superman. "Nah, I can live with it," dismissed Elliott. "He weren't nothin' special. Us workin' slobs, we're the real heroes." Turning, he left them to resume to their interview and Lois continued. "We stood on the balcony and watched as he destroyed the golden key. I think that's when we first realized that he was preparing for a siege... Superman's last stand."

Inside, the people were tense. Perry and Alice bickered. Lois and Lana waited. Outside, the villains gathered. Brainiac-Luthor and the Kryptonite Man emerged from Brainiac's rebuilt ship and to their amazement, Saturn Woman, Cosmic King and Lightning Lord, members of the Legion of Super Villains, arrived from the future hoping to share in the victory. "Why should I share," asks Brainiac-Luthor. "Because, in the future, we know things," said Saturn Woman. "According to legend...Superman met his greatest foe in battle and was no more," said Lightning Lord. "It is said that during Superman's last days, all of earth's champions flocked to help him," added Cosmic King. Brainiac-Luthor returned to his ship. "I shall erect an impenetrable force-screen immediately," the voice drones and a huge bubble, two miles across appeared enclosing the fortress.

Around noon, they began firing on the fortress with weapons from Brainiac's ship. Superman was able to destroy most of the weapons with his heat vision, but the force generator was too well protected, and a frontal assault by him and Krypto was turned back by Kryptonite Man. Soon, other heroes arrived. Friends, rivals, lovers; none of them could get through the barrier. And when night finally fell, everyone assumed that they had until morning.

As quiet came, Superman sought out Perry white. The two men spoke of fear, and dying in hushed voices. "I think I'm going to die," said Superman sadly, "and I have so much to get straight, like me and Lois, and me and Lana. They've wasted their love on me while I couldn't love either of them the way they deserved. I wish I had explained. I wish I hadn't been such a coward." His voice tailed off. The noble are always the ones most troubled by conscience.

Suddenly, a flickering flashlight captured a figure moving in the darkness. "Lana, what are you doing here?" asked Jimmy. They looked at each other realizing that each had come to help. Locating the serum that had once transformed him into Elastic Lad, Jimmy lifted the flask with a wry smile then drank. Before them is a pool of water that had once given Lana temporary super-powers. Telling Jimmy to turn his back, Lana immersed herself in the water, and one-by-one her senses expanded: x-ray vision, microscopic vision, and super-hearing... then overhearing a voice... of Superman. "When I was Superboy, Lana was the only girl I loved, but since I've grown to become a man, there's only ever been one woman for me. Lois. I love her Perry, but I can't tell her without hurting Lana. I'd never hurt Lana, so I'll just walk around with this secret, the weight in my heart. I'll carry it in my heart, and neither of them will ever know."

Standing, Lana lifted herself from the pool and dressed in the costume hung in the trophy case behind her. "Are you ready yet," asked Jimmy. "We'll show 'em," Lana says. "Nobody loved him better than us. Nobody!" and they sped from the fortress.

Brainiac had assumed that Kryptonite Man would keep Superman and Krypto at bay, so what happened took them totally by surprise. First Lana pummeled Kryptonite Man while Jimmy ran to disable the force projector. Then Lana turned on Brainiac-Luthor. The Brainiac portion spoke in bravado, but the part that was still Luthor pleaded with Lana. "Kill meee... Lana... Please... Kill me... Do it now," said Luthor, his voice feeble and weak. Lana landed a thundering blow which snapped Luthor's neck, collapsing him into the snow.

But then the Legion of Super Villains took command. Cosmic King used his elemental transmutation powers to turn the radioactive particles of the pool into normal body salts stealing Lana's powers from her. Lightning Lord approached Lana, offering a hand, but electrocuted her. Elastic Lad had watched this, and leapt at the villains from the future. "You murdering scum," he screamed. "The force screens wrecked and you're finished," but no sooner have the words left his lips when a blast from a ray pistol struck a fatal blow, and Jimmy lay dead in the snow.

The Villains wondered where the blast had come from, and then saw Brainiac stand clumsily, stiffly. "I.. am Brainiac...reducer of Kandor...and his greatest foe. My victory...is preordained. Do you think... that I would let... the death of this body... stand in my way?" The villains look at the scene in amazement. Kryptonite Man then noticed that even though Jimmy had destroyed the force generator the screen had not collapsed. "Some other force must be maintaining the screen," wheezed Brainiac who then ordered that they prepare for their final strike and launched a nuclear missile.

The nuclear blast had little effect on the fortress other than to open a gaping hole in one side. Inside, Perry rushed from his room and saw a wall begin to crumble on Alice. Quickly, he knocked her aside, saving her life. Safe for the moment, the two look at each other and realize that, even now, they still had love one another. The thing they did not have was time.

The first villain to approach the fortress was Kryptonite Man. Passing through the hole in the fortress wall, he called out defiantly, "Where are you Kryptonian?" The response came from a different Kryptonian than he expected, when Krypto blasted through the wall. Kryptonite Man radiated the dog, but Krypto kept coming, biting a slashing at the villain. "I'm killing you, you stupid animal. Don't you understand?" Krypto did understand and was unrelenting. In a pool of green blood, Kryptonite Man died, and with his final breaths, Krypto emitted a mournful howl then joined the green man in death.

With Lois in his arms, Superman flew through the fortress witnessing the destruction. Using his x-ray vision he located Perry and Alice, but told Lois that Jimmy and Lana were nowhere to be seen. "Perhaps they're dead," laughed Lightning Lord. "Want to buy yourself some time, Kryptonian? Why not throw me the woman to fry the way I fried your other girlfriend." "You hurt Lana?" Superman screamed. His eyes glow red, with the heat of many suns, and slash out slicing Lightning Lord's shoulder. Saturn Woman is completely taken aback. "He's prepared to kill," she says and the trio, knowing that Superman is to be defeated this day, rushes hurriedly to their Time Bubble and escape to the future.

Together, Superman and Lois fly off to face Brainiac. As they approach, Superman can see that rigor mortis has developed and Brainiac can no longer control muscular function. Luthor's body betrayed Brainiac in death, collapsing in the snow. Disengaging himself from Luthor's skull, Brainiac walks, crablike toward Superman. "I am coming for you Kryptonian. My victory in inevitable.' But Brainiac could only move a few inches, powered only by pure malice. In a blink, it, too, expired.

It's over. But no! There are too many loose ends. The force field is still intact. No one can enter or leave. As they return to the fortress, the truth suddenly dawned on Superman. "Mxyxptlk!" he screamed, and the 5th Dimensional imp appeared, changed somehow, darker. "What do you do when you're immortal," he asks, "other than fill time." Part of the time he was good, part of the time funny now he is evil. "Did you honestly believe that a 5th Dimensional sorcerer would resemble a funny little man in a derby hat? This is how I really look," he screams and again changes into a distorted, grotesque apparition with height, length, breadth and a couple of other things.

Suddenly, Brainiac V's meaning dawned on Superman. The statue he was given... facing his greatest foe... he was holding a Phantom Zone projector. Racing through the fortress, Superman sped to the chamber where the projector was hidden, with Mxyxptlk right behind him. "Time to die!" screamed Mxyxptlk. "That's right, Mxyxptlk," says Superman. "Time to die."

It takes a moment for Mxyxptlk to recognize what Superman had in his hands, and in that moment, he realized that there is no escape for him, save one. As the Phantom Zone projector beam hits Mxyxptlk, he yelled out his name backwards. A numbing scream rends the air. As he attempted to return to the 5th Dimension, he was also sent to the Phantom Zone; torn in half between dimension.

And now it is over. But was it. In the fortress Superman appeared distraught. "I broke my oath," he sighed. "I killed him. Nobody has the right to kill. Not Mxyxptlk... not you... not Superman. Especially not Superman." "Superman turned and walked down a hallway," continues Lois to Tim Crane. "I ran after him, calling his name. He didn't reply. Opening a chamber labeled "Gold Kryptonite" he entered and walked into the gold light. He turned and looked over his shoulder. He smiled at me... I never saw Superman again."

The force field crackled and disappeared and the heroes of earth approached the fortress. "Carnage and destruction was everywhere," adds Lois sadly. "Bodies of his enemies, and his most loyal friends were strewn on the ground. They found me outside of the Gold Kryptonite chamber, but Superman was gone. They found a passageway leading out of the fortress and it is believed that he walked out, powerless. They never found his body. As far as I am concerned, Superman died in the arctic. I was there."

As Tim Crane gathers his notes and prepares to leave, Jordan Elliot walked into the living room with his son, Jonathan. Once alone, the couple settled in for the evening. "I guess the media won't be bothering us for at least another 10 years now," says Lois. "Let's hope so," added Jordan. Sitting Jonathan down beside the fireplace, the couple hugged lovingly. "Work was great," began Jordan. A friend brought in a photo of his grandchildren and they had worked on a '48 Buick. "You really love it, don't you? Going to work everyday, taking out the garbage, changing Jonathan's diapers... all the normal stuff," says Lois knowingly. "Yep. Can't beat it," laughed Jordan who casually glanced at his son, now black from coal soot.

"You were pretty hard on Superman earlier," admonished Lois. "Superman was over-rated," laughed Jordan. "Too wrapped up in himself. 'Thought the world couldn't get along without him." At his feet, young Jonathan playfully squeezed the coal in his hand. Opening it he stared gleefully at a large, glimmering diamond.

"What's for dinner," asked Jordan. "Pizza, then bed, a bottle of wine," winked Lois, "then we can live happily ever after. Sound good to you? Grinning widely, Jordan walked to the door, and stared out at us. He nodded, then winked, then closed the door.

CONTEXT

REVIEW

Yes, the dog dies.

There aren’t many sad Superman stories (at least not that many that do not end with some kind of hope). To me this story gets sadder with the Legion sequence. Everything about those pages is sad, including the last splash page. That is the moment Superman confirms he is about to die.

Some fun facts: Jordan Elliot is a homage to Jor-El. Lois’s son is named Jonathan for the reasons you already know. (Jonathan Kent).

On the cover of Action Comics #583, you can see DC people, Murphy Anderson, Curt Swan, Jenette Khan and and Julius Schwartz.

There are some things I consider “off” in this story that I forgive for the emotional factor. Time travel logic in particular seems fishy. There are a couple of rules mentioned, but the intervention of the Legion of Super-Villains kind of breaks history (unless of course, that they were there all along in some kind of loop). The same way with the golden statue, was that there all along?

It’s unclear to me if the force shield covered everything under earth as well, as Superman could have easily made an underground tunnel and put all his loved ones in another safe place.

Then what about the crazy room full of Golden Kryptonite? Is that safe to have around?

One thing is cool about the “suicide” ending. We saw Bizarro take his life earlier with Blue Kryptonite, and he does the opposite, so I take that as a clue that he is not dying.

I also like the small character moments. Lana and Lois in particular as they weren’t treated with respect all along (one of the reasons Byrne did away with the love triangles). But also Perry and Alice have a beautiful moment.

Lana, Jimmy and Krypto sacrifice themselves. As Jimmy said, “it’s time to pay the price for being Superman’s pal”. Lana died a hero and Lois pretty much helped Superman figured out how to end the menace.

Moore did good use of Superman’s supporting cast, something that most writers usually ignore (as they are usually used to fill pages or help with quick expositions).

I always forget George Perez inked the first chapter. It is clearly Perez without losing Swan’s style (but you can find Perez’s style in the backgrounds).

This is the end of the Bronze Age for Superman. To be honest, I do not know if this is a Bronze Age or a Modern Age story. I think both would be correct, but because it feels more in harmony with Modern Age stories, I decided to put it in that category.

I give this story a score of 10.

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twitchesandstitches · 6 years ago

Text

Ranamon Redemption

(Warning, this one gets PRETTY long!)

Another day had come; another conquest, another loot, and it all felt pretty much the same to Ranamon.

A down rose on Treasure Planet, light blooming across cities of actual gold. Not gold colored or gold-plated, but buildings made of actual gold. Windows sparkled, the glass perfect prisms of diamond and sapphire, the streets shimmered in complex netways like liquid chocolate, and turn your gaze far enough past islands that seemed to be huge chunks of looted land masses coated in sparkly things, and you might see that the seas glittered, with an effect similar to what happened if you scattered a number of prisms over a lit flashlight. Hard to say what they were made of, but it was probably very expensive.

In orbit there hang a vast ship, several miles long and bristling with armaments, enough multi-directional engines to make it ludicrously mobile, and all shaped in a fashion to look both dangerous and very aerodynamic. Mostly it just looked cool; so awesome that it was in peril of slipping around from being too cool to stay still in one spot for long. You’d have expected any of the thousands of people present as essential personnel to all have sunglasses and disdainful expressions at the world below. Many other ships like it, though far smaller (ranging from battlecruisers to city-wrecking destroyers to glorified barges meant to just hold loot on their way back from their adventures) floated around, or were being polished back to perfect and getting the gemstone luster plated on again.

Around the artificial planet, every single inch whispered of enormous wealth, luxury, and the fame of having a world so fabulous. The very continents were made from the loot of a thousand worlds (or so it was said, mostly by Vriska Serket herself). The sea, something like distilled wine rendered into a biologically appropriate substitute for water, sold for hundreds a dollars a bottle on the very finest of worlds. And that wasn’t even anything to do with the massive stores of loot occupying the center of the planet itself, like tribute to the mighty Fountain of Conquest at the core, radiating its power to every world within the reach of the Cobalt Stingers, so that everyone knew their name and power…

To the digital being presently encapsulated in material-space via a small and very wobbly robot that managed to resemble her true form by coincidence, it had rather lost its luster a long time ago. The extremely wide hips of the robotic avatar swayed, almost drunkenly, as she stared at the ground, thinking hard. She found it hard to walk and think at the same time. She had spent a very long time - but had it been? she wondered. Maybe she’d only been herself for a few years. Maybe much longer than she thought, all the same. How did you really, in your code, KNOW? But however it might be counted, she hadn’t needed to be introspective for much of it.

She was Ranamon. Some time ago, the fleet of adventurers, rogues, scoundrels and mercenaries she had joined had found themselves, along with their rivals in a nomadic group of hedonistic mutants and outcasts, stumbling into the discovery of another plane of reality made from the flow of information. Everything had a shape and a form somewhere, and the concept of data, the existence of it on a server or through the networks between stars, made life. Her own people called this world, their world, the Digital Realm. They were the digital denizens of it, the digimon, and she was among the mightiest of them all, bearing the power of a long-passed heroine and command over the seas.

Join me, had said Vriska Serket then. The glamorous leader of the pirates, the Cobalt Stingers. It had been a threat, an invitation, and an offer all at once, and Ranamon had been intoxicated by the thought of something new.

I’ve seen so many things, she thought glumly as she walked past a gaggle of serfs polishing the walls and bowing low to anyone who came near on pure automatic reflex. Stars getting up and walking away. Monsters rising out of the dark and screaming at what they found there. Giant robots with great big bouncy boobs!

She tried hard not to think about the next thought coming her way, the dreadful taste of it.

It wasn’t boredom. She could handle boredom, and with the Stingers, you could never stay bored for long.

She fled from the thought, and her flight eventually brought her far from the serfs, all the way to a random bar in one of the underground cities, clinging in the warrens like a chamber of a castle beneath the world. And it shouldn’t be possible for a digimon to get drunk in the physical world, especially not in a robotic avatar, but she fancied giving it a try anyways.

“Listen here,” she said irritably at some point, and the image of those serfs bowing stuck in her mind, itching like a bad wound. “Okay, listen here, just listen. Right!?”

“Right,” said one of the Decepticon racers that hung around Admiral Serket’s favorite doctor. The Stunticons. This one was… Motormaster, a big and tough truck-type femcon with a curvaceous figure that had been carefully engineered to be big and strong. She was regarding Ranamon’s robot avatar with a disdainful air.

“Yeah. So.” Ranamon dimly noted a woman in the background, just barely visible. Blue skin, purple hair, an extremely curvaceous body on par with any of those weird moms from the rival fleet… but none of that stood out on this fleet, either. Ranamon was having a hard time thinking about something besides the weird feeling she was trying to articulate, and she kept flashing back to those serfs. Bowing not out of respect, or fear, but just because she was there, as indifferently as breathing.

Were the serfs mind-controlled? Did Admiral Serket have them chained to her will and set them loose like automatons? Were they free in their own mind but not their wills, raised to slavishly adore their lords in the Stingers to the lowest gunner and boarder? Ranamon had no idea and it got her really going.

“Okay, seriously.” Motormaster raised a hand, and she waved it indifferently. “Who cares how the serfs feel? They’re serfs!”

Ranamon held a finger up in protest. She paused. “Shoot. Did I say that whole thing out loud?”

“Yep.”

Her finger lowered. “Oh, okay.” She paused again. “I had. I had. I had. I had a point! I don’t… what was my point again?”

An elf in the crowd raised a hand. “Was it that you’re gonna pay for happy hour?”

“Nuh uh!”

“I HAVE LOST INTEREST.”

Ranamon groaned. “Ugh. Just a few hours ago I was dumping a few tons of interstellar currency into the vaults and, and. Ugh. What is even the point of it all?”

“What’s the point?” Motormaster leaned in, looming over her. Metal breasts, soft like flesh and tough as shields, hovered menacingly beyond Ranamon with a sense of weight, larger than cars. “You were in on a huge score! You’re famous! Rich!”

“Yeah,” Ranamon said. “Rich. Famous. That kind of thing.”

Motormaster leaned back again, seemingly satisfied. “What more do you need?”

Ranamon staggered up. “Don’t know,” she said, staggering up and walking away gloomily. “Don’t know anything anymore…”

The bar watched her go for a moment, and after it became clear that nothing more interesting than her oversized breasts briefly getting her stock in the doorway was going to happen, they went back to concentrating on their revelry.

Only the blue woman Ranamon had seen wasn’t concerned with her drink, but instead got up and quietly left, sashaying only a little bit out of sheer habit.

And it would be nice to say that, at this point, Ranamon’s life changed forever.

A chance meeting with a stranger, perhaps. A conversation that opened her eyes to her own doubts, her misgivings. And from there, a better path to take. Leaving the Stringers and using her wealth for a better means, or repaying the damage she had caused-

But no. Life doesn’t really work like that.

Even in a universe of magic, where the laws of physics were so loose that they were constantly slipping away, there were stronger considerations and nothing was that easy, nor free. Guilt is a hard thing to face up to when everyone around you won’t acknowledge such a thing. Society bounces people around, and normality, shame, morals; those are all reinforced by what bounces from one person to another. And in the Cobalts, self-indulgence and satisfaction was the only real importance.

And so, more than a year passed for Ranamon to contemplate these matters. She retreated from active duty aboard pirate-y affairs, declining offers for raids or archeological missions, and she’d done enough that she was allowed to hang back and enjoy the fruits of her efforts. Eventually she’d run out and had to return to work, but that would take many years before she ran out of the goodwill she had earned.

A year, mostly of getting wildly drunk on data-records of being blissfully out of it (Digimon handle substances very differently, dear Reader), and doing her best not to think about anything much lately. Sinking deeper and deeper, ruminating more intently on the problems she was starting to notice, and all the while, the blue woman… observed. Like a spider on the wall.

A year of losing all interest in anything that had once mattered to her. None of it satisfied. People were already getting used to her public rants about how fame didn’t matter, not if those prophecies like the Lapis Lazuli Visions were true about something coming. That all the wealth in the world just didn’t feel fun anymore.

She didn’t know how to admit she wasn't happy anymore, and she didn’t know why. And in the fashion typical of the Cobalt Stingers, she dealt with it by getting even more wrapped up in basic pleasures to block out the bad thoughts.

At some point, she wasn’t aware of having left her private manor near the surface, right next to the network channels in… she didn’t even know anymore. Weeks? Months? She didn’t remember anything. Just… a yawning sense of awful.

There came a knock at the door.

Awkwardly, Ranamon came to the door in a makeshift body; a slender robotic model that felt so wrong to wear, too thin in all the wrong places, and too tall, it just didn’t feel right one bit, but she wasn’t in the mood to bother with it.

A vaguely familiar human woman, her skin blue, looked down at her. Ranamon was vaguely surprised to see eight eyes, spider-like, set into her face, and several additional sets of arms (cybernetic, from the seams, but very sleek), and at this point it occurred to her that it was very hard to see anything of her face past those massive breasts jutting out.

“You are slimmer than I expected you to wear,” the woman said curtly, her voice accented with… Ranamon took a moment to place it, synching up with the local computers and taking much too long, a few microseconds, for shame, to recognize it as a sign of one of the languages of the Gaulic language family. Descended from human… French, she guessed.

“And you are goddamn stacked and I hate you for reminding me,” Ranamon groused. “Are you the data lady?”

“No. I am not. May I come in?”

Ranamon considered. “No.” She shut the door.

The woman outside stared at the door for a moment. “Hrm,” she said, and sidled around the edge of the manor. She found a window, putting all her hands to it, and began to climb straight up it, exactly like a spider.

The manor was not hard to navigate. As she suspected, the owner of this place was not in a condition to move fast, and she prepared her game accordingly.

Ranamon took a long route to get back to a drinking room, and even so, she took a moment to recognize the blue woman sitting in a chair and sipping at a cup of fine wine. “What the heck!?”

“It’s not a bad vintage,” the woman observed. “I am not sure what you bother with actual wine, however. You can’t drink it, so I presume it is for friends. Not,” She added, “That you’ve had anyone here for some time.”

Ranamon gaped. She tried to work out something to say, in order of relevance: What are you doing in my house!? How did you get in here!? Who ARE you? Are you spying on me!? But what she actually managed to say was, “Does it taste okay?”

“I did say so, yes. But you have fine taste in wine.” She sipped the glass again. “Do forgive me. I didn't mean to make a wordplay joke.”

“...What joke…?”

“Never mind.” The woman stood up, draining the glass in a single swig, and put it away. “My name is Amelie Lacroix. And you are Ranamon; one of the digital beings that inhabits the data networks of the Stinger information servers across all their known worlds. Uploaded into a robotic body to interact with this world as a whole.”

Ranamon blinked. “Okay…?”

“And you first achieved consciousness in a weather analysis system,” Lacroix said, speaking flatly and without interest, and Ranamon did look up at that.

“Wait, what?” Ranamon stared. “How do you know about-”

“Rather,” Lacroix went on. “ You were that system, given further definition by taking in the power of an ancient heroine.”

“I didn’t! I mean, I didn’t mean to, I mean… how do you know that!?”

“You took her legacy,” Lacroix said, dispassionate.

For Ranamon, everything froze up. “I… I didn’t.”

Lacroix’s gaze was absolutely pitiless. “You were a thief in your very birth. And here you are, comfortable and wealthy, in theft.”

Ranamon instinctively rose up, the wind rattling in the bottles - just enough liquid to react to her powers - and then she thought What’s the point, She’s not wrong, and she stopped.

“Y’ain’t wrong,” she muttered, not looking at Lacroix. She sat down on the floor, too tired to argue. Not tired with thoughts like that, though she was well-acquainted with them. Just… fundamentally worn out in ways she was not prepared to deal with.

Lacroix did not tilt her head quizzically. She gave no indication of being surprised or… of anything really, but chilly and inhuman calmness.

“You regret it,” Lacroix said evenly, and at this, something like warmth came into her voice. It was… softer, perhaps. “I think that you have.”

“...Maybe,” Ranamon said guardedly. “Why do you care?”

“Perhaps someone should. And I think that you may well go a long way before you find someone here who is equipped to grasp why you no longer care for this life-”

‘Wait, how do you know I don’t like being like this anymore?”

“I’ve my sources, dear. Trust that.” Lacroix tapped her temple. “They are there when you dream and when you arose. They were there in the dark, and in the glimmering of the power that gave you shape. They know you, as they knew me.” She reached into a pocket of a long and elegant coat-

Cold numbness flew up Ranamon’s phantom back. She started to scoot back.

“”Don’t be afraid.” Lacroix withdraw a small card. She held it out. “It is only a way for you to… get into touch with my employers, we might say?”

Ranamon awkwardly took the card. It had only a simple number on it.

“Call this number, should you decide that you are truly done with this life,” Lacroix said, walking away towards a window, hands in her pockets.

She was gone. Ranamon scuttled over to the door, peeking out to see her, but there was not even the slightest glimpse of her. Only a single solitary purple spider, upon a leaf, staring straight at her. And then, even that was gone; Ranamon wondered if she had imagined it.

Ranamon was left alone, with a card that had a single number on it.

As she looked it at, a slogan appeared in slow, lovely writing: “For when you’re ready.”

Several weeks more passed.

There was a periodic sign of Amelie Lacroix amid the treasure planet, and Ranamon looked for her. She wasn’t sure why. Seeking more answers? Curiosity? Maybe even an accusation of something. Lacroix never returned her gaze, whether across the bar, at one of the dueling ranges, or from a distance of a dozen feet before one of the light bridges connected the decks of buildings measured stories hall, new catwalks and streets instead of gutters and the light bridges connecting them.

The sight of the light refracting through ten hundred bridges, mixing and refracting into something bright and beautiful, struck something in Ranamon. How long had it been… that she just appreciated something being beautiful?

She looked around at the world, of shining diamonds and gold and splendor, so beautiful and lovely that every second was rich… and now, as always her gaze was drawn to the groupies toiling away, smiling in a distant way.

If she stayed, was she any different from them? A servant to someone else that probably barely knew her name. The way she heard it, Admiral Serket had no idea who anyone else in the fleet was. That was left to administrators like Lusamine and Courtney of Team Aqua.

The phones called to her.

Well, she thought glumly to herself. Why not?

“It’ll just be to check out what they’re offering,” she said to herself, ringing up the number through her onboard phone systems. “I’m not committing to anything. I’m not serious about this… really…”

The phone was picked up immediately. “Come to the fast travel train station around the corner, beneath the hab complex,” a calm and tired voice said, with a Cybertronian synthetic twang to it. “A train will be waiting for you. Blue, with a large X upon it.”

“Wait,” Ranamon said. “What is this about-”

“Be there. You may depart, if you choose not to accept our offer, but you will have no memory of what you may see there. Please, do not dawdle.”

The phone hung up.

About fifteen minutes later, give or take a hurried chauffeuring to the train station in question, Ranamon slunk into the crowd of mingled groupies, pirates, brutes and technicians, all of whom wore some variety of the tight white clothes and pseudo-leathers preferred by the Cobalt elites, and Ranamon felt very exposed in her robot body. No one paid her any interest, though, suspiciously so. Especially as she cautiously approached a small train idling on the monorail, so streamlined as to be like a bullet, and strangely old; age radiated off it like a chill. And there was a large X upon it. Not an ominous kind, just a very discreet set of diagonal lines.

No one seemed to look directly at it. That was strange. Around here, you’d think people would zip straight toward anything novel or intriguingly new, even if it wound up being a catastrophically bad idea or was super suspicious.

As she approached, the doors of the train smoothly opened for her. She stepped inside, not entirely sure of what she was doing.

“Sit down, please,” the same voice from the phone said. She looked around, but saw no one. It was a single cab, of the modern kind that was totally automated, and there wasn’t a conductor that she could see. The voice came from all around, welling out from the train itself.

Ranamon, too off balance to reply, went to the nearest bench. A seat belt obligingly wound around her framework. The train started to go, and she definitely felt a sensation of movement.

This was the point that she no longer really had a frame of reference; the windows chose that moment to suddenly jerk, the view outside distorting like a tub of paints being thrown into a washing machine at full cycle.

The train accelerated, and fired forward far faster than should have been possible at all, and it was moving… sideways? No, down, up. Both, all of those, at the same time, and REALLY FAST, why did she feel like she was turning inside out-

No one saw the train leave, as no one had seen it enter. It was simply gone, though to the sole occupant, it was a much stranger experience.

There was a long moment, perhaps several hours worth of a single moment stretched out much longer than it was comfortable for even a digital entity, as Ranamon experienced dimensions of existence she really had not been programmed to comprehend or deal with in any respectable way. It felt weird, she had absolutely no idea what was going on, WHAT WAS HAPPENING-

“I’m gonna be sick, HELP, I FEEL SICK, MAKE IT STOP!” she wailed.

“Please do not be ill inside me,” the unseen voice said, sounding a bit curious at the prospect all the same. “Hold a moment… you are inside a platform. CAn you even BE ill?”

“Can we please table this discussion until after I stop being about to throw up!?”

“Certainly. We are here.”

And then, they stopped, with such a sudden jerk that it was almost as bad as going that fast to begin with.

Ranamon stumbled down out of the bench as the belt came away, and data streamed out from the little robot. Here, in a space very different from what she had just been in, her information flowed away from the robotic body she had been inhabiting, and it clattered to the ground, devoid of animating force, and then.

Her feet touched the ground. She wobbled, and that was a well-chosen word indeed, to a stop, too dazed to even realize what had happened. “Out!” She gasped, stumbling out the open doors, her legs moving without any dignity at all.

She fell onto her knees outside. Her first sign of something being off was the air, cold and brisk and full of a strange vitality but then… she wasn’t breathing at all. There was nothing to breath, no atmosphere, but the idea of breathing did it for her. Then she realized that she didn’t need to breath at all, so why was she experiencing that?

The third, and probably more strictly sensual one, as her breasts touching the ground. Her actual body! RAnamon looked down and squeaked as she saw not metal and clicky joints, but light green flesh, for the first time outside a computer! She squeaked, standing up as her massive breasts wobbled in front of her, almost toppling her over again. Slowly she placed her hands upon them. Her webbed hands, the blue organic armor of her true digital form right there. Her fingers made little indentations in her spheres, and she squeezed just for the novelty of it.

A bad idea. “Ow!” She whined. Her breasts bounced, in the way that only a bustline as big as sixty percent of a person’s entire body mass can, and she took a few more confident steps forward. She was starting to get familiar with her own body again, and she whirled around, examining herself in wonder. Yes… this was… familiar.

Her skin, moist and faintly green. Smaller than the average human, but obscenely stacked in hips and bust so that she wobbled from every inch with a single step. Blue armor, or perhaps a tight jumpsuit that looked disquietingly organic, clung tight to her hyper-sexed form, two angler fish lights dangling from her forearm gauntlets.

The feathery gills against the side of her face, projecting out from her elongated helmet and the angler lure projecting out behind it, flapped happily. She stamped on the ground, patting herself in wonder. “I’m… I’m here? I’m actually here? The REAL me!? My coding! My everything! My bigness!”

She hugged herself, causing a muffin top of breastflesh to flow over her face, and between her arms, and against her stomach. “I’m here again…!”

“Perhaps I should have warned you, dear,” the unseen voice said again. Now, perhaps more comfortable, it was warming up, with a bit of bounce, and sounded positively jolly, like a gift-giver or a rich and slightly loopy uncle. “We are not in what you might think of as the material realm. The rules are… looser, here.”

Ranamon looked up - in her own body, no platform, just HER - and saw only the train. She stood upon a platform in what looked like an empty void. No, scratch that. She saw a city of sorts, but barely any people walking across… she squinted. Hundreds, perhaps thousands of… no way. Platforms? Mile-long platforms, or perhaps islands floating freely in the void, connected by streamers of vibrant light. Perhaps surges of intense magic, so strong they had become a stable force. In the distance, she saw a small castle, floating around between several other platforms in a way that reminded her of a power core. Perhaps it was… fueling this place, somehow?

She looked away from the strangely shaped islands floating in the dark, and turned to the train. There was no conductor coming out. It was just her. “Okay, am I alone here? Are you… somewhere else? What am I supposed to do?”

“Hold a moment,” the voice said, and it was definitely coming from the train now.

The train… stood up. At least, that was one way to put it. She stared up in alarm as the train shifted forms and transformed into an entirely new form, reformatting itself and moving into a more humanoid configuration. She felt silly; she knew Transformers! She should have expected that! She hadn’t been in a remote controlled train, she’d been inside a Transformer!

The train, interestingly, shed it’s kibble. Most Transformers had elements of their alt form, but she knew that the ones in the Endowed Fleet, rivals to the Cobalts, had engineered a way to allow Transformers to assume entirely new ones on the fly; perhaps this one had gotten the same trick. The cab, the wheels, the underslung rail riding gear all disappeared into its body, exchanging itself for the signs of a born flier. Integrating engines, antigravity pods, a streamlined appearance and jet projectors all along the limbs that were quickly materializing.

It was a lot larger than many Transformers she had seen, too. Broad all over; the hips were very slim, but the arms and legs were huge. The chest was extremely broad, almost like a flat screen, and something about that was very worrying to her. There were no faction decals, brands or insignias. There were a few places which looked like there had been… at least, before they had been scorched away, most likely by this robot’s own hand.

Only one hand, at that. A huge and powerful set of claws, indelicate and badly scarred at the wrist. The secondary form of an old punishment practiced on ancient Cybertron; empurata, mutilating a Transformer’s body and replacing their parts with crude, clumsy replacements to publicly shame them and render them unable to act outside a given function. The other hand, though, was a mass of tools, a shifting and whirring bulk of micro-tools to accomplish any task, but it was also very clearly a massive cannon.

A flat broad chest. Empurata. A cannon-arm, and a distinctive bulky frame. She knew this Transformer.

Thousands upon thousands of horrified aliens knew his name. MAny more had seen his pitiless eye, before they were lost forever in his labs. Their pieces and parts scattered, bloodied bodies abandoned on the floor, entire worlds used for experimentation so horrendous and cruel that it was said even the legendarily vicious Mindfang thought they were too inhumane to even think about-

And now, staring down at her, was a head that had suffered the fate of primary empurata. His head removed, cut away, scarred and mutilated and placed back, all ability to expression emotion stripped away from it, cut down to the very framework. The living metal was a mass of burns and blade wounds, and a single large eye stared down at her.

“Greetings,” he said in a surprisingly cheerful voice. “We were not introduced. My apologies, I am-”

“Shockwave.” She took several steps back, trying not to upend herself with her own overlarge assets. “Oh God. You’re Shockwave.”

“...Ah.” He stared down at her. His tone was very soft. “You know of me.”

He’s a fucking MONSTER. He makes that maniac Grimlock on the Endowed Fleet look reserved and calm. He’s the one who turned Grimlock and his flock of monsters rabid! He melts down organic planets and uses them for fuel! He’s tortured people to death just to measure the sounds of their screams! He’s made parents eat their own children in psychological games just to test how far people are willing to go to survive! He stitches people to one another after turning them inside out, he replaces living metal with wood, he fills people with parasites, he’s done so many evil things that actual DEMONS are horrified by it. He’s defined what the world ‘cruelty’ actually means and, oh god, I AM ALONE WITH SHOCKWAVE.

It WAS A TRAP, he wanted a Digimon to cut up and do things to, I’m ALONE WITH SHOCKWAVE.

Ranamon raised her hands. “Don’t step any closer,” she said, keeping her voice level, the terror rising in her and putrid-sick. “I’ll put a hole in you. I still have my powers here, I can absolutely destroy you, you sick freak!”

Shockwave stared at her. “I doubt that you can,” he said eventually. “My people are incredibly hard to put down. We can be cut open, melted down, ripped apart, exposed to the emptiness of space, have our minds fried with electromagnetics… and still, we just cannot die.” A faint horror came into his voice. “Processors, cut open and exposed to the world. Spark champers removed and replaced with progressively more incapable fuel systems. The body slowly shuts down as it is damaged, one piece at a time… and yet, no matter how loud we want to die, we just cannot. Not without certain terrible means that, I believe, are not available to you.”

She paused. Something wasn’t quite right here.

”Cosmic rust. Total bodily failure; destroy all the organs of a Transformer simultaneously, and perhaps that will kill us. But do it even slightly wrong, and we won’t die. At least, not right away. We will live. No matter how much we deserve to die.”

Ranamon’s arms lowered extremely slightly. ABsolute terror was slightly fading away in favor of bewilderment. “Oh. You’re… not Shockwave. Are you?”

“I am.” The robot turned his eye towards her. She had seen pictures of it. The photos of the multiverse’s most evil criminal scientist and torturer were always the same: pitiless, heartless, utterly without morality or the hint of any feeling whatsoever. Nothing but logic, cold and empty.

This was anything but empty. The eye was wild, moving this way and that, his entire frame continually shuddered like some awful emotion was trying to tear him apart from the inside out, and though he was quiet for a moment, his body language suggested a mind that was screaming if only it could find a voice big enough for it.

“You remember me as I was,” he began.

“I was Senator Shockwave, a long time ago,” Shockwave continued, voice marginally under control. “Idealist, reformer. I was, i tried to be… good. And then, the Functionalists took my mind from me. They cut it apart and sliced away everything from me but my ability to think logically, and they taught me what cruelty really was. And then, and… oh, yes.”

He spread his arms mockingly.

“Yes,” he said again. “You know of what I became. A true monster. An evil upon the multiverse, exceeded only by young Megatron.” His tone became soft and weary.

Distantly, Ranamon thought that she had heard that Shockwave had disappeared some time ago, after the formal dissolution of the Decepticon Empire. She had assumed he had gone to unknown worlds, to inflict his special brand of scientific curiosity upon all unfortunate enough to meet him. “What happened to you?”

Shockwave turned, rising out of whatever deep pit he had been in, and pointed. Ranamon turned to see a vast blue shape regarding them politely, floating in the vast abyss around them. A huge shape, beautiful and terrible at once, and inexpressibly sorrowful; perhaps mourning for all existence. A vast curtain of white light fluttered around a beautifully alien face, and enormous, kissable lips measured in miles, the rest of the giantess so massive that she was exerting her own gravity, little planetoids around her, and her body was… big. And curvy, really very curvy. Unbelievably massive breasts even larger than Ranamon’s in comparison, hips almost wider than this giantess was tall.

And, nestled between her interstellar cleavage, there was a massive blue diamond. A gem core.

“Oh my god,” Ranamon whispered. “That’s Blue Diamond! I heard she vanished after she was freed from the clutches of the Emperor of Destruction!”

“Megatron, yes,” Shockwave said, now apparently calmed down. “I… met her afterwards. When I was still that thing I had been remade into. And she made me feel…” he trailed off.

“Feel what?”

“Everything. Everything I had ever done. The true enormity of all those lives lost by my hand, the horrors of the things I created. She made me feel the pain of it, and made it so that I could never forget again who I truly am.”

Shockwave began to walk. “Come, little one. We have plenty of time to discuss matters with our patron, but it is impolite to keep an appointment waiting.”

Ranamon hurried, glancing back again at the intoxicating sight of Blue Diamond. The giant gem looked so… serene, and she had always heard that Blue Diamond had her heart broken long ago. And yet, she looked… at peace?

In a strange way, so did Shockwave. “May I offer you a lift?” He transformed again, this time assuming a cylindrical craft approximately the size of a jet fighter, the design somewhere between a baroque rocket and a very fancy plane. He hovered above the ground for her, politely.

“Um. Sure.” She climbed aboard, and the two took off towards the castle… or whatever it was… she had seen earlier.

They parked within it, departing into the depths of the castle, and Shockwave assumed his biped form again as they came to some kind of shabby office within it. As they waited to be seen, Ranamon asked, “Where exactly are we?”

Shockwave looked thoughtful. “An interesting question. A good answer may be another question: where are we not?”

She blinked. “Um. I don’t think we’re in the material plane: I was breathing in something but I’m a data entity. I don’t have lungs or a metabolism. I can feel all kinds of magic around me, so… the magical realms, maybe? But then things would be more hectic and it’s just kind of… empty here? Are we outside, in some other lost realm?”

“Good reasoning! But no, not quite. We are nowhere at all.”

“I don’t follow.”

“Think of it like this!” They were both sitting down now, and somehow their chairs were just big enough to seat their wildly disparate sizes. Shockwave sounded downright enthusiastic, like a gentleman professor eager to be teaching again. It was surreal given his reputation. “We are in a place that is defined by not being anywhere else. We are quite literally outside reality; a special pocket realm, outside the multiverse as a whole, maintained by powerful divine influences. From here, it is possible to access any point in the multiverse, particularly the mortal universes, but time does not pass for us, nor do most normal laws of physics.”

Shockwave went on like this for a while. Eventually three figures appeared; a tall man in a super cool black outfit that was mostly body armor and longcoat garb. Beside him was a giant woman, apparently human and over fifty feet tall, nonchalantly stepping around him. She wasn’t wearing much, and had a lot to keep covered up; breasts bigger than her entire upper body, hips wider than a doorway her size would be, powerful thighs suitable for her frame, Covering her modesty was a pair of micro shorts, in red, a spangly bikini, and a short jacket like something an old school jester might wear but updated for the times.

She was also, apparently, very pale. She leaned over, breasts almost bouncing into the ground, and the other two had to dance away to avoid getting caught. “Heya, doc! You borin’ a newbie?”

“I do not bore, Doctor Quinzel,” Shockwave said loftily. “I educate! There’s a difference but not much of a distinction, perhaps.”

“Hah.” She stood up. Her hair was pulled up into two huge pig tails that dangled down to her waist, dyed alternating colors of red and blue. The overall effect was of zany cuteness. “Don’t forget, we got an appointment tonight. Therapy session pronto, ya hear me?”

“I hear you.”

Doctor Quinzel - Harley Quinn, as Ranamon would later know her - skipped away. The other two figures approached; Ranamon gaped at the taller of the pair. “Amelie Lacroix!”

It was her, and she raised an eyebrow. “Ah, so you decided to come. Good work.”

“Told you she’d take us up on it,” said the other guy smugly. He was wearing a mask that sort of looked like a skull, and a lot like a very stylized barn owl face. He stuck out a clawed hand to Ranamon. “Gabriel Reyes. My call sign is Reaper. When we’re out in the field, I make sure you don’t die horribly.”

Ranamon shook his hand. “Uh… field?”

“...Hrm. She doesn’t know?” Reaper, or Mr Reyes, directed this to Shockwave.

Shockwave nodded curtly. “We are here about that.”

“Right. Well, Waller will see you know.”

Behind them, a door opened. In between explanations about the people they had met (‘Miss Quinn used to be a fearsome villain, but reformed after rethinking a very bad relationship she was in’ ‘Mister Reyes helped found our group here, he was once human but was empowered a long time ago, and made contact with some strange entity that was interested in this whole affair; Zarathos, I believe was the name of it’ and ‘Miss Lacroix; a custom made clone series designed to be physically perfect superhuman soldiers, she was programmed for assassination but once she was freed of it, she sought to make amends), Shockwave gave her some quick instructions.

“Be polite, don’t waste time, and don’t mess about. Miss Waller does not approve of that. But be honest, even rude, and she might approve. Just don’t lie to her, she will know.”

“Okay,” Ranamon said, more confused than ever.

“And bear in mind. If you choose to walk away, no harm will come to you. You will return to where you were, just fine, no harm done to you, but you will have the memory… ah, removed. To be safe, you see.”

“Seems fair,” Ranamon said, in a bit of a daze.

She expected to see an ominous and foreboding figure, perhaps a demonic entity of some sort, but it was nothing more unusual than a robust and heavily built human woman. Dark-skinned, broad featured, her hair cut closely to her scalp, every inch a consummate professional.

Her broad expression was grim, even dour. “Ranamon, I believe,” she said curtly, as Shockwave stood there politely. “Please. Feel free to sit down.” She glanced up, expression softened slightly. “Senator. Feel free to sit, or transform into a more comfortable position.”

He shifted mode into his flight form, laying down on the ground contentedly. “Thank you, ma’am.”

“Very good. Now, Ranamon.” She went through a heavy dossier, and put it on the table in front of her. “Take it, if you wish.”

Ranamon did so, nervously. “What is it…?”

“Your life, in fact.”

Ranamon opened it. A word right from her thoughts was on the top of a page: ‘I’m so tired of feeling like… nothing.’ “What the heck!?”

Ranamon rifled through it, Miss Waller studying her without any apparent expression.

Ranamon read from the beginning, for it detailed her early life as an In-Training Digimon and Baby. Then, the way her powers had mingled with the ancient force of the heroine AncientMermaidmon; her evolution into her current form, and the vast powers she had developed.

The dossier wasn’t general facts. It detailed her thoughts. Her memories were on open display here, her ideas, idle things they were, written down as plainly as text. Even cross-referenced with events that had led to her being affected by them, and other parts of the multiverse that criss-crossed and influence her own life, and how she affected it in turn…

She read onwards. To her joining the Cobalt Pirates… and her crimes as part of them.

Her growing dissatisfaction, her weariness, her emotional exhaustion. Her desire to be part of something better, to do something that mattered…

All of it so very detailed, precise and knowing. It was written in a way that she couldn’t argue with it, truth radiating from it like heat from a summer-day stone. It simply was. It would be foolish to dispute it.

“We are in contact with certain… shall we say, forces,” Miss Waller said calmly, perhaps aware of exactly what she was thinking. “That have an interest in the multiverse’s safety as a whole. Powerful entities that give us abilities, and information on people like you.”

“People like… me?”

“People who have done terrible things,” Waller said flatly. “Unforgivable, by many standards. And who want to do something better with themselves, all the same.”

Ranamon looked down, into her deep cleavage, for lack of anywhere else to look. That got her pretty good, she had to admit. “Yeah. Like me.”

“Yes.” Waller didn’t smile, but she did seem to approve. “You see, the powers who entrust this mission to me, and in turn approve all those whom Reyes and his allies scout out, can wash the board clean for you… so to speak. If you act in their name to make the multiverse a better place, to genuinely save it, and pull it back from the absolute mess it has become… then we can give you what you want most.”

Ranamon sat back, stunned.

Waller tilted her head. “It differs from person to person. A new start, for some. Perhaps you want a new life, somewhere in the multiverse, where you can start over, clean of your mistakes. Or maybe you want some troublesome curse removed. And maybe you just want nothing so materialistic, just an opportunity to fix things.” Shockwave radiated a bit at that. “And of course, there is always the option to remain with us, and be a part of an organization that wants to help and is equipped to do so.”

Ranamon stared blankly. “You want me to work for you? And I can… help people?”

“Help people? In a sense. You’d be helping the multiverse. Which is comprised of people so… it works out the same way.” Waller smirked faintly, crossing her fingers. “The conditions are simple. Work for us. Every mission you participate with turns the multiverse closer towards safety and long-term happiness for everyone. That, in turn, wipes away a bit of the debt you’ve accrued towards fate and whatever doom you may have visited upon yourself. Continue to do so, working for us in good faith, and eventually… all the evil you’ve done? You will have paid for it. If you can stick with us.” Her expression became cold. “Provided you are sincere. And believe me… we can tell.”

Ranamon gulped. “And… if I die?”

Waller smirked again. “Well. That might be a bit of an impediment. But we can work around that. It won’t slow us down, or you. Believe me.”

“...What would I have to do, if I joined you? Like, kill anyone!?”

“Perhaps. If they deserve to die. Or are evil enough.” Waller contemplated this. “Or if their deaths serve the multiverse as a whole. But we don’t do that sort of thing lightly. The tasks given to you are highly individual; hard to say exactly what will happen. I’d imagine something like what you have already done, but not for the sake of greed or just doing piracy.”

“Ah…” Ranamon thought about it.

Eventually, in very level tones, trying her hardest not to think about everything she might be leaving behind - all her friends, the comforts she was used to, but then was it even worth anything anymore? - she said, “Um. I have a question, miss.”

“Feel free. This is a recruitment interview. I’d be disappointed if you didn’t.”

Ranamon tilted her head. “You know in advance anything I might say, don’t you?”

Waller’s expression did not so much as twitch. Walls and stone had more emotion than she did. “I can’t see the future.”

“No, no, I don’t mean that. What I mean is… um.” She took a moment to gather her thoughts and the vague idea she had floating in the back of her mind. “Would you have reached out to me at all, if you weren’t absolutely sure I would probably say yes? On the spot?”

Waller stared at her for a moment longer. Her mouth twitched at one side, very slightly, in the manner of someone hiding a grim smile. “Well, well. You’re more perceptive than you let on.”

“Would you?” Ranamon pressed.

The human was silent, for a time, her expression not so much blank as refusing to admit even a hint of whatever she was thinking, or feeling.

Waller than spoke, and Ranamon was not at all exactly the most perceptive of Digimon but nonetheless she still felt a shiver go up her back, the watery portions of her body freezing solid and unfreezing so she could move. This woman, she sensed, was very dangerous, and when she spoke now, there was a sense that every word was being carefully chosen, weighed for effect, and deployed as strategically as a single well-placed shot.

It was impossible to say how much of anything Waller said was an honest truth, or what she believed Ranamon needed to hear.

Nevertheless. She was involved in some serious stuff right now.

“That depends entirely on who I invite down here,” Waller said. “Perhaps I would bring in a wildcard that would like to do the right thing more often than not, and I would hope for the best possible outcome. And as I’m sure you’ve been told, there are safeguards to protect us if that does not pan out. But… well. Known qunatities are the best possible option. I am always sure before I ask someone down here.”

Ranamon noted that this wasn’t really answering the question; at least, she would have preferred a more straightforward answer. But that was likely the best she would get, from the impression Waller gave off.

Ranamon smiled faintly. “Well… okay. I guess you know me better than I know myself.

“I’ll do it.” And Ranamon stuck her hand out.

Waller raised an eyebrow. “...Hrm. That was quick. You sure you wouldn’t rather have some time to think about it, at least? Not even a minute to consider the ups, the downs, the possible traps at play here?” Her tone was challenging, daring: go on, I wanna see what you’ll do.

“No.” As she said it, Ranamon felt… freed. Like anything bad from here on out honestly didn’t matter that much, compared to what she hoped could happen. If it was a trap or not… who cared? If anyone here was being honest or not, did it matter that much? This felt like a good thing she was getting into,

The first good thing she was doing in a long, long time.

“I’m in,” Ranamon said. “I’m joining up, I’m signing for it, I’m all yours. Okay? A chance to make something better and actually do something worth me?” Ranamon said, grinning. “Count me in.”

Waller stared at her a bit longer than was strictly necessary. Then she grinned. She shook Ranamon’s hand.

“Welcome to Task Force X, Ranamon,” Waller said, with pride.

#queued #this took a REALLY long time to do and im not entirely clear why #but then writing more serious things can be more difficult than comedic or lighthearted things #i was intending on writing some more stuff with Shockwave beforehand to be kind of foreshadowing for him and make it a bigger shock that he #was Good now from an in universe POV #but i figured i was waiting on posting this long enough #i actually had this done for a while #just being lazy i guess??#crossthicc AU #my writing #fics #digimon #ranamon #widowmaker #overwatch #task force x

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dorevenge · 3 years ago

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where ignorance is bliss - chapter 13: made us mellow

SUMMARY: Howard's plans for Project Brooklyn are stolen, and the gang reunites for one last ride. [AO3 LINK]

CHAPTERS: 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10 11 12 [13] 14 15 ☆

Having abandoned the arc reactor project, claiming the idea was “impossible in this era” and that he needed to be able to “synthesize a theoretical new element” to actualize it, Howard has buried himself in a new project. The guilt of having lost Captain Steve Rogers all those years ago in the first World War has weighed heavy on his shoulders for the last 40 years. I hear him on the phone often, late at night and early in the morning, with someone named “Fury.”

“I have to recreate Erskine’s formula,” he said. “It’s what he would have wanted. It’s what Steve would have wanted.” Howard wasn’t Howard without a current obsession – I just wish sometimes he would divert that energy into his relationship with his son. Tony is seventeen, rebellious and stubborn – just like Howard, and I feel like a single parent. At least I have Edwin. I don’t want to picture out household without Edwin.

Holidays and birthdays alike passed while Howard was locked away in his labs, researching. Always researching. He’d make the polite appearance before dismissing himself again, still mumbling about his legacy.

May 16, 1987 - Los Angeles, California, Stark Industries Headquarters

“You’ve got a bad habit of pissing off your business partners, Stark,” says Hank Pym over his sixth cup of coffee. His frown seems permanently etched into his face, the furrows in his brow deep.

“Are you saying that the Ant-Man can’t do this mission?” Howard counters. We were supposed to be at lunch by now, but yet another squabble has broken out.

“I’m saying the Ant-Man is not an action figure. He’s not to be brought out whenever S.H.I.E.L.D. decides it’s easier to throw decades of my hard work at a problem instead of their own men.” Hank finishes his coffee and sets the mug down. “I have been a loyal S.H.I.E.LD. partner since 1968, almost twenty years. I was more than happy to step up and try to fill in when Vanko fell through, and I am proud of the work we have done together, but I will not sacrifice my life’s work for your pride.”

Howard shakes his head. “It’s not just my pride here, Hank.” He falls silent.

“You won’t even tell me what you want me to risk my life to retrieve. I assume it’s your next big thing you’ve been working on by yourself every night, too coveting to tell the rest of your team what it is, too proud to ask for help. And now you’re scared it’ll be leaked, and you won’t get proper credit.”

Howard, now hunched over his desk, defeated, looks up. “It’s the serum. Someone stole my work on the serum.”

“What serum?”

“Project Rebirth. The super soldier serum. The magic mystery vial that gave Captain America his powers. I deciphered some of Erskine’s old notes; he had encrypted them through like four different languages. I’m having decent results on lab mice, and it can’t get into the wrong hands.” Howard’s voice is grave and cold.

Hank takes a seat, his anger lessening. “Why are you opening up Project Rebirth again?”

“As we were studying the Tesseract, I’ve kept getting these new ideas, new tests to try, and it just clicked. I’m tentatively rebooting it as Project Brooklyn as a tribute to Mr. America himself. This could change America again if I get this right.”

“And why didn’t you ask for help, Howard?”

Howard throws his hands up. “Why do I do anything? Hell if I know. The arc reactor became a pipe dream for the future, so I looked to the past. I spent years searching for Steve, scanning the ice, and I failed him over and over. He deserved better. I should have gone down in the Valkyrie, not him.” I hide my face in my hands when he says this, pained at the thought of never having met Howard. “But this is the way the cards played out. I owe it to Steve to make the future better. For the next generation of Americans, for the world, and for my son. Obadiah’s in Washington, you got your particles; I didn’t want to waste anyone else’s time in case it was just an old man’s fantasy, but I needed something to distract myself.”

Hank straightens up, his demeanor totally changed. “Do you have any leads on who might have stolen your work?”

“I have some blurry camera footage of a young woman taking out our security team. All four of them. By herself. I’d be willing to bet that she’s one of those Black Widows from Belarus, considering how she was flipping them around like they were ragdolls.”

“Those things are real? I mean, I’ve heard about the child assassins from Russia from Agent Carter’s stories, but I didn’t think they were still around.” Hank’s jaw hangs a little in surprise.

“Oh, they’re still around. They just keep getting better. She and I had a couple nasty encounters with one in particular, back in the day. And I’m willing to bet her successors are even worse than she is.”

Hank’s face twists as he goes deep in thought. “How are the men on the security team doing? Can they give us any details? Otherwise, we’d need to send some agents out right away before she hops on a plane, and we lose your work forever.”

“I don’t think they’ll be talking anytime soon. I-” Howard stops, then holds up a finger. “I’ll be right back.”

Howard gets up and runs to the door, turns on his heel to kiss me on the forehead, “Sorry, doll, we might have to reschedule lunch,” then leaves. He returns just a moment later with an old cardboard box and sets it heavily on top of his desk. It’s labeled “Strategic Scientific Reserve: March 4, 1942; Project Rebirth.” It’s yellowed from age, and a wave of dust flies out when Howard opens it.

“You know,” I suggest before they start rifling through the box, “I think there’s someone we should call.”

“Agent Carter, ma’am, it’s a pleasure to meet you.”

“Yes, Mr. Pym, I’ve met you before. A couple times, actually. I conducted your onboarding interview upon you joining S.H.I.E.L.D.” Peggy shakes Hank’s hand as he freezes in awe.

“That’s right. Sorry, ma’am.” Do I detect a blush on Hank’s cheeks?

“Howard,” Peggy says. “I think I know all the details. We’re chasing a Russian Black Widow who stole your work attempting to recreate Steve’s serum, without the permission of anyone else at S.H.I.E.L.D., who is mostly likely taking it back to Russia, our biggest threat at the moment, and you’re only just now telling us of its existence to cover your own ass. Is that right?”

I see Howard work up a smart reply, decide against it, hold his tongue, and instead respond with, “Hank already gave me a thorough tongue-lashing, Peg. I’m sorry. I thought the fewer people I asked for help, the fewer potential leaks. You can chew me out again once we retrieve the research, though, if that’ll make you feel better.”

Howard reaches into the Project Rebirth box he had retrieved. From it, he withdraws a small black box that reads “Vita-Ray Calibrated – Property of A. Erskine.”

“The Vita-Ray Detector. I used that after the implosion of the Roxxon Refinery to track down Van-Ert,” Peggy says. “But has Vita Radiation is only used once the serum has been injected to stabilize it.”

“Forty years ago, yes,” Howard replies as he goes through drawers and cabinets looking for something. “But I wanted to make something that would start working in the subject almost instantaneously, so I applied radiation to the samples multiple times throughout the manufacturing stages to stabilize. Found it!” He carries out what he’s found, a fan-like looking contraption. “The amplifier. The amount of Vita in the samples are very small, and the City of Angels is a lot bigger than it used to be. Let’s power it on… Bingo. We are ready to start Vita-hunting when you are, Peg.”

“Let me suit up. I’ll meet you outside,” Hank says excitedly.

“I suppose you and I shall need a driver,” Peggy says to Howard as Hank runs out the door. “You happen to employ a very good one, Howard.”

Howard smiles. “I’ll give Jarvis a call to pull the car around. I’m sure he’ll appreciate the excitement.” He grabs his coat from where it hung by the door, turns around, and sees me. “Maria.”

“I guess I should head home to relieve Edwin,” I say as he approached me.

“I’m sorry, doll. I… You’re not equipped to go out in the field, and I’d feel better knowing you were safe at home while we run around trying to catch this girl.”

“I could say the same thing about you, old man.” I am 52 now, the years racing past me, Howard a sprightly 70. Peggy is only four years younger than him, and Edwin older than all of us. “You can’t keep playing secret agent forever.” Howard hated the retirement word, but there was still a part of me that hoped I could convince him to retire and make him think it was his own idea.

Peggy leaves the room, announcing she’s called Edwin and she’ll meet him by the front doors.

“Maria, I gotta do right by the world and clean up my own messes.”

“How much longer do you plan to keep making these messes?”

“For as long as I can,” Howard says, and my heart sinks down to my stomach. “I feel like it’s my duty to invent everything I can think of, whatever I can, to make the future better. For Tony. For you.”

I straighten Howard’s collar and try not to look too upset. “Once you retrieve your research, make sure to pick up something for Tony’s birthday. He’s seventeen next week.”

“God, I don’t even know what seventeen-year-old boys want for their birthday. Do they still make Playboys?” Howard laughs at himself as I pretend to hit him on the side of the head.

“Just come home. I’m too old to be worrying about you being involved in high-speed car chases anymore.”

“Yes, dear.” Howard kisses me on the top of the head before leading the office and running outside. I hear Hank, Peggy, and Edwin greet him before the skidding of tires as they take off down the road.

Later that night, they all return for a celebration at the Stark Manor. Tony and I join them, and he tries hard to appear nonplussed about his father’s escapades; narrow turns, dodging bullets, close calls that lead to the four of them recovering only some of the research. They don’t spend much time on that last detail, instead opting to open more wine and more beer, focusing on how Howard screamed when he came face-to-face with the Black Widow agent. How’ll they proceed with the fallout of Russia getting their hands on some of the formula is tomorrow’s problem. For the first time in many years, the Stark household is full of people, laughter, and cheer.

If only Howard could keep a research partner for longer than just a few years without pissing them off.

Notes: It’s kind of implied in Black Widow (2021) that the Widows were injected with some form of the super soldier serum (aka why Natasha can take so many hits). Howard’s prototype of it is a nod to that.

#where ignorance is bliss #wiib reading #black widow #agent carter #howard stark #marvel #fanfiction #canary writes a fanfiction

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orbemnews · 4 years ago

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Why some Asian Americans are embracing their heritage by dropping their anglicized names This feature is part of CNN Style’s new series Hyphenated, which explores the complex issue of identity among minorities in the United States. Tshab Her grew up feeling like she lived a double life. Like many Asian Americans, the 29-year-old Hmong American artist was always switching between two names: an Asian name and her “American” name. Jennifer, her legal first name, was what teachers and employers called her, and what she used in “White spaces,” she said. But her middle name Tshab, which means “new” in the Hmong language, was what her family and close friends called her within their small community in Aurora, Illinois. The Hmong ethnic group is spread across China and Southeast Asia, but most Hmong Americans — like Her’s parents — are refugees from Laos who fled during the Vietnam War. “When I went as Jennifer, I felt like I was playing a role — this White-assimilated, American Dream type,” said Her, now based in Chicago. “Tshab and Jennifer were always at tension with each other … I felt like I was always living a different life as Jennifer, than who I wanted to be as Tshab.” There’s a long history of Asian Americans using Anglo or anglicized names — whether they adopted new White-sounding names like John or Jennifer, or changed the pronunciation or spelling of their original name to better suit English speakers. The practice was popularized in the 19th century due, in part, to fear in the face of intense racism and xenophobia. Tshab Her, a Hmong American artist whose work pays homage to her heritage and family. Credit: Tshab Her America has since undergone a cultural sea change. The past decade alone has seen surging demand for greater diversity, inclusion and representation. And as the national conversation shifts, many Asian Americans, including high-profile creatives and celebrities, are facing similar personal reckonings with their names. The list includes comedian and producer Hasan Minhaj, whose interview on the Ellen DeGeneres went viral when he corrected her on the pronunciation of his name; Marvel actress Chloe Bennet, who said she changed her surname from Wang because “Hollywood is racist”; and “Star Wars” actress Kelly Marie Tran, who called her family’s decision to adopt anglicized names “a literal erasure of culture.” After reflecting on her identity and how she presented herself, Her decided to drop Jennifer and go by Tshab when she started college. It felt empowering, she said — an affirmation of heritage, the Hmong language, and her parents’ journey to the United States in the ’70s and ’80s. Unbeknown to many Americans, Hmong soldiers were recruited by the CIA during the Vietnam War. They died by the thousands and were forced to flee when the US withdrew from Vietnam, essentially abandoning the ethnic group. To this day, the Hmong community is among the most marginalized Asian American groups. For Her, just existing under her Hmong name “creates space in itself” and pays tribute to her roots, she said. An artist, she also incorporates the journey from one name to another in her work, which celebrates Hmong history and iconography. One embroidery piece reads “It’s pronounced Cha,” while another reads “My name is Tshab, but the check is payable to Jennifer Her.” A history of violence and assimilation Asian Americans have been Anglicizing their names since the first major wave of immigrants in the late 1800s and into the 20th century — a practice also common among Jewish and European immigrants, according to the United States Citizenship and Immigration Services (USCIS). There are a number of reasons why, with the most basic being convenience. English speakers often had trouble pronouncing or spelling non-English names, and for many immigrants it was just easier to choose a new “American” name. There were financial motivations, too — immigrant business owners may have felt that an anglicized name would better appeal to customers. Over the years, USCIS archives have recorded countless such name changes from a Russian immigrant named Simhe Kohnovalsky who asked to become Sam Cohn in 1917, to a wartime refugee named Sokly Ny, who fled Cambodia in 1979 during the Khmer Rouge regime and renamed himself Don Bonus in California, inspired by a “bonus pack” of gum. Chinese immigrants play cards while waiting in the immigration offices at Ellis Island, US, around 1940-1950. Credit: Keystone-France/Gamma-Keystone/Getty Images Any change that might smooth their way to the American Dream was seen (by many immigrants) as a step in the right direction,” wrote Marian Smith, a former USCIS historian, in a 2005 essay, adding: “There were all kinds of reasons, political and practical, to take a new name.” But this seemingly eager pursuit of the American Dream doesn’t fully capture the dark realities immigrants faced. Asians in the US were often demonized, exploited and discriminated against from the moment they arrived. Assimilation — including the adoption of a new name — was seen a survival tactic. Early Chinese immigrants were lynched by mobs, and anti-Chinese sentiment was so strong that the US banned all immigration from China between 1882 and 1943. The fearmongering “Yellow Peril” ideology meanwhile depicted East Asians as dangerous invaders. An estimated 120,000 Japanese Americans — the majority of whom were US citizens — were forced into concentration camps during World War II. Asian men being interrogated by an immigration officer on February 2, 1951 in Brooklyn, New York. Credit: AFP/Getty Images An increasing number of Japanese Americans changed their personal names during wartime in order to “prove their patriotism and to reaffirm their American identities,” according to a 1999 paper in Names, a journal dedicated to onomastics (the study of names). “Makoto became Mac, and Isamu shrank to Sam.” Asians in the 19th and early 20th century were largely portrayed as “strange, but also inferior, dirty, uncivilized,” said Catherine Ceniza Choy, a professor of Asian American and Asian diaspora studies at the University of California, Berkeley. “(Back then) the desire to fit in is also about surviving an overtly racist, hostile society” that targeted “Asian difference.” In the period 1900 to 1930, about 86% of boys and 93% of girls born to immigrants (of all origins, not just of Asian heritage) had an “American name,” according to US census data analyzed in the journal Labour Economics. Now, a century later, it’s common for members of the third or fourth generation not to have an Asian name at all. The cost of sacrificing a name The nation and its racial tensions have evolved since then — but Asian and non-English names continue to be othered, treated as strange or used as cheap punchlines. In 2013, for instance, a TV station reporting on a deadly Asiana Airlines plane crash fell for a prank, and announced that the pilots included “Captain Sum Ting Wong” and “Ho Lee Fuk.” In 2016, the governor of Maine joked about a Chinese man named Chiu, pronouncing it with a fake sneeze. In 2020, a professor at Laney College asked a student, Phuc Bui Diem Nguyen, to Anglicize her Vietnamese name “to avoid embarrassment” because Phuc Bui “sounds like an insult in English.” The list goes on. Asian Americans have continued to proactively adapt their names, many citing ongoing forms of discrimination. Bennet, who started her acting career as Chloe Wang, spoke out about changing her surname on social media after being questioned about it in 2017. “Changing my last name doesn’t change the fact that my BLOOD is half Chinese, that I lived in China, speak Mandarin or that I was culturally raised both American and Chinese,” she wrote. “It means I had to pay my rent, and Hollywood is racist and wouldn’t cast me with a last name that made them uncomfortable.” Kelly Marie Tran poses with ‘Star Wars’ stormtroopers on the red carpet in London on December 18, 2019. Credit: Tolga Akmen/AFP/Getty Images Tran, the “Star Wars” actress, has also spoken publicly about the pain of assimilating. Growing up, she internalized racist narratives “that made my parents deem it necessary to abandon their real names and adopt American ones — Tony and Kay — so it was easier for others to pronounce, a literal erasure of culture that still has me aching to the core,” she wrote in the New York Times, before declaring, “You might know me as Kelly … My real name is Loan.” Their public testimonies are part of a growing conversation about the potential psychological toll of adapting or compromising your birth name. Names aren’t just an arbitrary collection of letters and sounds; for Asian Americans, who often juggle multiple languages, cultures and socioethnic circles, a name can encompass various elements of identity. Tanaïs, a Bengali-American novelist and owner of a beauty and fragrance brand. Credit: Max Cohen For instance, Tanaïs, a Bengali American novelist and owner of a beauty and fragrance brand, was born with the name Tanwi Nandini Islam. Tanaïs, 38, uses they and them pronouns. Their parents, who had immigrated to the US from Bangladesh, chose their birth name carefully; “Tanwi” has various meanings in Sanskrit, including a blade of grass. “Nandini” means daughter, and is another name for the goddess Durga. And “Islam,” which also reflects their family’s Muslim background, means peace. Tanaïs, the name they go by today, is the combination of the first two letters of the three names. “To have a name that holds all these cultural meanings, is very powerful,” they said. “I am all of those things, from my ancestors to where I am now.” But during childhood, nobody knew how to say “Tanwi,” or put any real effort into learning, they said. Tanaïs does not even remember teachers saying their name out loud, with a first grade teacher declaring that “Tanwi” was too hard to pronounce and using Tony instead. “I was Tony for the whole year. I hated it, it wasn’t my name,” said Tanaïs. “I remember being very unhappy — I felt misunderstood. I felt misgendered because it sounded like a boy’s name to me.” To accidentally bungle someone’s name upon introduction can be an innocent mistake. But to deliberately dismiss their name as too strange or complicated to attempt, like Tanaïs’ teacher did, sends the message that “you don’t matter, you don’t belong,” said Choy, the UC Berkeley professor. “The consistent mispronunciation or misspelling of one’s Asian name — questions and requests for you to simplify or change your name — do take a toll on one’s individual psyche,” she said. “Names reflect your presence, your being, your history. When people constantly do that, they’re not acknowledging you — as a person, as a human being.” Research has reinforced just how pervasive this problem is. A 2018 survey of Chinese students in the US found that the “adoption of an Anglo name was associated with lower levels of self-esteem, which further predicted lower levels of health and well-being.” However, the study cautioned that it could be a case of correlation, not causation — for instance, people who already have higher self-esteem could be more reluctant to change their names, and less influenced by stigma. Another survey of ethnic minority students, conducted by California researchers in 2012, concluded that “many students of color have encountered cultural disrespect within their K-12 education in regards to their names … When a child goes to school and their name is mispronounced or changed, it can negate the thought, care and significance of the name, and thus the identity of the child.” Minhaj, the comedian and producer, called out Anglo-centric hypocrisy surrounding names during a segment on “The Ellen DeGeneres Show,” where he corrected the host on the pronunciation of his name. “When I first started doing comedy, people were like, ‘You should change your name,'” he went on to explain. “And I’m like, I’m not going to change my name. If you can pronounce Ansel Elgort, you can pronounce Hasan Minhaj.” A reclamation of heritage There are, however, signs of gradual change. The number of people adopting new names fell in the late 20th century, said Smith, the former USCIS historian. This was partly due to the emergence of automated systems, like those used to register drivers’ licenses, that are designed for just one legal name. But social change was likely a bigger factor, she said. “While the economic, legal, systemic pressure to maintain one name grew, social pressure to Americanize names also lessened as more Americans embraced cultural pluralism or multiculturalist views,” Smith said in an email. We see this cultural shift in how people respond to instances of discrimination or xenophobia. Things that previously may have flown under the radar are now being called out, loudly and publicly. For instance, the writer Jeanne Phillips sparked intense outrage in 2018 when she encouraged parents not to give their children “foreign names” on her syndicated column Dear Abby, adding that they can sound “grating in English.” Furious parents and minority commentators argued she was perpetuating racist and assimilationist narratives, in a controversy that made national headlines. The Laney College professor who asked a Vietnamese student to Anglicize her name also faced widespread backlash and was placed on administrative leave. Demonstrators gather for a rally against anti-Asian racism and violence on March 13, 2021 in Seattle, Washington. Credit: David Ryder/Getty Images In March, the Atlanta spa shootings that killed eight people — six of whom were Asian women — reignited similar conversations. After several news outlets released abridged or inaccurate versions of the victims’ names, furious and grieving Asian Americans spoke out online about the racist treatment of their names amid a wave of anti-Asian violence and hate crimes. “PLEASE STOP BUTCHERING THE VICTIMS’ NAMES,” tweeted Michelle Kim, co-founder of Awaken, an organization that runs diversity and inclusion workshops. “These might be small inconveniences to people. But our names are our IDENTITY. It’s our HERITAGE. It’s what we have left that remind us WHO WE ARE. WHERE WE COME FROM.” These recent controversies are a reminder of how much work is left to be done — but also show that minority groups, and wider society, are redefining the norms of what is acceptable and what needs to be held accountable. It reflects an increasingly multicultural context — a shift that has resulted from broader changes around the world like globalization and a reshuffling of power. “Going as Tshab was an act of resistance… That was the start of me resisting this Whiteness of American culture that was forced on me.” Tshab Her Some Asian countries have become major political and economic players in recent decades, and have also wielded influence in the form of soft power. Bollywood, K-pop, anime and other aspects of Asian pop culture, for example, have gained legions of fans worldwide. And in the US, immigration policies in the late 20th century have allowed the Asian American population to increase exponentially, said Choy. “That’s just such a different social context to be in, compared to the way it was in the ’50s, ’60s, ’70s,” she said, adding that technological advances and globalization mean the “dominance of Anglo-American culture” is now “lessened.” This new chapter is reflected in the growing demand for greater diversity across nearly every sector: entertainment, politics, food, education and more. And among young Asian Americans, there is also an increasing awareness of what their immigrant parents or grandparents had to give up to survive — a “realization that there is a loss of heritage and culture from the Asian home country,” said Choy. For some, this realization can spark a desire to get back what was lost. By studying their parents’ or grandparents’ first language, for instance. Others might visit their ancestral homes to reconnect with their culture. Tshab Her’s work “Returning,” is inspired by the first time her parents traveled back to Laos since they immigrated to the United States as refugees. Credit: Tshab Her For Her, embracing her Hmong name has become a way to assert her heritage. “Going as Tshab was an act of resistance,” she said. “I just want to be who I am, and who I am is Tshab, not (Jennifer). That was the start of me resisting this Whiteness of American culture that was forced on me. “I think, for me, it’s natural for me to feel like I am connected to my parents or my ancestors, going more as Tshab, and not wanting to forget where I come from, where my family (are from) and what the Hmong people have gone through.” Top image: A piece of embroidery by Hmong American artist Tshab Her. Source link Orbem News #Americans #anglicized #Asian #dropping #Embracing #Heritage #Names

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sadbeautiful-tragic · 5 years ago

Text

All Too Well

Pairing: Maria Menounos / Derek Hough

Rating: T

Word Count: 7230

Summary: Almost a decade has passed since they met, and with it has come boundless changes. Does love conquer all? Is timing the true test?

A/N: It has been yeaaars since I last wrote menough. So much has happened in Maria and Derek’s lives. My heart still aches over its tragic rupture. And I will never, ever get over it. I learned this while writing and reengaging myself in their gradual departure (although I’m sure they still talk casually, just not as much as before). But anyway, here’s a menough fic. Even though the fandom has disappeared, writing this was a great way to release my emotions into a story and I hope even non-shippers or non-watchers appreciate it.

For you all interested in reading even without being acquainted with menough; or for those who would like a refresher on the untouchable chemistry that was Maria Menounos and Derek Hough, I (re)introduce you to the tributes I had made years ago. I believe watching at least one or two of them before reading will make you feel more wrapped up in the story. (1) (2) (3) (4) (5)

Finally (sorry these notes are so long), I have sort of a songfic section written into this fic. I insist with my entire being that when it comes to that part that you pull up the song and listen to it with accordance to how it is written in the fic. I recommend having the fic side by side with the song. Or if you are reading on the app, pull up spotify and click play when you’re ready. Otherwise the lyrics I had included will seem like empty words which is not the way I intended them to feel like.

Francois Klark - Please Stay

Thank youuuu and enjoy!

_______________________________

“So, it’s really her, huh. The brunette beauty. The woman you met through dance.”

“Absolutely, I couldn’t be more sure of it.” Derek beamed as he and his best friend looked over at their women standing and laughing on the balcony together.

The night was almost like a peek into the rest of their lives as a foursome: the women were off chatting about their outfits for the engagement party while the men were discussing their childhoods. Derek and Mark were in their hometown in London which had brought back a lot of memories. And just three hours ago, the blond had proposed to the love of his life.

The four of them had celebrated over dinner and now the two long term best friends were sitting at the round dining table in Derek’s hotel room.

“When we were here as kids,” Derek smiled, a glow in his eyes, “I couldn’t have imagined us being so lucky. I don’t know what I did to deserve her. But I’m so glad I do.”

Just then, the infamous brunette beauty walked over to Derek while the other woman walked over to Mark. Derek grabbed the brunette’s hand and kissed it. “Your hand looks even more beautiful with the ring on it.” He raised an eyebrow to her and they both laughed.

She leaned her forehead against his and giggled against his lips.

“I love you so much, Hayley. I’ve never been happier in my entire life.”

“You mean that?”

Derek hummed with happiness against her lips. “Couldn’t mean it more.”

Mark and Derek had both decided to marry someone who shared the same lifestyle as them. Values, interests, hobbies, aspirations all matched their partners’. The two couples served to disprove the idea that opposites attract.

“Ok, ok, ok lovebirds. We need to get to sleep or we aren’t going to catch the plane in the morning.” BC Jean grabbed Mark’s hand and helped her husband up. “See you at breakfast tomorrow. 7am?” They nodded. “Awesome,” she said succinctly, grabbing her purse. “I really am stoked for your happiness, but it’s about time I got some action of my own.”

“Oh really?” Mark cocked an eyebrow, reaching to wrap his arms around her.

“Fuck no,” she responded bluntly, slapping his arm away. “I’m exhausted. It’s an hour past my bedtime.”

Mark rolled his eyes and laughed. They had definitely been married for too long; the honeymoon phase had far ended. He took his wife’s hand and led them to the door. They said goodbye to the newly engaged couple and walked back to their suite across the hall.

_______________________________

“You could have said no like all the other times.”

“It isn’t that easy.”

“And that’s what makes this thing between us so hard.”

Going into the closet, her fingers traced the outline of an intricately detailed wedding dress hanging for all to see. It was on a mannequin that stood at the far wall of her closet. Surrounding it hung picture frames of the brunette modeling the dress at her wedding. A magical night indeed.

The night when her parents’ dream had come true.

Known for throwing some of the best parties in Hollywood, Maria knew her wedding, though intimate, needed to be the wedding of the decade. It definitely had not come short of extraordinary. The event, by requirement, took place in Greece and centered around not only her heritage but most importantly her family. Her parents, after all, had been the ones who had especially pushed her to get married.

At the back of her mind, Maria always wondered the importance of marriage. She acknowledged some people did it for things such as insurance or tax deductions, but she knew the financial aspect of life was no issue for her. She had questioned, decades into a relationship, how important it was to have the government check mark yet another married couple. After all, what about common law marriage? Yet, her Greek heritage and her parents whom she loved more than anything else in the world thought otherwise. And for her parents, she would do anything. Besides, why not throw the biggest party of your life and look flawless doing it? As an added bonus, Maria had understood how nice it would be for the tabloids to lay off the constant pestering once the question was settled once and for all.

Yes, annoying magazine, after 19 years, we finally tied the knot. I told you I loved him.

That magical day, Maria had been dressed head to toe in nothing but glam. Her hair was in an updo and she had been decorated with an off the shoulder silk dress with hand-painted flowers and a veil made from silk tulle. It held a slight difference to the dress she had worn for the first ceremony that had taken place on New Year's Eve. That dress, slightly girlier, had been a Pronovias' lace "Randala" wedding dress. It had a mermaid silhouette and lace long sleeves. Each dress was now worn on separate mannequins, located beside each other.

Throughout her wedding night, attention was drawn on her, as family and friends joined her to celebrate her special day. And yet, every now and then, she had stolen glances at the venue door, waiting, wondering if the two people she was most anxious to see would eventually arrive. She remembered feeling bad because she’d be mid-conversation, mid chaste kiss with her new husband, the other end of the interaction asking if she was okay as her eyes remained searching the door for any glimmer of hope. She would respond, yes, of course, “I’m married to a man who loves me,” but the people she really wanted by her side never came. And neither did the truth in her response.

Maria knew despite all odds, she would say her vows to Keven. She knew she would live the rest of her life in the dream mansion with her dogs, her parents, and her business partner. After everything her parents had gone through, she knew stability was key. She knew she was living and helping her parents live the life they had always dreamed for her. She knew she needed Keven by her side to continue to let that happen.

Similarly, she knew the amount of joy Derek brought to her life. A kind of joy she once didn’t think existed. She knew the way a simple touch of his hand would send goosebumps rising all over her body. She knew of the taste of both his gentle and passionate kisses and how breathless both would make her feel. She knew how instant their chemistry was the second they met, how open and welcoming each of their families were of the other person, and how unbelievable it was the two of them could somehow cycle through all the vital aspects of a relationship. She knew she could be goofy and literally roll on the floor laughing with Derek; she knew how fast a simple peck on the forehead could lead to them goofily wrestling and within minutes begin fighting off the urge to tear the other’s clothes off; she knew how after a stressful night, the one person that could make her smile and put her back together with an arm around the waist and soft words of reassurance in her ear was Derek.

She also knew she shouldn’t have strung him along for years. She knew she shouldn’t have let him find out through a live interview that she had accepted another man’s proposal; however, she knew that if she had told him, she wouldn’t have been able to handle the broken heart on both ends of the… friendship.

She had broken his heart and consequently betrayed one of her best friends, his sister.

Of course the two of them didn’t go to her wedding.

Although she had tried to convince herself there could be a slight chance they may want to go, it was just a fool’s wish.

That, she knew too.

Maria smiled sadly, a breath falling out as she rummaged further into her closet. She swiped her fingers across the different sections of her capacious closet, passing through casuals, evening wear, business casual, gala wear, and then finally event costumes. She felt a lump form in her throat and she subconsciously gulped. She unzipped the black clothing protectors that had been shielding both dresses. Maria had saved two important costumes from her Dancing with the Stars days: her rumba dress and her paso outfit. The latter had been salvaged as their paso was the season’s first 30 and the dance and its theatrics had been one of her favorites. Her rumba dress, however, held a different meaning to her.

The first time we kissed.

Unlike what America and even their castmates had believed, however, that first kiss wasn’t during the live performance. No, it was actually an accident during their dress rehearsal. Derek had intended to quickly mock a kiss on her forehead, but when pulling himself down, his lips had, like a magnet, locked onto hers. When that happened, Maria, for the first time in fourteen years, felt her heart skip a beat. She felt her stomach tie in knots and her body flush red. And she knew he felt it too.

It was a mental thing. Since the moment they met, they knew what each other thought or felt and somehow managed to understand what the other needed in times of extreme stress. Maria had never felt so naturally connected with someone before. Most of the time they had been laughing or goofing off but when things got serious, the other person always knew exactly what to do to help the other person cool off. Simultaneously, they knew just the right thing to say to make the other person blush or cause a shiver to fall down their spine.

And as Maria had exited the dress rehearsal that morning and felt a hand find its way into hers to pull her in, she knew Derek was going to do it yet again.

They were in a dark corner backstage, away from cameras and other cast members. Derek’s back was against the wall and there was sweat across his forehead from the routine.

“Hey, I’m sorry about what happened back there, I must have gotten distracted and slipped up.”

Though she had been listening, Maria realized she had been staring at his lips and forced herself to shift her gaze to his eyes. She simply chuckled in response.

Derek smiled at her laugh. “What’s so funny?

For a moment, Maria didn’t say anything as she looked back down at his lips. Her arms wrapped around his neck, she pressed her body against his. “You’re cute when you do that.”

“Do what?” Derek questioned again, relishing in the feeling that Maria’s touch brought him.

“Excuse what happened by saying that you ‘slipped up.’”

Derek looked like he wanted to refute her response but couldn’t find a justifiable answer.

“You were caught up in the moment.” Maria said matter-of-factly as she began stroking circles on the back of his neck; a few seconds later, she felt as Derek gulped down nerves. She smiled brighter, noticing the effect she was having on him. Maria then moved her hand to run her thumb against the corner of his lip, rubbing off remnants of her lipstick. “It’s okay,” she responded when Derek had remained silent. By this point both of their faces had faded red. “I was too.”

Derek smiled slightly, his eyes subconsciously falling down to her lips and then back into her eyes. “Let’s, uh, let's just do it how we rehearsed, alright?”

Maria noticed the shakiness in his voice and she smiled. Derek sensed a sort of mischief behind it but blamed the suspicion on the sudden acceleration of his heartbeat.

Maria had done the dance just as they had rehearsed – dress rehearsal version. An act which had led America to wonder for the rest of the season if they’d ever be together. During the live dance, she had intensified her movements, nudging Derek even more to “unintentionally” kiss Maria during the reenactment. Why not? She had simply followed the directions of her dance instructor.

_______________________________

Julianne was sitting on the balcony alone, sipping red wine from her glass every now and then. After saying her hellos to the other party guests and watching the surprise first dance between the newly engaged couple, she had escaped to the balcony. A lot had been running through her mind since she had received the news. Recently, she had been having marital issues with her husband. Though she knew she’d always love him, recently she had been questioning the meaning of love. She used to be a hopeless romantic and had once believed in soulmates but for the past few months she had been reexamining the significance behind marriage. Maybe, just maybe, it was just a social construct forcing two people to commit to each other.

Suddenly, Julianne heard a knock on the sliding door, bringing her out of her thoughts.

“Hey hun,” she heard a voice. Instantly, she realized it was her soon-to-be sister in law.

“Hey Hayley,” Julianne smiled softly at the younger woman.

“What are you doing out here alone?”

A question Julianne had been hearing a lot lately.

“I just wanted to get away from the noise for a moment.”

A half-lie.

While Julianne always found herself searching for solitude, especially in recent times, the party had reminded her of back when she and Brooks were at their own engagement party, the time in which they were their happiest. The constant reminder and endless display of love had caused her to need a break from the restlessness.

“Brooks couldn’t make it, huh?” Hayley asked as she sat down in front of Julianne.

“Yeah, he’s out of town for the weekend.”

A full lie.

Truth was, Julianne hadn’t even invited him. They had remained in touch and contacted each other on a daily basis, but they’d been living separately for the past few months. It was only for the time-being so they could work on their relationship. Of course, she had updated him on the engagement news, but she hadn’t even thought of asking him if he’d like to go to the party with her. She already knew the answer.

Hayley adjusted herself in her seat as she looked down at her glass, nervously swirling her champagne around. She had examined Julianne for a moment, knowing something was off. But she didn’t know what it was.

“Are you okay?” Hayley asked, concern clear in her voice.

Surprised by the sudden question, Julianne finally gave Hayley her full attention.

“I mean, I know things have been hard on you recently. You know you can tell me anything or vent to me. Or, you can let me in on something embarrassing from Derek’s childhood,” Hayley joked with a small smile. They both recognized she was trying to ease the tension in the room.

Hayley’s last sentence caused a genuine smile to rise on Julianne’s face. “I’m sure I’ve told you the best stories already, but it’s nice that I now have the rest of our lives to tell you everything.” They shared a laugh. After a moment, Julianne finally admitted, “It’s been tough recently, but Brooks and I… we’re working through things. At the end of the day, we know we love each other. Sometimes that’s all that really matters, yknow?” Julianne smiled softly at her words, meaning them wholeheartedly.

Julianne wanted to add in how much she missed her dogs – the true loves of her life – but everyone already knew that. Plus, mentioning or even thinking about her loss shattered her to pieces. Losing them truly broke her world more than she could have ever imagined. She wished she had her old best friend with her to mourn with her; the one person who loved dogs just as much as she, if not more. Her former friend constantly crossed her mind, especially recently, and Julianne wondered if the woman missed her as much as she did.

Hayley reached over and patted Julianne’s hand. “Y’know what, Jules?” She looked up from their hands and back at the blonde. “I’m fortunate to soon be able to really call you my sister.”

Julianne grinned at that. “Ditto,” she winked back.

They sat in silence for a moment – a happier, more peaceful silence. Julianne sipped on her glass of red wine as they stared off into the night sky. It was 10pm and the only light that hit the sky was from the glow of the stars.

Eventually, Hayley looked over at Julianne again. She hesitated, Julianne noticed, before she admitted, “You know… I used to think you weren’t a huge fan of me.”

Julianne laughed softly, seemingly forced. She was caught off guard by the accusation and turned her full body back to the brunette. “What do you mean?”

“I don’t know… You just, you used to seem so distant.”

Julianne winced at her words. She squinted, at a loss for her own. She scrambled her mind for a response to propitiate her but couldn’t find one.

“When we were on tour, everything seemed fine. We were all friends. But then the second the news hit that we were dating and we told everyone… something about you, about our friendship, it just sort of changed.”

Julianne closed her eyes for a second before looking back at the sky. She took her glass in hand and downed a big shot of it. She immediately missed the sense of peace they had shared just minutes earlier.

“I’m just overprotective.”

Hayley shot her a look.

Wrong, try again.

“I just didn’t want to see him hurt again.”

Not quite, try again.

Julianne looked over at Hayley and let out a deep breath. Her eyes found those of the newly engaged woman and she found solace. “Truth is,” Julianne paused, mulling her words over for a moment, “Derek has entered certain relationships and there have been times I think, ‘oh wow, this woman really is the one.’ I befriend her, we get along, she fits in the family, and then Derek gets left in the dust. It’s hard, seeing him get his hopes all tied up in a knot only to be left for someone else.”

Hayley gave her a look of complete empathy, not only for Julianne but for her fiancé. She didn’t mind hearing about Derek’s past. She was just happy to know she was finally receiving the truth.

Julianne eyed Hayley for assurance that she could continue. “And when that bond is broken and they don’t speak at all anymore, it’s a bit selfish on my part I guess, but I for one am not only losing the ability to see my brother happy but I lose a best friend too.” Julianne returned Hayley’s earlier gesture and patted her hand in return. “I do give him credit, though. Each new girl he became serious with was always better than the last. Of course, that only made me more curious about the new girl and whether she would meet the level that his prior relationship had.” Julianne smiled reassuringly at Hayley. “I didn’t want to see your friendship with him break, and I didn’t want to lose a friend. But after a year or two and seeing you guys in love and engaged, I truly am happy for you guys. You’re everything he ever needed.”

Hayley grinned at Julianne as a thank you for her honesty. She found relief from her words; the happiness she felt from what she had just said was radiating off of her. She then looked past the sliding door, the two of them suddenly remembering the rest of the party. An even brighter smile came onto Hayley’s face just then. Julianne felt a small one rise on hers as she watched her friend meet the eyes of her brother; the brunette winked and her fiancé smiled. Somehow, Julianne thought, even years later, there was still a slight tint of red that had fallen on her tan cheeks.

_______________________________

Once the engagement party was over, Hayley and Derek began getting ready for bed. It had been nice to see their closest family and friends gathered together to celebrate them and they were excited knowing it was only a preview for their wedding. They planned to have the ceremony within a few years, but they were in no rush to jump into things. Both valued the excitement of each day and acknowledged that the small moments mattered just as the big.

Still, Hayley was eager to start planning and had actually begun the night Derek had proposed. A romantic at heart, she wanted to have the fairytale wedding she had dreamed of since she was a little girl.

“Hey Derek,” Hayley started, looking through their desk. “Have you seen my journal?”

Derek was in their master bathroom, shaving. Shaving cream covered the lower part of his face as he turned to look at Hayley. “Can’t find it?”

She looked at him and shook his head before continuing to search.

“Uh, hey Der,” Hayley began again, but a bit more hesitantly. Her fingers slid down a 24” silver pendant. “What‘s this key for?” she asked, referring to the diamond encrusted key dangling from the chain.

Derek stopped in his tracks when he saw what she was talking about. He became silent. Hayley had access to just about everything Derek owned, so it was out of the ordinary for Hayley to find something she didn’t know about. “It’s just an old thing, it doesn’t really have a use anymore,” he shrugged off.

Hayley studied Derek knowing something was off about him. She thought she knew him better than anyone else did which also meant she knew he wouldn’t be giving her any answers right at that moment. She would simply have to ask him later. She then went back to examining the necklace, knowing it didn’t belong to Derek. “Well, it’s beautiful,” she murmured under her breath.

_______________________________

After her talk with Hayley, Julianne realized she needed to do more than just think things through. And she knew just where to start.

A few days after the party, Julianne was sitting in her bedroom, alone as usual, no dogs, no husband. She was staring at her wall, trying to build the courage to go through with her plan. After a moment, she grabbed her phone and searched through her contact list. She hesitated, but with the help of two glasses of wine, she had been able to finally call Maria.

A week later, Julianne and Maria met up. It was 9pm and after having dinner, they decided to take a walk. For dinner, they chose to grab burgers and beer: Maria’s favorite. When Julianne brought up the idea, Maria had initially turned it down, insisting that Julianne pick as she knew she was the one who had the making up to do. Julianne still persisted, and Maria decided to even the deal by volunteering to pay for both of their meals.

It was dark outside and they were being guided by the streetlights. They had been walking for ten minutes, talking about anything and everything. They loved being able to finally catch up on each other’s lives.

Eventually there was a short silence and Julianne looked over at her friend. Spending quality time with the journalist for the first time in years gave her a sense of comfort she hadn’t felt in weeks.

“Maria?” Julianne murmured softly.

“Mhm?”

“Thank you for agreeing to spend time with me.”

Maria smiled. “No, thank you for inviting me.” Maria teasingly nudged Julianne’s shoulder with her own. “It’s been nice to get out of the house. I really missed you.”

Julianne grinned in response. “I missed you too.” Part of her wanted to admit that she wished she had reached out to her sooner, but she decided otherwise.

All night they had managed to avoid talking about the falling-out between Maria and Derek. Maria was surprised Julianne hadn’t brought it up; thinking that was why she had invited her, she had even gone through a few lines in her head to prepare for the conversation. She had been on edge all night, expecting one of them to bring up the subject—but nothing.

While they continued walking, Maria's eyes eventually landed on Julianne’s finger. Since the moment she saw her that night, Maria had sensed something may have happened, but the sight of a missing ring confirmed it. “I can tell you don’t want to talk about it,” Julianne looked at her, first confused and then stunned, “but I’m always here if you ever need me.

Maria could always tell what was on Julianne’s mind. She understood what to say and when without pushing it too far too early. Julianne realized that even with Maria and Derek not being on the best terms, Maria was still going to be there for her, always. Their friendship wasn’t and had never been conditional on Maria and Derek’s relationship. She then affirmed that maybe it was possible Maria could continue to be the honorary Hough.

Maria grabbed Julianne’s hand in comfort. “Also, my babies do miss you. The pups could use some Aunt Jules time.”

Julianne couldn’t help but smile. “Well, they are cute,” she giggled with Maria.

When Maria began looking around her again, a sudden sense of familiarity hit her.

“Jules… isn’t this—”

She was so distracted taking in her surroundings, she hadn’t noticed that Julianne had left her side and was now in front of her, against what looked like a hidden wall.

Julianne smiled. “Derek’s old apartment?” She pointed to her right, and nodded. Before Derek and Hayley became serious and moved in together, Derek had lived in the apartment and it hadn’t taken long for Maria to learn the code to it. They used to sneak inside for extended alone time, during and after their season ended. “But this, this is something separate.”

She pushed past branches just then and opened what had actually been a door.

Maria raised her eyebrows, surprised by the reveal. Julianne motioned her to go inside and she complied.

“Wow,” Maria said under her breath. The moment she entered the room, a chill crawled down her spine. Whoever said that weddings were the most beautiful settings were terribly mistaken.

This place was by far the most magical thing she had seen in her entire life.

This felt like home.

Maria had only taken a few steps in before becoming frozen in place. She was absolutely mesmerized. Maria’s eyes wandered the expansive space and quickly she could feel tears welling up in her eyes. The room was currently dark with string lights providing the only true light source. On the left and right walls lined all of her Dancing with the Stars costumes. There were speakers in the left and right corners of the wall closest to the corner door. In between, at the back wall, blue and pink, separated by purple, paint splatters were found. The mirror wall was on the far wall; above the mirror was a large neon light spelling the words “menough said.” In the left corner between the mirror and the barre were mannequins with the shirts Maria and Derek had designed that had the same phrase written on them. There was slight dust in the room, she had noticed. But it definitely didn’t distract from the captivating space.

Last but not least, behind the costumes hung framed pictures. Maria could feel a lump build in her throat as she realized that her wedding photos she had framed in her closet had never elicited this much emotion from her. There was a range of pictures of her and Derek goofing off in rehearsal, dancing on stage, from their trip to Las Vegas, and even from them just goofing off post-season at one of their houses.

“Julianne, you did all of this?” Maria’s voice cracked. She had walked to the right wall and was eyeing the picture of her and Derek eating burgers in New York. Pain struck through her heart from the simple memory of how perfect things had been during that trip. When they were able to be in their own little world, even for just a little bit.

“Still giving the other Hough all the credit, are you?”

Maria’s eyes widened. She froze again, her eyes glued to the frame. Part of her was terrified, anxious, to turn around, while the other part of her felt as if her heart had just jumped out of her chest and she was physically incapable of moving.

The voice was deeper. The scent, familiar.

She felt hands push her hair to her left shoulder before tying around her neck what felt like a necklace. The touch had caused her heart to skip a beat and chills to rise up her arms. The soul-stirring sensation couldn’t be mistaken.

“Derek…” she murmured more to herself than to the voice.

Maria closed her eyes for a moment and tried to catch her breath before turning around.

“Do you like your new dance studio?” Derek asked once his eyes met hers. He caught himself smiling at Maria; just like all those times before, it was helpless. Simply seeing her lifted his spirits.

Maria, still speechless, turned to look from Derek to his sister.

The night of the engagement party, Julianne had stayed the night in the guest room. As she went to grab a glass of water, she heard Derek and Hayley discussing the key and she had pulled Derek aside to talk about it. He had mentioned the idea to Julianne years ago but she hadn’t known he would go through with it.

Julianne realized this was the last time she could play matchmaker.

Julianne looked at Maria; she grinned and shrugged in response. “Coffee date, Monday, 8am. Don’t forget.” She winked at her friend, pressed play on the remote, and closed the door behind her.

Derek chuckled, looking down shyly before looking back at the beauty in front of him.

“I got this studio for you a few months after our season ended. I was thrilled that you were so passionate about dance and I wanted to think I was a part of that.”

Maria gazed deeply into his blue eyes, her own eyes glowing. She nodded slightly at his last words before he continued.

“I realized you could just add a studio to your house, but I thought it’d be nice for us to continue dancing together here, just for our own enjoyment.” He paused. “I mean, it’s been years and I know things didn’t quite go like how I had hoped and now we don’t really have a reason for privacy and you have your own personal instructor and…” He stopped, noticing he was rambling and upsetting himself with his own words.

Maria took a step forward. “Derek, this is—” Maria began, but her voice got interrupted by the music. She instantly recognized Julianne had chosen the song, Please Stay, by Francois Klark.

These four walls became a home

Since the day you walked in

She was ready to express how much the gift had meant to her. How it was genuinely the most beautiful thing she had ever seen — far surpassing any party she could ever throw, including her own wedding. How she could see how much time and thought he put into each little detail, details that not only meant everything to her, but for him as well.

But as they saw a matching twinkle in the other’s eyes, they knew that conversation could be saved for later.

My heart ceased to be alone

“Would you like to dance?” Derek asked, reaching out his hand.

Since the moment that you took my hand and

Maria could feel her heartbeat quicken, a flash of red hitting her cheeks. Her eyes were still wet with tears and she sniffed.

She took hold of his hand.

“Always.”

pulled me closer

Derek pulled Maria in close to him, his arms naturally falling around her waist, her arms around his neck.

He pressed his lips against her forehead, causing Maria to blush redder.

Kissed me unexpectedly

And told me it’s ‘cause you want me to know what I'd be missing

If I didn't call you back

They held each other and swayed to the music, cherishing the moment between them.

I picked up the phone,

How could I have known that one day I would be the one to say

Please stay, don’t go

I can't live inside these walls if it ain't you that I came home to

“This is nice,” Maria said softly.

“The studio?”

“Yes, but also…” Maria pulled back slightly so her eyes could meet his. “Just being here with you. I never thought I could miss someone as much as I missed you.”

“We still talk sometimes,” Derek replied, though perplexed by his own words.

Maria raised her eyebrows at him in disbelief and they both smirked. They both understood he was alluding to the very few social media interactions and how minimal meaning they held. Especially recently.

Maria lay her head on Derek’s shoulder. In his ear, she murmured, “You were my best friend, Derek.”

I don't think we will survive

“I know,” Derek whispered, reversing his earlier statement.

on just hello every now and then on a small screen

“I really missed my Greek Goddess.”

Hearing Derek call her by the nickname he had once coined caused Maria to smile softly.

I say goodnight when by you the morning rise

and another day will pass by

Derek dipped Maria and as she came back up, he found himself pressing his forehead against hers. “You always did bring a different light to my life.”

That I can't kiss you quietly

Like I used to when you came to bed,

Laid your head upon my chest

Instead I lie here on my own

Trying to forget that you already left

as my words echo in this empty bed

Please stay, don’t go

For the last few beats of the song, Derek decided to lead Maria through different moves from their Viennese Waltz. He was pleasantly surprised that she had remembered a lot of it. As they listened to the remainder of the song, they could feel their heartbeats rising with awe of its relevance.

I can't fall asleep without the shape of you that I fit into

Julianne knew just how to get to them.

I wish I met you at a different time

When neither one of us would have to go

Is it wrong of me to hope that someday we might meet again

And that our stars would realign

As the song came to a close, they remained in a tight embrace. Neither of them wanted the moment to end. Eventually, Derek kissed her cheek before pulling away and smiling softly at her. It was his turn to turn a bit red. He bit his lip; Maria looked as gorgeous as ever.

“Mar…” Derek breathed, looking down before looking back at Maria.

Please stay, don’t go.

Maria looked back at him expectantly.

Please stay, don’t go.

He wanted to tell her how beautiful she looked and the eruption of feelings that had returned to him; but instead he shook his head at the thought. “I’m really glad you like the studio and that I could be your first dance.”

Please stay, don’t go.

Maria let out a nervous giggle; the same one that Derek had fallen in love with all those years back. “Somehow you were a lot of my firsts,” she joked back, which caused him to turn redder. She smiled at that.

I can’t fall asleep without the shape of you that I fit into

Derek looked at her peacefully until his brain and the end of the song brought him back to reality. “I do have to go though,” he declared regretfully. “But let me know if you ever want a dance lesson or someone to grab a bite to eat with. I’m—” Derek stopped himself from casually saying the words “I’m your guy,” and instead revised it to, “I’m always a call away.”

Maria smiled and nodded, though sad their time had to be cut so quickly. She murmured a thank you and Derek turned and made his way for the door.

Maria watched as her former dance instructor walked one foot after the other to the door. Her fingers reached to the key dangling on her necklace. It took a moment but she worked up the courage to speak.

“And Derek?”

Derek stopped walking, a foot away from the door.

“I’ll be sure to be there.”

There was a short silence before Derek finally turned to look at Maria. He wore a look of absolute puzzlement.

“At your wedding. You know, if you decide to invite me.” Maria forced a small smile. Derek hadn’t told her he had gotten engaged. No one had. She just knew. Maria did know him better than anyone. No one would change that, at least. Not even his fiancée.

“That’s why you’re here, right?” she continued as she took a step forward and looked at the professional dancer. “You wanted to do the one last thing so you could move on.” Maria traced the edges of the key. She walked over to Derek. She looked into his eyes, hesitating before pressing her lips against his cheek. “Thank you. Not only for the dance studio. But for everything.”

Derek looked down and found his hand gravitating to hers. He couldn’t stop it even if he wanted to. There was a small silence where their eyes locked and they got lost in each other. It reminded them of when they were in the Dancing with the Stars studio, when everything was simpler yet not so simple; when they’d take a break from rehearsal, their hands interlaced together, when just gazing into each other’s eyes and grinning cheek to cheek had said more than words ever could.

“I… I have to go, she’s waiting in the car.” Derek shook his head at his inability to say Hayley’s name. He was too choked up.

Maria smiled. “I know.” She knew Derek wouldn’t have just snuck around with her. Of course he’d tell his true love everything. She rubbed her thumb against his. “I really am happy for you, Derek. You deserve someone who can love you with their entire being. Someone who would never leave you or have you guessing their next move or force you to lie to the universe about your love for her.” Maria released her hand from his. “You know… like I had you do.”

Derek closed the distance between them again. He felt tears well up in his eyes, a feat hard to accomplish. His lips curled into a small but sad smile as he pressed his lips to her forehead.

Without realizing it, Maria felt her hands clasp back behind Derek’s neck as she wrapped her arms around him, the same feeling of home returning to them both. She let out a breath she didn’t know she was holding, as Derek kept his forehead pressed against hers, his hands finding the small of her back.

Maria and Derek felt like they were taken back to 2012. They could feel their hearts beating in synchronization. Their hearts were throbbing, aching for more. Maria bit her lip as she found her eyes looking down at his lips.

Just like all those times before, Maria could feel the two of them moving, inch by inch, their stomachs twisting in knots as they felt their lips gravitating to each other.

Whatever it was, it felt right, Derek had once said about their rumba kiss.

Maria sighed against his lips and Derek felt his lips go dry.

Flashbacks of their rumba, salsa, rehearsals, argentine tango, trips to Vegas and NYC, and several moments outside of the show flashed through both of their minds. The oh-very-familiar tension between them was very present and they could feel their bodies preparing themselves for what was coming next.

However. Something happened that had never happened before.

Derek brushed his lips against Maria’s before decidedly forcing himself away. He kept his arms around Maria’s waist, not wanting to let go; Maria kept her head on his shoulder, trying to hold back the tears that threatened to escape. A few minutes passed between them as they took in what had just transpired.

Not once since they met had he turned Maria down.

Derek shut his eyes, trying to sort through the thoughts jumbling through his mind. He wanted to kiss her. After all these years, he still wanted to kiss her. Even when he was truly, deeply, happily, in love with his fiancée, he wanted nothing more than to kiss her.

But he couldn’t.

After a moment, Derek could feel Maria’s body shake slightly, followed by a small whimper. And then a sniff.

Derek raked his fingers through Maria’s hair in comfort. He rubbed circles across the small of her back as he whispered in her ear, “I love you, Maria. I always will.”

Maria stayed silent for a moment and Derek could swear he felt a tear drop onto his back.

He continued running his hand through her hair as he laid a gentle kiss on her shoulder.

“I’m always going to be in love with you, Derek Hough.”

It was at that moment that Maria realized for the first time why she had allowed herself to fall for Derek. She wasn’t in love with Keven. She had never been in love with Keven. She never wanted to be around or let her walls down or be as intimate with someone as much as she wanted to with Derek. All those years, Maria had been physically attached to Keven but her heart had always been elsewhere. The feelings and connection she had with Derek were irreplaceable, untouchable, unimaginable, unseeable with anyone else.

But Derek? Maria knew the one thing in the entire universe that stopped Derek from kissing her was the woman whom he had given the engagement ring to. He was truly and completely in love with Hayley Erbert. And once Derek hugged Maria long enough for her to stop weeping, he slowly let go of her, inch by inch: first the forehead, then the arm around the waist, and finally the hand she had long lost privilege to.

Please stay, don't go.

The lyric echoed, achingly, in her ear as if Julianne had pressed play again.

Maria watched it all fade away. The foreseeable future she had once dreamed of was now nothing but an unachievable dream. She didn’t know it until just then, but once Derek left and she was all alone in her own personal studio, she realized that she may have fulfilled the dreams her parents had long aspired for her, but her own personal dream, the one she valued the most, was now lost forever.

I can't live inside these walls if it ain't you that I came home to.

And she knew. She knew the only thing at fault was herself.

#maria menounos #derek hough #menough #menough said #dancing with the stars #dwts #fanfic #fanfiction #mine: fanfiction #mine #julianne hough #it literally hurt my heart writing this #i had to take multiple breaks just to recollect myself #i feel like i'm the only one whose heart will be broken reading this but stillll #also this is far longer than i had imagined i really had no idea where it was going to go at first #tbh it's sort of a combination of multiple random thoughts and ideas that ended up going well together i think

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laynemorgan · 8 years ago

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An Essay about LGBTQ+ representation and art, tied up with a bit of a tribute to Stephanie Rice.

I haven’t written something like this in quite a while. But I’ve been thinking a lot this past month about stories (even more than usual). So please be patient with all the caffeinated rambling I have to do here.

Needing to tell stories is something I have always known. There’s not a point in my life that I can look back on and not find in my younger self the intense will to put words and worlds, experiences and characters on paper. I’m sure this is a thing many artists and storytellers would say about their own lives. It’s the heart hammering, hand shaking need to find an outlet for experiences, passion, compassion and emotion that answers every “how did you know you wanted to do this” question with a “because I had to.”

Being gay is something that I haven’t always known. And yes, I can look back on my life and point to moments and insecurities and road bumps that came from having always been gay. But I haven’t always known. Knowing came later. Knowing came with combined fear and confidence and the ability to eventually shatter the brick walls I’d built to hold my shoulders upright, in order to look at myself more clearly. And then I knew, and now it’s as though I always have.

I spend a lot of time thinking about my experience coming out and the experiences of other LGBT people around me, and young kids who have come out and are coming out every day, either in quiet moments to themselves, or in one big fight with their families, or again and again each day to that Uber driver or that woman next to you on the plane, or your hair dresser who always asks who you’re dating. I spend a lot of time thinking about how that experience can be made easier, how kids can be received with more love, how we can better learn who we are before the years of self doubt. And no matter how much I think about anything, I am almost always brought back to the same two ways to fix anything. 1. Through giving and compassion and 2. Through art and stories.

With each generation in the LGBTQ community, the groundwork is laid for the ones that follow. From fighting for our right to live and be seen, to demonstrating that we’re just like everyone else, the generations before mine have laid a foundation that I am fortunate and humbled to stand on. In that light, I really and truly believe that it will be my generation that brings us alive, as a community, through art, that tells stories and writes songs so that generations after us can see themselves a little sooner, can look up to more than just a handful of queer artists, can grow up knowing and with families who know that there is no one normal, no cookie cutter sexuality, no right experience.

I have few memories of experiencing media that was specifically gay, growing up. But one of the clearest I do have is watching Pretty Little Liars with my mom. I grew up in liberal Massachusetts, outside Boston with loving, accepting parents. Even still, I can vividly remember a time when Emily, a then high school student on the show kissed her girlfriend and my mother explained that she just “didn’t like to see it” that it was fine and she had “nothing against it” but “she’s just a little girl” and she didn’t want to think about it. I’m sure my mom’s response wasn’t different from many others. So often, the world is okay with kids being queer but not okay with showing them a world of experiences like theirs beforehand. My mom is one of the most loving people I know and I tell this story with a fondness. She’s always been accepting of who I am. I’ve always been safe and supported. There’s a chance she doesn’t even remember this moment because she loves me for who I am. But when all is said and done those moments happen all the time and they pile up and they mean something. They mean something because there are young kids, across the country, across the world, in less loving houses, with less accepting parents, who don’t have the word for what they feel for years and years, who are sheltered from seeing Emily Fields kiss girls on TV, who watch their parents turn off movies if two boys are in love. Those kids hear song after song on the radio where girls sing about boys and boys sing about girls. They’re raised on fairytales and animated films about Princesses who marry Princes or don’t marry at all. They flounder, they search, they look for themselves here and there and everywhere and they come up empty handed. They come up with one song by a niche band that no one else listens to, or one sad lifetime movie about a woman’s dead gay son, or one lesbian on a TV show who inevitably ends up dead.

It’s my understanding that art is never meaningless. That culture and stories are what shape who we are, our worldview, our communities. It’s my understanding that when we diversify those stories we begin to change the world, stone by stone, kid by kid.

Often, I hear other LGBTQ people talk about not wanting to be defined by being gay or bi or trans. But the more I grapple with it and the more I exist in this world, living in LA, working in television, fighting for my chance to tell stories, the more I want to scream it. I’m gay. I’m gay. I’m gay. I’m gay. Because maybe if I yell it loud enough some kid will hear it and say “hey me too.” Because maybe if I pour that pride and pain and passion into my art it will reach their television some day, their home, their couch, and even if it doesn’t change their dad’s mind, it might make them feel less alone or give them the right words for the pain and passion that they feel.

I never watched The Voice before last year. I turned on season 11, at random, because I wanted to watch Alicia Keys be a coach. At some point, I stopped. It was fun but these aren’t the kind of shows that feel like they’re for me. They feel like they’re for corn fed, middle America, fighting over this pleasant looking man or that palatable country singer. And while I’m a creative who appreciates the rise and fall and hopes and dreams of other creatives as stories, these weren’t ones I was ever invested in. This year, I again turned the show on to watch season 12. Only to watch the auditions because those are fun and I get one more season with Alicia Keys. I remember the moment the show played Stephanie Rice’s backstory. I was watching it with one of my good friends. I remember we both perked up a little more when we saw her holding hands with her fiancée. I remember watching in an odd, baited breath silence as Stephanie began to tell her story and finding myself choking up just a little. For me, that emotional choked up feeling came from hearing things that I recognized, from watching her talk about the fear of disappointing her little sisters and knowing that exact same fear, to the same hands shaking, heart in your throat need to prove it’s alright, to make your way, to have your voice heard. Even as a person who has been out for years, an adult who is comfortable and confident in my sexuality, that feeling is still there. And as I watched it and watched her speak her truth and kiss another girl back stage I was reminded again that some kid, somewhere on a couch was going to see this, and feel that reliability, and feel seen and understood and not alone. I was driven again to keep fighting to tell my own stories.

There is something significant about pain and diversity and art that isn’t discussed enough. Art is universal and can be interpreted and understood and seen and heard and felt by anyone. But there is a rare and often overlooked feeling that comes when art feels like it understands you. When someone says words or shows an emotion that you can put your finger on and say you've felt. I stuck with the Voice after that. I watched specifically to follow Stephanie’s journey. For one, because she’s an incredibly talented artist, and for two, because I have a distinct understanding of how much harder that fight to make your way is.

Just a few nights ago I was driving, after my last day at my job in the Shannara Season 2 Writers Room, at about midnight down the freeway, and I was loudly singing along to Stevie Nicks with my windows down. On my reverse alphabetical order by artist itunes library, Stephanie Rice’s cover of White Flag comes right after Stevie Nicks’s Edge of Seventeen. So I’m driving and I’m singing and I know every damn word to Dido’s White Flag because I’ve heard it a hundred thousand times before and it was never even a song I cared about or liked. But I hadn’t heard this version that many times. Here I am, twenty-six years old, yelling at top volume in my car feeling my head get sort of swallowed and overcome and numbed by emotion as I do. Because when another gay woman sang that song, it changed. Because when another person fighting and dying to get their pain and emotion out of their chest sang that song, it changed. Because the emotion she sang with is emotion I know. Because suddenly yelling that I wouldn’t put my hands up and surrender became about something different. I can’t tell you what someone else meant by their song or their voice or their story. But I can tell you how it touched me personally. And I grinned like a damn idiot in my car because I felt a little stronger and a little prouder.

I’m in the process of writing a feature/novel package with the brilliant Dawson Schachter. It’s a romance between two women. And as we work on it we keep having to remind ourselves of the reality that these stories don’t get told often, that the market for them is smaller, that they have to be palatable to the big wigs that will look at them. And that is infuriating and compromising and fucks with every better angel and creative demon you have, let me tell you. That’s the ugly part people don’t talk about. That’s the reality of being an LGBTQ creator. Being too gay or too different or not gay enough, not sensational enough, being martyred to your community when you would love just a little less pressure today, knowing the pressure is the only way, being brave because anything else has never even been an option you were given, feeling like failure means letting down that kid who needs this story, feeling like it means letting down the kid in you who needed this story and now just needs to get it out. But I also know how inspiring all those feelings can be and how it can feel like singing along at brain numbing volume to White Flag with your windows down going 90 on a freeway at midnight in Los Angeles far away from your home and your family.

To Stephanie Rice, thank you. With as much weight as I can put in those two words, from the bottom of my heart, thank you for so bravely sharing your story and your art with America. Your vulnerability and light brought a story to televisions across this country that people need. And despite that particular journey wrapping up last night, I have no doubts that you will go on to keep sharing your soul through your music. As a fellow woman, as a fellow storyteller, you reminded me why I’m doing what I’m doing and I am so grateful to have gotten to hear your truth. You have a friend and supporter in Los Angeles if ever you need one. I look forward to hearing everything else you have to tell the world.

To anyone else reading this, my friends, young LGBTQ followers, fellow writers, coworkers, strangers consider this very long ramble a plea for you to continue to back and support LGBTQ artists and youth. Continue to lend them platforms and elevate their voices. Continue to diversify the stories you tell, paint televisions and movies and the radio with kids that look like them, that sound like them, that feel like them. And please, also consider this very long ramble, another in a pile of promises I’ve already made to you, that I will never stop doing everything I can to illuminate your hearts and your souls and your stories. If I have to scream them or deliver them from the ground with bloody knuckles, I will make them heard. I hope that together, we can continue to build a foundation for generations after us, through art where exposure has opened hearts and minds, where stories have saved lives, and art has changed the world. We fight, as we always have, for a better, louder, prouder, safer, and more inclusive future.

#stephanie rice

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tinycartridge · 8 years ago

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TumbleSeed: from Ice Cold inspiration to Rolly Roguelike with designer Greg Wohlwend ⊟

TumbleSeed, out May 2 on Switch, PC, and PS4, is a cute, colorful, beautifully cartoony action-adventure game about a seed rolling its way across a treacherous world. It quickly becomes apparent upon playing it, that TumbleSeed is also a brutally difficult Spelunky-esque game about attempting to make just a bit more progress in a procedurally generated gauntlet. It’s both of those, built onto a tribute to a vintage mechanical game. It’s a dense mixture of influences and inspirations somehow made into a confident thing of its own.

The many ideas behind TumbleSeed started to coalesce, designer Greg Wohlwend told me, over an Ice Cold Beer.

(Image: The Arcade Flyer Archive)

Wohlwend happened upon Ice Cold Beer -- and the TumbleSeed team (Benedict Fritz, David Laskey, Jenna Blazevich, Joel Corelitz, and Wohlwend)-- while playing competitive Killer Queen at the Logan Arcade bar in Chicago. “Benedict [Fritz] and David Laskey would do some of the commentary for some of the tournaments, and me and my team were one of the top two or three teams, usually top two, in the tournaments,” Wohlwend said. “And between rounds of Killer Queen, Benedict would be hanging out there, we’d play Ice Cold Beer when it was working.” Being a mechanical arcade game, the unit was prone to breaking down. “So many moving parts that need to be repaired and custom ordered, and I’m sure it’s a nightmare for them, and I’m not even sure they make any money on it -- probably even lose money on it. But I think they love it and realize it’s such a good game and such a weird game that they try to keep it around.”

One day, Fritz decided to prototype a digital take on Ice Cold Beer, which Wohlwend saw on Vine. “It took him like two or three hours - it’s a super simple thing to do actually, you just throw some circles with colliders on them, and spawn them in a rectangle, and then use Unity’s built-in physics to get something down,” Wohlwend said. After seeing that prototype, Wohlwend enthusiastically offered to work on the game. “It’s so exciting,“ he said, “when you take something that’s purely mechanical, so static, almost cement, it’s in stone, and dream about the almost infinite possibilities of what that would be digitally.” The ideas came quickly, to the point that the process of following up on all the good ideas ended up taking a year and a half.

“We thought it would take two months, and we’d release it for phones, for iOS and Android, because we were both mobile developers in the past. But so many things in the game were telling us that it needs to be on a larger screen, we need sticks, ideally, and all these things.” The goal was to continue the legacy of Ice Cold Beer as if the Taito game had a legacy -- if it had been allowed to evolve in multiple iterations, and cross over into new video game versions, after its 1983 release. And part of honoring that legacy was maintaining the clear visibility of the large Ice Cold Beer cabinet,” because that’s a huge part of Ice Cold Beer, being able to see the entire board, and plan out ‘first I’m going to shoot this gap, and then I think I’ll be pretty safe over here, and then if that doesn’t work out, maybe I’ll be able to hug the wall on the left, but if it does, then I can stay still and then maybe push quickly to my goal.’ And so there’s all these, almost fighting game-quick decisions that you have to make as you climb the beer glass, I guess. And that just wasn’t happening on a smaller screen.”

With the move to consoles and PC came an expansion not only of the screen, but the design style of the nascent game. “When you’re going away from the space of this could be a runner game, quick upward, or a score attack survival game... Let’s make this a bigger game, let’s make this something that you’ll want to spend hours and hours with. And that feeds into the source material, because you would have to spend hours and hours with Ice Cold Beer.”

“Whether you want to spend hours and hours on a bar stool,” he added, “is up to you.”

Ice Cold Beer’s game design was married to abstract elements from other games the team loved, like Dark Souls, Spelunky, and Zelda -- some of which also happen to reward hours of replaying with a deep understanding of difficult mechanics.

From Dark Souls came the “campfire” concept -- “If I rest here I can always come back here and it’s a bit of a checkpoint, but also, it means that everything above it, or after it, gets respawned so I have to keep focus on that. It’s more like a checkpoint, and that’s probably what Dark Souls thought -- oh, there are these checkpoints in Sonic, so let’s use that.” In the final game, players are able to “plant” flags at certain spots if equipped with the default power set.”

Spelunky’s shops were a direct inspiration as well. “But also just sort of the enemy design,” Wohlwend said, “and the aspect of having things exist in the world and there’s not any arbitrary rules where, well, you planted a shotgun and when an enemy rolls over it it does nothing. When a thing exists in a world, it should be part of a system in the world as opposed to for you, this special player. You’re not special, you exist in the world, you have to adhere to the rules of the world.”

One prototype involved a series of rooms pieced together in the style of The Binding of Isaac. ”It worked really well, and it was probably our second most successful prototype. But that’s just another example of having this inventory of things to try and throw at the game.” What they didn’t have to throw at the game was a direct digital antecedent -- nobody else was out there working on an Ice Cold Beer-style game about rolling a ball up a flat plane*.

Mega Man provided another piece that helped complete the TumbleSeed puzzle-- a variety of powers, some available by default, some purchased from stores, that give different abilities to the player character. For example, you can use a “Thornseed” power to grow thorn weapons from the seed, or a “Heartseed” to harvest more HP from certain spots. “Wow, these suit powers. I can have choice, and I can choose between like ten different suits for one plot, and it’s so interesting, and I can combine them together to make more interesting things happen for certain situations I might want to execute.” Wohlwend said that any number of games could have inspired the idea of multiple powers to equip, but as a Mega Man fan, that was the way he thought about it.

“As a game designer,” Wohlwend told me, “when you play a game, it’s impossible to not try to break it down into its sub-puzzle pieces.” With all these inspirations pointed out, it’s easy enough to spot them. But the specific elements that went in were abstract enough that TumbleSeed doesn’t seem like a mishmash of influences. Instead, the game stands as a unique, original piece of art.

*Except, Wohlwend discovered, for Backbone Entertainment, who released a Shrek-themed one on Xbox Live Arcade in 2007. It’s called Shrek-n-Roll.

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#nintendo switch #pc #ps4 #switch #interview #original #greg wohlwend #tumbleseed #gaming #jc

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essenceoffilm · 8 years ago

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Moving Pictures: On Leduc’s Frida

The biopic genre is the epitome of dull, unimaginative quality cinema. Attenborough’s Gandhi (1982) seems to apologize for its inability to cram every single detail of its subject’s life into three hours. The same could be said about the director’s sad attempt at Chaplin (1992). A few years and no one will fortunately remember the mighty, the grand, The Iron Lady (2011). It is therefore a true joy to discover a film of the genre which goes further in some direction. Exceptions are scarce. As a promising omen for the future of our time stands Pablo Larraín’s Jackie (2016) which was praised by Cahiers du Cinéma in their February issue. As masterpieces for the ages, Tarkovsky’s Andrei Rublev (1966) and Sergei Parajanov’s The Color of Pomegranates (1969, Sayat Nova) come to mind. The tendency toward visual narrative of both films seems especially appropriate when the subject of the biopic is a painter (as is the case with the former). Since whether or not a painter experiences the world more visually than others, it is the visual world created by the painter which is publicly accessible to us, to those who make the portraits -- let alone the fact that cinema is itself a visual art form. One of the best examples of such an approach is the strangely overlooked, Paul Leduc’s Frida (1984, Frida, naturaleza viva, Frida Still Life), an original take on the being-as-a-painter of Mexican artist Frida Kahlo unfortunately left in the shadow of its dry as an unpainted canvas North-American counterpart Frida (2002).

Although Leduc’s Frida is a strikingly unconventional biopic in the sense that Leduc refuses to create a clear-cut portrayal of its subject’s life, the film does begin with a textual message providing not only context for the subject matter but also aesthetic orientation for the film to come. The text establishes the set-up for the film: Frida Kahlo is lying on her deathbed where she begins to recall the events of her life. She recalls her childhood experience with polio, the car crash that wounded her at the age of 18, her abortion, her connections to the Mexican Communist Party, Trotsky’s visit to Mexico, and her volatile relationship with painter Diego Rivera. Though quite unnecessary, this text hardly undermines the film in question whose structure is in striking opposition to the verbal clarity of the beginning words.

Frida proves this immediately as the textual message of the beginning is followed by an intricate series of scenes. The film begins with a scene at Frida’s funeral. A flag of the Soviet Union is spread on her coffin as a tribute to her political beliefs. Next there is a transition to a scene of Frida on her deathbed. Her lamentation is first heard off-screen until the camera tracks toward her through her home of fruits and paintings. Next there is a brief scene of Frida as a young woman, painting a picture. This scene is followed by another scene where Frida is painting as a slightly older woman in a wheelchair as her husband, Diego Rivera comes to her. Next there is a long scene depicting the day of the car accident which was to define much of Frida’s subsequent life. The scene begins as a serene dusk with people playing folk music which is then interrupted by the arrival of Frida screaming in pain.

While I have tried to summarize the beginning set-up of Leduc’s film to the best of my abilities, one should not be fooled by such a quick description. The film is beyond synopses or summaries. Although each of the scenes described above are indeed individual scenes which consist of only a few shots, respectively, the entirety of them lasts for many minutes. As a matter of fact, it should be emphasized that this series of scenes in the beginning is not an entirety that could be distinguished from the rest of the film despite the above attempts to approach it as an exposition of some kind. The shots, the scenes, and the sequences create a holistic stream of an all-compassing process which is more than the sum of its parts. This is as true of the beginning as it is of the whole film which continues as such a freely developing audiovisual stream of consciousness. While there are some sequences which may form a whole of some kind (Trotsky’s visit), they are still never presented as single flashbacks of Frida to an earlier time. The fact that these sequences are always preceded and followed by others immediately creates a flow like no other. Even in the end, Frida’s death and her success at her first exhibition seem to fuse.

Leduc’s visual style is enhanced by the fact that there is very little dialogue in the film. What is more, Leduc has completely avoided the cliche of “memoirs films”, that is, the use of voice-over narration. Instead of words, the film relies heavily on mise-en-scène, cinematography, and montage. Leduc’s painterly mise-en-scène is very colorful, though in the spirit of Kahlo’s paintings, its color palette is felicitously dark. Despite its connections to the oeuvre of its subject, Leduc’s film is far from a sad imitation of the surrealist quality of Kahlo’s art. Leduc’s mise-en-scène is strong like the world of colors and light in Kahlo’s paintings, but his surrealism is of a different kind; it is what some call “the surrealism of everyday life” in the context of Luis Buñuel’s films, for instance. It is surrealism of a subtler kind which is born from the juxtaposition of contrasts, different time levels, and separate spaces on the level of montage. Youth merges with scenes on the deathbed, love coincides with hate, life and death coalesce. Never does this mode of narrative and style feel like a forced attempt to confuse the spectator. It always feels like an appropriate and successful attempt to express everyday existence.

Despite the brilliance of Leduc’s montage and mise-en-scène, the really dominant stylistic feature in his film is cinematography. This is vital. It is vital because Leduc’s use of the camera represents his original approach to Kahlo’s personal aesthetics. The first thing to notice about the cinematography in Frida is that the camera is almost always moving. It moves especially in the form of tracking shots toward characters either in the direction of depth or in the horizontal direction. In the latter case, the camera constantly moves by revealing mobile characters and figures in the background behind the objects in the foreground. In many shots, the camera begins its tracking shot from the surface of a pillar or a wall and then proceeds to uncover objects and characters, often in motion, in the deeper planes. Sometimes sounds from the off-screen space anticipate this expansion of the screen space, which is the case in the scene where Frida is first discovered on her deathbed. The scene begins with a few tracking shots of Frida’s home, showing fruits on the table (cut in a way that is a clear reference to a painting by Kahlo) and pictures on the wall, while Frida’s cries are heard on the soundtrack, and eventually the camera ends up in Frida’s room where she is lying on the bed.

Leduc’s aesthetics of movement creates a tremendous dynamic of many layers which corresponds to the narrative structure as well as the subjective experience expressed by it. To film scholar Vivian Sobchack, film is the expression of experience by experience [1]. According to her, cinema is not so much a system of signs as it is an immediate experience, an experiential language of experience, if one wishes to use the meaning-laden word of “language”. Leduc’s emphasis on the image rather than the word echoes also the fact that one seems to remember one’s life not in words but in experiences, which is essentially why Sobchack is talking about the things she does. One often recalls an experience as a lived space, that is, a meaningful space created jointly by the mind and the world. Rather than showing the psychological development of the film’s titular protagonist, for example, Leduc has chosen to portray Frida’s experience of abortion as a single static shot of Frida lying on an operating chair with blood between her legs. It is a much more vivid cinematic moment without the burden of words or voice-over. What one exactly sees expressed in this brief scene is not Frida going through abortion (think about a chain of events from anticipation to the procedure and its aftermath) but the lived space where she was after the operation, and to this lived space, seen only momentarily, condenses something essential of the whole process as well, experienced immediately, and, of course, the integral themes of the film: love and death.

The notions of love and death join one another in the philosophy of Kahlo’s art, and Leduc approaches this philosophy cinematically. Like in Kahlo’s multi-layered paintings, Leduc’s moving pictures constantly articulate a deep dialectics of different planes, tones, nuances, and audiovisual textures (the sum of light, color, sound, spatial impressions, movement etc.). There is always depth to surface, there is always light to shadow, and there is always fulfillment to void. Joy always entails grief and vice versa. The film’s original atmosphere is always dominated by bodily concreteness but also, conversely, metaphysical abstractness both of which are due to the ubiquitous presence of Frida lying on her deathbed. Actress Ofelia Medina has kindly and vividly bestowed her body for the embodiment of this presence. The omnipresence of the deathbed, placing the dying Frida as an abstract voice of focalization in the narrative, is therefore a brilliant solution by Leduc. On the one hand, it brings this sense of death to everything -- even to the scenes of youth -- and, on the other, the scenes in the past bring a sense of life and many feelings to it. While the film begins and ends with death, its message, if it has one, remains pro-life: viva la vida.

The more interesting matter, to me at least, is that Leduc’s Frida also comes across as pro-cinema, which is quite astonishing for a biopic. As it is a celebration of life, it is also a vivid celebration of cinema. It is a testament to what one of the dullest, most impersonal genres of cinema could be. When the editor-in-chief of Cahiers du Cinéma, Stéphane Delorme commended Larraín’s Jackie in the magazine’s February issue of 2017, he utilized the term “portrait en action” (portrait in action) in his editorial [2]. The term emphasizes the notion of reconstructing the subject’s life not in linear chronological order but in a cubist fashion of non-linear, fragmented narrative which better captures the reality of subjective experience; it can even choose a single moment of the subject’s life which is thus elevated as a moment when she writes her history. The portrait in action implies movement not only in the sense of distinguishable modes of movement in cinema (camera movement, object movement, optical movement, montage movement, the impression of movement created by 24 frames per second) [3] but also, and above all, in the sense of psychological movement and the subjective experience of spatio-temporal existence. It is precisely painting a portrait in action by cinematic means which Leduc achieves beautifully. The greatest virtues of Leduc’s Frida are simply (though certainly not simply done as the history of the genre shows!) its respectable ability to plunge into the world of its subject, to avoid the besetting sin of chronology which is an insult to both experience and cinema, and to sacrifice the burden of words on the altar of moving pictures.

Notes:

[1] Sobchack 1992, p. 3.

[2] Delorme 2017

[3] A similar categorization of movement in cinema is made in Sobchack 1990.

References:

Delorme, Stéphane. 2017. “Portraits d’Amérique”. Cahiers du Cinéma, n. 730, février 2017, p. 5.

Sobchack, Vivian. 1990. "The active eye: A phenomenology of cinematic vision". Quarterly Review of Film and Video, 12(3), p. 21-36.

Sobchack, Vivian. 1992. The Address of the Eye: A Phenomenology of Film Experience. Princeton: Princeton University Press.

#Frida naturaleza viva #Paul Leduc #1980's #Mexican

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comic-watch · 7 years ago

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The landmark issue of Action Comics, featuring stories from A list talent important to Superman’s past, present and future! Big Blue has changed lives for 8 decades, and likely will until the end of time. Here’s to the last son of Krypton!

Title: Action Comics #1000 Credits:

Publisher: DC Comics

What You Need to Know:

The man needs no introduction, The Last Son of Krypton, The Man of Tomorrow, The Man of Steel, Superman! For 80 years Superman has been one of the most famous fictional characters in the world, the epitome of superhuman perfection, Superman is gifted with a slew of superpowers and the moral high standing to use them for good!

It goes without saying that this massive landmark is a once in a lifetime moment, and we at Comic Watch decided to do the review as a collaboration, each review will be credited to the writer, enjoy!

REVIEW BY: Cody White

Action Comics #1000 – “For the City That Has Everything” Release Date: April 18th, 2018 Writer: Dan Jurgens Artist: Dan Jurgens Inker: Norm Rapmund Colors: HI-FI Letters: Rob Leigh Based on the DC Comics Created by Jerry Siegel and Joe Shuster Let me lead off with the fact that Dan Jurgen’s Superman is my generation’s Superman. When I think about Superman stories from my childhood and adolescence, nine times out of ten Jurgens was behind those tales. Reading “For the City That Has Everything” was like bumping into a friend you hadn’t seen for years and picking up right where you left off. I realize that Jurgens has been writing Superman books of late, but in this kick-off story to the Action Comics anniversary, there is something embedded in the writing that makes me feel like a kid again, in the best way possible.

The story begins with an unsynchronized narrative. Clark is off having an adventure in space while Lois and Jon dominate the textual narrative. It is revealed that Clark is stalling his arrival to a Superman Day celebration by fighting off a Khundian invasion.

Why would Clark be so actively avoiding the celebration? Because that is the type of hero he is—modest, humble, human. As Clark watches story after story of not only his own heroism but his ability to inspire the people of Metropolis to become their own heroes, he continues to catch fading glimpses of crisis impending, only to be “mistaken.” As the joke plays out, it turns out the Justice League and other heroes are handling the invasion and purposely hiding it from Clark to make him attend the celebration. The moment that Clark realizes that something is amiss, he does what he always does—up, up, and away to handle the threat. When he is clued into the plot, he returns to enjoy his celebration.

Among the testimonials is an extended story about a young criminal caught in a cycle of imprisonment and poverty that felt particularly noteworthy as a beautiful example of what the spirit of Superman represents (panels below).

As for the gesture by the other heroes, I can’t help but be reminded of another Dan Jurgens story from the early 1990s. Superman #76 was the fourth chapter in the “Funeral for a Friend” story-arc that immediately followed Superman’s death. In this issue, many members of the Justice League grieve his death by gathering to read his fan mail. Many of the letters feature requests or thanks, things like rebuilding a home that was destroyed by Doomsday and the like (I wish I had the issue in front of me right now, but I’m also glad because it makes me cry every time I read it, and I’m not in the mood to cry right now). The essence of the issue is that in order to fill the bright red go-go boots Superman left behind, only the entire League banding together could even make the attempt. But still, they tried, because that is what Superman does: he inspires us to be our best selves.

Rating: 9/10

Final Thought: Tried to avoid getting emotional. Failed.

REVIEW BY: Rob Fisher

Writer: Peter J. Tomasi Artist: Patrick Gleason Colorist: Alejandro Sanchez Publisher: DC Comics What You Need to Know:

On the way home from his nightly patrol, Superman is whisked away by Vandal Savage and finds himself in the villain’s underground layer, where the “immortal” reveals his clever plan.

Savage has weaponized Hypertime and has trapped Superman in a never-ending loop of yesterdays. By taking him outside history, Vandal has neutralized the Man of Steel.

What You Will Find Out: Told by Clark after the fact, the story follows the Man of Steel trying to escape Vandal Savage. The immortal has strapped Superman to a device that would destroy him by using Hypertime. His goal is to undue Clark by removing him from all that he holds dear and trapping him in the past.

As the machine is activated Superman finds himself transported into the body of his 1940s self. He is exhilarated as he relishes the pure simplicity of saving people in need. He thrills to the chatter of submachine guns. Fighting in World War II, he is seduced by the simple morality of good and evil.

Suddenly, he recognizes that longing for a simpler time is merely a distraction for the Golden Age is actually a trap. As he battles across a multitude of past realities, he finds the strength to fight his way back to the present.

What Just Happened:

“Never-Ending Battle” shows Superman finding a path back home. As he fights his way to the present, he jumps into various unfamiliar versions of himself.

The entire tale is a look back at the long history of Superman. From stopping trains to facing alien tyrants, the story is full of nostalgia for any fan of the Man of Steel.

Rating: 8.5/10

Final Thought:

The highlight of the story is the artwork. Patrick Gleason’s illustrating is fantastic. The only problem is the long voice-over. Up until the final page of the story, the Man of Steel himself is the only one talking! It’s all good – it just gets a little long.

Although this story may not be as exciting as some of the others in the issue, it’s a great tribute to Superman and his entire 80 years publication history.

REVIEW BY: John Jack

Title: An Enemy Within Writer: Marv Wolfman Art: Curt Swan Inks: Butch Guice & Kurt Schaffenberger Color: Hi-fi Letters: Rob Leigh

What You’ll Find Out:

We open on Police Captain Maggie Sawyer handling a hostage situation while Superman is in Japan fighting Braniac’s drones, a school principal is holding his students hostage with a gun. A voiceover informs us Superman is aware, but busy with the robots. Luckily he has faith in the people of earth being good.

The principal seems dazed, speaking strangely, he mentions sounds and Superman tunes in to discover a hidden frequency, Braniac’s drones are connected to this hostage situation! The police are forced to act, and the principal is hit before Superman can stop the signal, luckily they’re rubber bullets, and he’ll be fine, Superman stops the signal a second later. Thanks to human compassion, the man didn’t end his days in front of that school.

What Just Happened?

Thought this story was pretty cool, I’m a big fan of the Curt Swan era of Superman (mid 60’s through the late 70’s) and it was nice to see a “new” story by the artist, who died 20 years ago. That said, I don’t think I care for this retooling old art and sketches to make new stories attributed to long-dead creators trend, which was also employed in a certain recent Captain America issue as well.

The story does carry a bit of emotional gravitas, which is nice, I like the idea of Superman being confident in Sawyer to do the right thing, and it’s always nice to read a story highlighting his background cast. Rating: 8/10

Final Thought:

Decent story, hard to say where it rates, in concept the very existence bothers me, but nostalgia makes it hard. I guess I’ll call it forgivable, for now.

REVIEW BY: John Jack

Title: The Car Writer: Geoff Johns & Richard Donner Art: Olivier Coipel Colors: Alexandro Sanchez Letters: Nick Napolitano

What You’ll Find Out:

We open on a mechanic working on a smashed car, which is strangely familiar looking… They ask the customer what he could’ve hit to destroy the car in such a way, he responds that he hit a man wearing red underwear, who then hung him off a telephone pole. They tell him to lay off the sauce, he asks for a ride and they tell him to walk.

As the mans walks dejectedly down the road, he looks up and sees a bird, then a plane, then Superman! Superman asks the man if he should’ve hung him higher, he tells him he has two choices in life, to fix the problems in his life, or to give up, the choice is his. The story ends with The man standing next to his fixed car, apparently having turned his life around, although technically he’s breaking the law in the last panel!

What Just Happened?

This is the story that I liked the best, great message, interesting subject matter, and a phenomenal rendering of the golden age Superman’s look. The art in this story is among the best in the book, I love it!

Rating: 10/10

Final Thought: If the entire book was like this, it would be perfection, but the perfect comic doesn’t exist, probably.

REVIEW BY: Austin Braun

REVIEW: Action Comics #1000 (The Fifth Season) What happens when Superman and his mortal enemy, Lex Luthor, end up in a room together. Sometimes they fight, sometimes they talk but they almost never see eye to eye. Witness the complex relationship between one of comics oldest rivalries within the pivotal issue of Action Comics #1000!

Action Comics #1000 Author: Scott Snyder Artists: Rafael Albuquerque Colors: Dave McCaig Letters: Tom Napolitano Publisher: DC Comics What You Need to Know:

Everyone who is anyone in the DC universe knows who Lex Luthor is right? And we as readers of DC Comics also know quite a bit about him even if he isn’t our favorite villain. He’s a genius, a philanthropist, a business icon… But most importantly he is Superman’s arch enemy!

What You’ll Find Out:

In this five-page story by Scott Snyder, we see the depth of Superman and Luthor’s relationship. We begin with the dark raw art from Albuquerque as Lex phases in from the darkness. Lex looks calm and collective as Superman enters looking frustrated with him. Superman asks him why he is here when we learn that Lex and Superman are standing in the Smallville Planetarium. Lex has stolen two cosmic items that when used properly together could erase a strip of time right from existence. Lex excuses this theory by stating he is simply using the items for stargazing. Everyone knows that this isn’t the truth as Lex goes on to talk about the past relationship he had with the Planetarium. He talks of the few weeks between Winter and Spring that Smallville calls its “Fifth Season”. He explains that due to the randomness of the weather during this time his parents were more abusive and this is where he found solace. Lex wanted a savior from the gods so he took a laser he created as a project and went to send a message the to heavens. He reminds himself that he had even made a mistake when sending the message…

Lex had forgotten to heat the Nitrogen and said he had just gotten lucky when he sent the message. The reader finds out that Clark had actually heated up the Nitrogen with his heat vision right prior to sending it off. This just shows that Lex had a savior the whole time, but always sought to destroy him instead of giving gratitude towards him. The two stand there looking at the story of the universe pass them by as Lex admits he had retrieved the items in order to kill Superman. Superman admits he knew that all along and goes to say something else as Lex succeeds in his mission and wipes the memory of Superman from existence mid-sentence.

What Just Happened? This incredible study of Superman and Lex Luthor’s relationship was an amazing addition to an already amazing issue all about the first and best superhero. This is actually the only Lex-centric story within all AC #1000 and for good reason. Through the years the two have met and fought hundreds if not thousands of times… but this time all they do is talk. They talk about the past and what its connection with the present is. Scott does an amazing job humanizing Luthor and at one point you almost want to believe he is truly just there to stargaze.

Albuquerque and McCaig’s raw art fits perfectly with this story. The thick line work from Albuquerque made this part of the issue as dark as necessary for the events going on and no matter how sad the Tom King story may have been… the thought of Lex succeeding in this mission would make any Superman fan cry. Even with no action, the cosmic story happening in the background made for some stunning scenery. Superman had a very authentic look to him that reminded me of his post-crisis look which makes sense seeing as how we see many different variations of the character through the stories in AC #1000.

Rating: 9.5/10

Final Thoughts:

Although this story was a little confusing… Snyder really knocked this five-page short out of the park. From Lex’s calm demeanor to the fact that Clark actually saved Lex as a child, Snyder and Albuquerque made this the highlight of AC #1000 for me personally as Lex and Superman have always been one my favorite rivalries in comics. Definitely, check this story out if you are a fan of Snyder and his gloomy presence… or if you just want to read a short but awesome Superman/Lex Luthor story

REVIEW BY: Ross Hutchinson

Writer Tom King and artist Clay Mann bring us a solitary and winsome moment in the future of the man of steel at the end of earth’s days.

ACTION COMICS #1000 (Of Tomorrow) Authors: Tom King Artists: Clay Mann Inkers: Clay Mann Colors: Jordie Bellaire Letters: John Workman Publisher: DC Comics

What You Need to Know:

Superman has come on what has become a regular pilgrimage to the abandoned and dying planet that was once humanity’s home to pay respects and remember the adoptive parents that raised him and in no small way helped shaped the man he grew up to be.

What You’ll Find Out:

As the Earth is in its final death throws Superman talks to his long-dead adoptive parents letting them know what life is like now so far in the future, that there is still always someone to help, there are still wars and that Lois is still alive even 4 billion years after earth has been abandoned, kept alive by something called the eternity formula. He goes on to explain that Jon (Jonathan Kent) has grown up to be someone that the last full-blooded Kryptonian is proud of all while the earth continues to break and crack apart around him.

It is to be his final visit as we find out the earth will soon be obliterated under the pressure of the dying sun and that even though he could alter the dying planets fate he has chosen not to and that this is his last visit to the planet that was his adopted home and he has made the journey to say a final goodbye. there is a nice philosophical moment where he voices out loud that maybe he has wasted his time visiting the dying planet over the millenia and recounts how Pa Kent once told him that science, myth, and religion are all the same and that we are all just stardust waiting to be reclaimed by the universe… he carves a small statue, of himself as boy with the two loving human beings that guided him and shaped him, out of earth he has compressed to diamond, shaped with his heat vision and places it on the ground next to a plaque he has made in memorium of them and bids them farewell and thank you as he heads up up and away from the Earth for the last time.

What Just Happened?

Tom King confirms his status once again as ]one of the best writers in comics today by writing a monologue piece for the man of steel that is powerful, poignant and poetic right down to the odd stutter of grief in Superman’s soliloquy. The melancholy of the moment is perfectly accentuated by Mann’s understated art style. The fact that we see a Superman that does not appear to have aged and seems to still be in his physical peak more than 4 billion years in the future seems to answer the question of whether Superman is immortal or not in the affirmative.

Rating: 8/10 Final Thoughts:

A worthy vignette in the legacy of the Man of Steel and though it is a wistful piece, it also carries an underlying sense of hope and sense of continuity that the Superman will always be there to protect his larger adopted family of humanity long after the earth has breathed its last.

REVIEW BY: Cody White

Action Comics #1000 – “Faster than a Speeding Bullet” Release Date: April 18th, 2018 Writer: Brad Meltzer Artist: John Cassaday Colors: Laura Martin Letters: Chris Euopoulos Based on the DC Comics Created by Jerry Siegel and Joe Shuster “Faster than a Speeding Bullet” manages to take a mere five pages to capture the spirit of Superman in one of the most clear-cut and concise ways I’ve read in nearly thirty years of reading the character.

In the story, Superman speeds to a hostage situation with the “scariest villain of all” – a desperate man with three strikes and nothing to lose. As the man holds the gun to a young woman’s head, Kal runs down the situation in his head only to realize that, even with all his myriad powers, the laws of math and physics are against him. He will not make it to the scene in time to stop the bullet.

At that moment, dear readers, we see what makes a man a Superman. He does not panic. He does not despair. He doesn’t even push harder, because he’s always pushing as hard as he can. No, he merely continues on, ever forward, and hopes for the best. And then it hits him. The young woman, held at gunpoint, facing certain death, fights back. She buys the fraction of a second necessary for Superman to arrive and save the day.

At the heart of many Superman debates over the ages lies the notion that Superman, for all his strength and abilities, is detrimental to the human race because he supplies too wide a safety net. The citizens of Metropolis are frequently argued to be more haphazard than others because they are confident that Superman will deliver them unto salvation. Meltzer, a consummate humanist if ever I’ve seen one, turns the argument on its head, showing Lila as taking control of her own life. She has an agency of her own, unlike the typical characterization of the citizens of Metropolis, and in the final voiceover sequence, Lois points to this agency as the essence of hope that keeps Superman on the mission.

Also of note in this beautiful tale is the use of a cinematic style of artistic narrative that John Cassaday provides. In many ways, this story is a micro-scale narrative that highlights a few moments in the life of Kal, yet the deployment of “wide-screen” panels and splash pages by the former film student from Texas creates a sense of gravitas, of grandiosity. Cassaday’s rhythm helps to elevate Meltzer’s humanism, and together the pair (along Martin and Euopoulos, who should not be neglected for their roles in creating this masterpiece) manage to raise the minutia of the every day in the life of Superman into a celebration of human spirit and the importance of living in the present.

Rating: 10/10

Final Thought:

I suspected when it was announced that the combination of Meltzer and Cassaday would be a perfect pairing, and I was not let down. I can only hope that powers that be at DC take notice because the potential for future team-ups between what I consider two top-talent individuals is simply too good to pass up.

Final, Final Thought: (See Below)

Final Rating: 9.5/10

Final, Final Thought: (See Below)

Phenomenal milestone in the history of the Man of Steel, I’m touched that I was a part of it, and the more I think about it the happier I am, here’s to Superman, I hope he goes another thousand issues, if I’m still alive in 2098 when it happens I’ll probably review it then too. Joking. Anyway, a huge thanks to everyone who worked to make this article, and the hundreds of creators involved in the hero over the years.

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Action Comics #1000 Timeless, that's what comes to mind when I consider the man of steel, no matter what era of comics you like, there's a Superman for you! This was an incredible milestone, here's to another 8 decades! #iamawatcher The landmark issue of Action Comics, featuring stories from A list talent important to Superman's past, present and future!

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