#all about like taking it beyond ''half ass it do it poorly'' & more aiming for ''do it doably''

[unproduciblesmackdown]

teeny gtmpota moment 🎃🎭✨

[willievermakeithome]

EAW (Season 1) is Finished

My relevant notes, for whatever they’re worth, regarding my re-watch of the final episodes of EAW - I’m gonna avoid talking about moments that I feel were OOC for the most part (except the most glaringly obvious examples - YES I’M TALKING ABOUT MINWOO, WE’RE GOIONG THERE), because there’s enough debate about it and it’s all mostly open to personal interpretation anyways. But I’m gonna try to hit the big points, what improvements I hope to see in Season 2, and then I’m gonna share a little conspiracy theory that I’d love to get other’s opinions on. (this is a long post)

As an autistic that loves k dramas and romance, I was beyond excited - and also incredibly trepidatious - when this drama was first recommended to me on my Netflix home screen. The first 10ish episodes are by far the best in my estimation, and I can at least say for certain I will be re-watching those. The second half of the season ... gives me more mixed feelings.

- Hanbada is the big bad. I saw a post a while back (I’m sorry, I tried to find it but I like and reblog too many things! 😭) talking about how Hanbada is the big bad (bc social justice, fighting for the people, anti-capitalism, etc etc) and I think this is absolutely the direction they’re going. We’re not supposed to have rosy tinted glasses on about where Woo Youngwoo works - and perhaps this also kind of tied into Minwoo’s initial purpose in the show.

I’ve noticed more and more as each case comes about that I am less and less on Hanbada’s side; I think it’s partly why they talked early on in the series about the conundrum of morals & ethics so many times, exploring the grey area in many ways, and also pointed out that while Hanbada does take on a lot of public interest cases, at the end of the day - they’re a business and making money/winning cases comes first before anything else. The reveal that the CEO is pretty ruthless and has no issue using WYW as a chess piece against TSM, only heightens my distrust of the firm. Ultimately I see Season 2 digging even more into that (why the fuck are these two powerhouse women beefing anyway?) and I think it’s going to heavily tie in with Youngwoo’s growth as a lawyer and HOPEFULLY THIS WILL ALSO INCLUDE ATTORNEY JUNG ☺️✨

- The Tae Su Mi Dilemma. I don’t like that she’s portrayed negatively for not wanting to have a baby in the first place, but that’s generally where my defense of her ends. The minute she learned about WYW she tried to have her shipped off because of her own political desires and she can fuck right off with that. And then the plotting in the shadows with Minwoo that eventually fell apart ... But to be honest, I feel like the show didn’t have a clue what they were doing with TSM’s character; the show painted TSM as this badass powerhouse of a character but at the same time reduces her to the simple title of mother and I feel like that sends mixed messages to me as the viewer. I’m guessing that they were aiming for a morally grey vibe, but she ends up just kind of reading as ... muddy to me. 

However, even though TSM stepped down from the Minister of Justice candidacy, do we really think she’s just gonna move on and let Hanbada’s CEO out-maneuver her??? I think not. More than anything TSM has been characterized as political and calculating so I think there will be more clashing between the two of them in Season 2.

- The Minwoo Redemption. 

*I walk on the stage and check the mic, clears throat* 

THAT. Was not a redemption arc. That was a guy who quite literally just suddenly stopped being a huge gigantic ass. Randomly. And then they threw in a love line for shits and giggles and were like “love and romance will fix him and his problems”.

No. Rejected. I fully rejected that and I think Minwoo’s storyline and the TSM vs CEO storyline are some of the most poorly done ones on the show. Minwoo out and out tried to frame Youngwoo and get her fired in episode 12 (I believe it was) and then in episode 14 he’s biting his tongue so he doesn’t spill her deep dark secret while he’s tipsy???? The math ain’t mathin’. Taking accountability for wrong you’ve done is a big part of being redeemed and Minwoo hasn’t had to take accountability for SHIT. I’m not saying he needs to prostrate himself before WYW and beg for forgiveness, but I am not happy about the 🤷‍♀️’guess he’s cool now’🤷‍♀️ narrative that’s being portrayed. The guy should be like “yeah, that thing I did was fucked up”, at the very least! The bar is so low y’all 😭

I hope they develop him more in Season 2 - a true redemption arc could be well done if some real work was put into his character development. For some reason I’m envisioning a scenario where Soo-yeon’s dad tries to bribe him; Idk enough about his background to know if that would make sense story-wise, but it would be interesting if he was put into the position of choosing between his crush and explicit money/power - which is what he’s always wanted. If they’re really gonna try to redeem him and make him a character I don’t wrinkle my nose at every-time he appears on my screen (no hate to the actor, he’s obviously done a fantastic job) - give me something meaty 🥩 give me grief and desire and conflict and none of this wamby pamby “well if this is what Soo-yeon wants, I guess I’ll do it” nonsense.

which, just as a side note, Minwoo and Soo-yeon having a ‘romantic moment’ while bonding over Youngwoo’s sPeCiAl TrEaTmEnT (literally right after she was KICKED OFF A CASE) is not, and never will be, the move. #sorrynotsorry 🤷‍♀️

- I love Attorney Jung, but he needs to slow the fuck down. You love him, I love him, we all agree he’s been a great mentor and teacher and that’s where his strength lies. I’m not even terribly mad about the Cancer storyline because he lived and it gave us that amazing found family scene with the noodles 🍜 😭 (I wanted to eat noodles so bad after that ep!) However, while the wink wink nudge nudge he gave us at the end was funny, boi better be taking a break! He doesn’t have to quit working entirely, but he does need to slow down - and I’d love to see him leave to start his own practice or go work with Attorney Ryu at hers. He can still do important and meaningful work without running himself ragged to do so, or working for large money hungry corporation that will make him sacrifice his integrity - and! He can take Attorney Woo with him. ✨ Their work dynamic was my favorite by the end of the show. Pre-episode 12-16, it would’ve been Youngwoo and Junho’s but we really didn’t see as much of that comradery from them during the second half. 

sidenote: did anyone else notice that Jung would start waving his arm (almost in a time out gesture) whenever he saw people might be offended by something Youngwoo said? like *waves hand* “she doesn’t mean it like that” - I thought this was so cute and a great acting choice

- The love confession and the cat thing. I’ve tried to find this analogy charming but I just can’t. I read a post explaining the translation difference between ‘owner’ and ‘butler’ and while that does seem like a cute cultural reference I just might not be getting, I can’t get past what the comparison signifies for me, personally. It reminded me of a tiktok I watched, criticizing pop-culture and more main stream media for constantly portraying the neurodivergent and autistic characters as an “other”, as ‘not human’ - the list going on from robots, to aliens, to animals or monsters. 

In Star Trek, its Spock (alien) and Data (android). In Marvel, it’s Groot (alien), Drax (alien), Mantis (alien), Rocket Raccoon (animal? Science lab experiment? 😬), and Vision (AI). And those are some cool characters - don’t get me wrong, but if you knock out every single one that is A) not human and/or B) a gigantic asshole, that leaves very few characters left for me to try to see myself in. Even in Woo Youngwoo’s analogy that she explains to TSM, everyone involved is a whale - she’s just a different species of whale. And in the opening credits of the show - they always show a blue duck among a bunch of yellow ducks. There are many ways to indicate someone being different without isolating them from the human experience. So yeah, it rubs me wrong seeing another show fall into that trap even in a teeny tiny way, but worse than that *for me* - a cat and its butler, or caretaker which seems to be the underlying message, are not equals. And that’s one thing I know a lot of us wanted for Woo Youngwoo. More than anything we wanted a romance for her where she was an equal partner, not someone who needed to be watched after. If I squint a little bit I can kinda understand what they were *trying* to convey but this just ... missed the mark for me. You are all more than welcome to feel differently, of course.

And ironically - almost in direct contrast to my discomfort with the cat analogy - immediately preceding the scene is when Youngwoo leaves the car to confront TSM but as she goes, she looks back at Junho. She leaves, off to discover her next moment of wonder - to do her job, but she looks back at him. She’s reminding him that she knows he’s there, that she cares. She’s showing Junho that even though her wonderful brilliant beautiful self is off on another quest, she hasn’t forgotten him - when so many times before in this show she’s run off without notice or concern (not saying that's a bad thing; just pointing out the change) and now she’s giving him a sweet acknowledgement of his presence in her life. And the way Junho teared up seeing her do that 😭 It was that part - more than anything else - that gave me warm fuzzies and made me think “yeah, they can do this.”

I’m happy that our whale couple made it back to each other but damn, does it feel bitter sweet in a lot of ways. It’s a strange headspace for me to be in with this show, for it to make me uncomfy but also happy at varying levels during different moments.

What I would like to see in Season 2:

- Little brother Sang Hyun and Woo Youngwoo: Youngwoo’s reaction to being called Noona 😭 (instantly she was like, “I must protecc!”) was heartfelt and relatable. I loved them. I want more of them. I want to see them interact and eat kimbap together. 

sidenote: I defo think Sang Hyun and TSM are autistic and I’d love for the show to really lean into that more in S2

- Junho needs to meet her dad and be let in on the family secret cause I dislike that it was MINWOO of all people who recognized how heavy it was for Youngwoo to be working a case with her bio-mom and half brother, and then to have to be the one to interrogate him! It was so stressful.

- Woo Youngwoo’s independence: A big motivator for me to continue watching was because of Youngwoo’s personal development; I wanted to see her continue to grow, to become more independent and self sufficient as time went on. Wasn’t she at one point talking about moving out of her dad’s place and staying by herself? I guess that got thrown out because they weren’t sure if she could afford it but our girl is a fulltime attorney now so I really hope that’s on the agenda! She doesn’t have to live alone, she could even move in with Dong Geurami!!! Which I would personally love because we didn’t get nearly enough WYW and DGR scenes in the-episodes-that-shall-not-be-named.

- For the love of god stop cutting off the conclusions of formative discussions surrounding Youngwoo and Junho’s relationship! and please show them having more functional communication cause wow I’m still scarred from the-episodes-that-shall-not-be-named. And if the writers start out Season 2 with more writing like THAT ... then I will put on a party hat cause I will be the clowniest of clowns 🤡

My tinfoil hat theory: it literally feels like different writers were working on some unexpected storylines starting around episode 13. I don’t know much about filming schedules or anything but I do know that some things can be filmed beforehand and changed afterwards depending on where they want the show to go based on public response. I can’t help but wonder if after the praise they got, and they knew a second season was highly likely, that they changed some things around to drag it out more and leave something to delve into during S2. I keep thinking about what Soo-yeon said to Minwoo in Jeju; “I almost called the police and had you arrested for acting so out of character!” (or something along those lines). I could be way off but that feels very on the nose; and if Minwoo’s storyline ending up changing last minute, it would make sense to me.

In Conclusion: If this were a stand alone season, I don’t think I could be satisfied with how it ended. 

But! They have been given a second season, and I hope they take the opportunity to improve the things they dropped the ball on. It’s not a chance a lot of dramas get, so I hope they grab it with both hands. 

I may not necessarily be running to my Netflix when S2 drops. I’ll probably feel more inclined to wait it out a bit and gauge how it’s going based on other’s reactions but I’m surprised to say (given how painful some of these episodes were to re-watch - that lunch with Junho’s sister will live in infamy - eek!) I’m actually not opposed to checking in again to see what all these characters are up to in 2024.

Taking the good with the bad, is my stance for now I suppose.

[runpogorun]

Show Me Your Scars

Here is my DDE 2021 New Year’s Day fic @daredevilexchange (a few days late, shhh) for @matt-murdok. Sorry it was late, but I hope it was worth the wait!

This is set in that horrible time after season 2, when Matt and Foggy aren't on good terms. Matt is working with the Defenders. @metaderivative and @iheartallthethings were amazing with their help on this fic.

Read it here, or over on AO3.

Enjoy!

_____

Foggy doesn't bother to announce his arrival with a knock. If Matt is conscious, he'll have heard Foggy long before he slid his key into the door. If Matt hasn't heard him… well, Foggy isn't letting himself think about unconsciousness, or worse. 

It's dark in Matt’s entryway, of course, vague blotches of colour mottling the cavern that Matt uses as a lounge. Foggy drops his keys and a sigh on the side table, and flicks on the hall light. He can see a tuft of dark hair at the end of the couch, and his back is thankful he won't be scraping Matt off the floor. 

"What are you doing here, Foggy?" Matt's coherent, even. Wonders will never cease.

"You know, it's great being wanted." Foggy nearly turns on his heel to leave, but he doesn't. Instead, he takes slow, deliberate steps, as he moves away from the warm light of the hall and towards the purplish billboard-lit gloom of the lounge. "It makes my day. Or, whatever you call this sort of time."

Matt grunts but doesn't turn his head to track Foggy as he ambles over to perch on the edge of the coffee table. Matt's half-sitting, stretched out full length. His eyes are closed, and he looks pinched, in pain, even as the lights dance across his face. Foggy can’t identify any visible injuries. "There's no reason for you to be here," Matt says.

"That's where you're wrong." Foggy waits, but Matt gives him nothing more, so he sighs. Matt seems to make him sigh more and more these days. He decides to stick to fact. "Jones told me you might need a welfare check."

Matt shakes his head slightly without opening his eyes, so Foggy stops trying. He stands, walks to the kitchen and fills a glass with water, snagging a bottle of pills from the shelf on his way back. He puts the glass on the coffee table, where Matt can reach it easily, and shakes the bottle before throwing it on Matt's stomach. "Ibuprofen." Matt opens his eyes, picks up the bottle and runs his fingers over the braille label, like he doesn't believe Foggy and needs to confirm for himself. 

Foggy thrusts his hands in his pockets and watches as Matt twists the cap off the bottle with some difficulty, and shakes out two capsules. He swallows the pills, then reaches out, groping for the glass, but his aim’s off. He must be feeling pretty bad. Foggy takes Matt’s flailing hand and guides it to the glass. 

“Thanks,” Matt says, grudging. Foggy knows how much Matt hates feeling helpless, so he shrugs. Matt drains the glass, and manages to get it back on the coffee table without smashing it. “I’m fine, really.”

“Yeah, sure,” Foggy says.  Matt really does look miserable. He has dark circles under his eyes, and his breaths come short. Foggy casts about and spots a blanket hanging over the back of one of the armchairs. He picks it up, shakes it out, spreads it over Matt. God, he hates this asshole. “Ribs?”

Matt nods, curtly, then says, “You don’t need to stay.”

“Oh, I know.” Foggy paces over to the window and looks through one of the grimy panes, down into the darkened alley, still with the heavy humidity of summer, then back over his shoulder. “Want to tell me what happened tonight?”

“C’mon, Foggy. What do you want here?” Matt squirms slightly, pulling the blanket around himself.

“Whatever. I’ll get out of your hair.” Foggy turns and leans against the brickwork, holds up a finger. “Just tell me one thing.”

Matt raises a questioning brow, as his hands squeeze the blanket.

“What’s CPLR 3211?” Foggy asks.

Matt frowns in confusion. “What?”

“You heard me. CPLR 3211. What is it? What’s it for?” 

“Motion to dismiss?” Matt replies. “Or is this something cryptic?”

Foggy relaxes and wanders closer to Matt. “Nah, you got it right. I’m just testing your lucidity.” Testing that Matt’s safe to be on his own.

“With my knowledge of New York’s consolidated laws?”

“It’s not something you’d forget easily.”

Matt concedes the point by tilting his head. “So now you  want me to dismiss you?”

“Don’t imagine you’re the one calling the shots, here.” Foggy stands where he is, studying Matt’s face while he tries to decide between coffee, alcohol, and the door. “You know it would be an enormous pain in my ass if you died, right?” Foggy asks. “So I need you to promise that if I leave you won’t die.”

“I will never die,” Matt quotes, the corner of his mouth quirking.

Foggy snorts, suddenly on the edge of laughter. "Yeah. Okay, Gary." He sobers, looking again at Matt’s taut face. “Don’t lie to me. Are you going to be okay if I leave you alone?”

“I told you, I’m fine.”

Foggy nods absently. “Gary was a better actor than you.” He doesn’t really believe Matt’s ‘fine,’ but Matt also doesn’t look like he’s lining up to shuffle off this mortal coil. “You want any help getting in bed?”

Matt closes his eyes again, shakes his head. “I’m here for the night.” 

“Need the bathroom?”

“Foggy. I’m not an invalid.”

“Okay.” Foggy nods. “Okay. See you, man.”

Matt says nothing as Foggy walks away. It’s for the best, really.

_____

He spots them, a  week or so later, walking towards him on the opposite side of the street. Matt’s grinning like an idiot, and Jess is trying to hide her own smile, looking at him with fondness. Foggy’s glad they’re working together, he really is. Matt needs someone looking out for him, and Foggy appreciates the sporadic texts she sends him. Matt’s even holding her elbow, the way he used to hold Foggy’s. 

Foggy readjusts the strap of his briefcase where it’s suddenly cutting into his shoulder. Because he can’t tear his eyes away he sees Matt’s smile falter, his head tilt, and because Jess is looking right at Matt she catches it, too. She tenses, scans the street as Matt shakes his head slightly and mutters something. Jess relaxes, turns her head to look across the street just as they draw level and locks eyes with Foggy, raising her brows. Foggy half-smiles then looks away and carries on with his journey. He can’t let this derail him. He has clients to meet, a reputation as a capable lawyer to uphold. He even manages to whistle.

And if Karen can’t meet him for drinks that night, and he spends the night crying into his whisky glass alone in his apartment, no one needs to know.

The next day he gets a text.

Sort your shit out

I’m not the one with the shit, he replies.

Then he adds, Thanks for texting last week. 

Jess replies surprisingly quickly. He was pissed at me

He’s an asshole

Agreed

Keep him alive, please, Jones

Jess doesn’t reply to that one.

_____

Foggy sees Matt in other places. At the courthouse, in a cafe. He can’t help but scan him for injuries, knowing that his heart’s pitter-pattering in his chest betrays his concern, and finding no new injuries, subsequent relief. Or pulling at the sight of a poorly-masked limp, a black eye not-so-hidden by dark glasses.

When Foggy sees Matt unexpectedly, he tries to feel revulsion, but he can’t. Instead, being close to Matt Murdock summons pain, and frustration, and despair.  The feeling swirl and threaten to drown him, and he waits for them to coalesce into a single entity, something he can name and vanquish. He expects it to be disgust, loathing, or even hatred, but that hasn't happened yet. And Foggy can’t work out why. So he learns that after he sees Matt he’ll lose his appetite, that his breath will catch, that his body will worry.

There’s something else that he feels, in the centre of his chest, but he stubbornly refuses to name it. All the time and betrayal hasn’t weathered away its rough edges, and it has a habit of spiking him at the most inconvenient times. It would bring him to his knees, if he let it.

Matt always plays their encounters perfectly straight, never betraying what he might be reading from Foggy’s traitorous body, never straying from polite yet distant when they need to interact.

Foggy knows there’s chatter at the courthouse - What happened to Nelson and Murdock? They  were practically married, and now I never see them together. 

Foggy lived through the past months, but he doesn’t know, either. He doesn’t know how they ended up here, and if they can ever get to a new place.

_____

The next time Jess contacts him, she calls. At the panic in her voice he bolts out of his warm bed. Foggy has never heard her panic before.

When he arrives at Matt’s apartment his hands are shaking and he struggles to slide his key into the lock, but before he can manage it the door swings open, revealing a broad chest, clad in a hoodie flecked with bullet holes. Luke nods and steps aside wordlessly as Foggy pushes past him, searching for Matt. 

All the lights are on, which isn’t saying a lot. The poor lighting casts deep shadows, appropriate for a man with too many dark secrets. Foggy has eyes only for Matt, stretched out on the couch again, bare to the waist and with an arcing red line of sutures across his chest. His breathing is so shallow that for a moment Foggy fears the worst. Matt’s deathly pale, his lashes dark against his cheek, and gives no sign whatsoever that he’s clocked Foggy’s arrival. The bright splash of red on the floor paints a picture in crimson that takes Foggy back to another night, another pool of blood. Foggy feels his legs weaken underneath him.

Foggy turns to look at Claire, where she’s kneeling beside the coffee table, cleaning up her supplies. Surgical instruments clatter into a plastic box, alongside the once-sterile wrappings of her surgical kit and little suture packets. It’s less tidy than usual, as though Claire was rushing. Claire’s hands are shaking, and her movements are jerky. She looks like she’s gone beyond her standard frustration, like she’s been grappling with fear.

Claire glances at him, then back at her work. “If Danny hadn’t got here quickly….” Claire cuts herself off and swallows hard, composes herself. “There’s only so much I can do like this.” She gestures angrily and shakily at her supplies, at Matt’s prone form, and throws bloody swabs into the box. “This isn’t an operating theatre.”

Foggy lets out a long, shuddering breath. “Thank you, Claire,” he says. He knows it’s inadequate, that it doesn’t even begin to cover what happened here tonight or any of the other nights before.  . 

Claire pauses, her tidying finished, and there’s a stillness to her. It’s like the night has drawn in, circling the three of them in a hideous diorama. Foggy feels himself frozen and watches as Claire looks at Matt, still as death. She shakes her head minutely, then slowly rises to her feet.

Jess is suddenly there, holding a cup of coffee in Claire’s direction, and the moment passes. Claire takes the cup with resigned relief, and Foggy shivers in surprise. He hadn’t noticed Jess at all. He looks over and sees Danny slumped at the dining table, chopsticks in hand and an empty take-out container beside him.

“Drink that, and I’ll take you home,” Jess tells Claire, then looks at Luke. “You’re in charge of Fisty.” Luke nods, and wanders over to Danny, poking him in the side with a finger.

“Ow!” Danny yelps, and stands up stiffly.

“Quit being so dramatic,” Jess grouses.

“It takes a lot of energy to channel my Qi like that-” Danny begins, but Luke picks him up and hefts him over a shoulder. Danny protests briefly, pounding ineffectually against Luke’s back, then gives up, sagging in defeat. Luke nods at Foggy, and makes for the roof access stairs, disappearing up them more quickly and quietly than a man his size should be able to.

Claire knocks her coffee back, and discards the cup on the table, looks hard at Foggy. “You need to stay with him.”

Foggy nods. “How long will he be like this?”

She shrugs. “He’s lost a lot of blood. Danny’s fist is kinda miraculous, but I think it has limits.”

“Just tell me what I need to know. Please.”

Claire and Jess exchange a look, and Jess clears her throat. “Luke and Danny were working together, Matt and I were doing a different area. Matt got cut bad. It was deep,” Jess supplies. “We were close so I called the others then got him here, and Claire met us, but…” Her already-pale skin turns whiter still, and she swallows hard.

“Luke and Danny showed up when we needed them to,” Claire says. She looks again at Matt, and he watches her watching Matt. “He’s going to need to rest for a few days,” Claire says.

Foggy laughs mirthlessly. “Have you met Matt?” he asks.

“He might not have any choice this time. Keep him warm, make him drink and eat. Call me only if you need to. You know the drill.”

Foggy nods, following Claire and Jess with his eyes as they disappear around the corner. The front door opens and closes, and Foggy is alone with Matt. He rubs his arms, feeling the sudden chill of fall, and looks down at the person he once called his best friend. Matt’s still unconscious, and he looks cold. 

In Matt’s room Foggy digs out socks, sweats, and a hoodie, and the soft blanket Matt keeps at the end of his bed. He spreads the blanket over Matt, and piles the clothing on the coffee table. Foggy allows himself another look at Matt’s face, and he feels the spiky thing flip over in his chest. He tucks in the edges of the blanket, to keep Matt warm, and goes to make himself a coffee.

Foggy’s left a few magazines and a couple of novels at Matt’s apartment, and they’re still in a small, neat pile on the bottom shelf of the bookcase. He retrieves his old, dog-eared copy of Pride and Prejudice, and sits down in the armchair closest to the window. From here the billboard lights Matt’s face, and Foggy can look up every few pages to check that Matt’s still breathing.

Foggy sets the book aside and stretches, and walks over to stand above Matt. Matt’s skin in waxy, but his breathing is smoother, a little deeper. Foggy should be angry at Matt, but he’s just sad, worried and lonely. He wants his best friend back.

Foggy sinks slowly to his knees and reaches up a hand to stroke back Matt’s hair. His skin is clammy, which Foggy remembers tends to happen when someone nearly bleeds out. His stomach twists again with fear for Matt, and for a fleeting moment Foggy imagines a world without Matt in it. It’s a dark place. But Matt is here and breathing. Foggy finds himself leaning in and pressing a gentle kiss to Matt’s forehead. 

Because this is Foggy’s life, Matt chooses this moment to stir and groan, and Foggy jumps back.

“Jess?” Matt asks, eyes pinching tightly.

“Sorry, man, it’s just me.”

“Fog?” Matt croaks, uncertain. “I can’t, I’m not.” He swallows and his eyes open, roving aimlessly and frantically as he brings one hand to the wound on his side. Foggy’s seen Matt’s eyes wander like this before, when he’s disoriented, so he grabs for Matt’s clammy hand and gives it a squeeze. Matt holds on tight, a drowning man clutching a lifering, and the lost look fades from his face. He clears his throat. “When did you get here?”

“A while ago. Jess called me.”

Matt closes his eyes again. “Claire was here.”

“She was.”

“She stitched me up.”

“Ye-es. And I think that, maybe, Danny did the magic healing glowing fist thing? Claire seemed kinda upset.”

“Because Danny took over?”

“More like…” Foggy swallows, fighting down an edge of panic. “She nearly lost you.”

“Oh. Mmm.” Matt pauses, like he’s taking stock of his body. “That tracks.” His tone lacks inflection.

“How do you feel?”

“Fine.”

“Oh fuck you, Murdock.” That earns him a half-smile. “You thirsty?” Foggy asks, reaching for casual, but falling wide of the mark.

Matt swallows, with effort, and licks his lips. “Um. Yes.”

Foggy lets go, and doesn’t miss that Matt flexes his hand, like he hadn’t realised they were still holding each other, before slipping it under the blanket. 

In the kitchen, he fills the electric kettle and puts it on to boil for tea, then retrieves a bottle of water from the fridge. There’s not much food on hand, looks like Danny got to the leftovers, but at least there’s bread for a sandwich.

“It’s late, Foggy. Go home to bed.”

Foggy aggressively ignores this, setting out two mugs with tea bags, and retrieving milk and sugar. He starts slapping together two PB&Js, and finds half a block of dark chocolate in the usual spot. The jug clicks off, and he fills the mugs. The familiarity of the task is soothing, distracting. Matt doesn’t seem to be as aware of Foggy’s movements as he usually is, and he hasn’t tried to sit up. 

As the tea bags steep, Foggy prepares himself for the conversation he knows is coming. He has to be the instigator. 

Tea bags out, Foggy adds milk and honey. Matt doesn’t like his tea sweet, but he gets less choice on a night when he nearly died. Foggy he tucks the water bottle under his arm, picks up the plate of sandwiches and chocolate, and carries Matt’s mug over to the lounge. “You need one of those lap trays they make for old people.”

Matt groans as he pushes himself up into a sitting position. Foggy stuffs a piece of chocolate at Matt’s mouth and he makes a face, but takes it without protest. The blanket has slipped down, and goosebumps stipple Matt’s chest, his nipples standing out, hard. Foggy hands Matt the hoodie and Matt takes it with surprise, running his hands over it to orient himself before slowly and painfully pulling it on and lifting the hood up over his head.

“Drink your tea,” Foggy says, and goes back to collect his own. He snags the whisky bottle and pours a hefty tot into his cup before returning to sit in one of Matt’s armchairs.

“Do I get some of that?” Matt asks. 

“Maybe when you’ve got your blood volume up again.”

Matt’s surprisingly tractable, eating his sandwiches without complaint. Of course, it’s not particularly reassuring because Foggy knows it means that Matt’s got to be feeling terrible. 

They sit in relative silence, Matt seemingly focused on drinking his tea without spilling it, until Foggy realises it’s past 5am. He pulls himself out of the airchair and goes to switch on Matt’s espresso machine. 

When Foggy moves away, Matt reaches for the rest of his clothing. Foggy lurks in the kitchen while Matt dresses slowly, awkwardly, dropping his pants and kicking them under the coffee table. Foggy’s seen this enough times to know better than to offer help. Matt pulls on one sock then sits back, panting. Foggy despairs for Matt and his abysmal sense of self-worth. He wishes he could love Matt into healing, but he knows it doesn’t work like that. When Matt stands to pull up his sweatpants he sways slightly and clutches the back of the couch for balance. Foggy looks away, attends to the coffee, makes his own Irish.

Foggy puts Matt’s coffee on the coffee table in front of him, although Matt’s lying down and doesn’t reach for the cup. Foggy sits down again in the armchair, balancing his mug as he leans back, and fixes Matt with a stare he hopes Matt can feel. 

“So.”

“So. You heading out?” 

“I’m here to look after you,” Foggy says.

Matt scowls a little. “Don’t you have work?”

“It’s Saturday.” Foggy spreads his hands wide, like a magician presenting his trick. “I can stay all weekend.”

Matt makes a noise of frustration. “Just go, Foggy.”

“No can do. I’m staying.”

“You’ve left before.”

Foggy feels a stab of anger. “Because you told me to. You made it very clear that you didn’t want me around again.”

Matt’s jaw tenses, and Foggy takes a deep breath, willing himself to regain some calmness. When he speaks again, he’s proud that his voice doesn’t shake.

“We’ve already been through this, and I have no interest in doing it again.” He takes another breath. “You matter to me, Matt. Once upon a time I met this cool guy and we became friends and spent tons of time together. I even started a business with him.”

“And then you found out he wasn’t who you thought he was,” Matt says, with a wide, dismissive gesture.

“Yeah, and it sucked.” Foggy looks down at the hands in his lap and realises he’s wringing them. 

“So why are you still here? I thought we were done.” 

Foggy looks up at that. “I’m not done.” 

“Foggy. I feel like shit. I don’t want to do this now.” Matt does look like shit, but that’s not the point here.

“Yea, well, you never want to talk about it on the rare day you’re uninjured, so...”

“So drop it.” Matt’s face is blank, emotion masked, facing the wall in front of him, not Foggy.

“Stop pushing me away, Matt”

A flicker of anger crosses Matt’s face. “You’re only here out of a misplaced sense of loyalty.”

“Misplaced? Matt. Why can’t you accept that I want to be here?”

“Because you don’t. Because I’m...”

“What?” 

Matt closes his eyes and tips his head back, inhales like he’s praying for strength.  Then he straightens, facing Foggy head on. “I’m not worth it.”

“This again. You must think I’m a poor judge of character.”

“Maybe when it comes to me,” Matt says, nodding.

“You’re such a selfish asshole.”

Matt nods again, agreeing, which is frankly irritating. “Also, I’m not. Not. I…”

“Not what, Matt? Reliable? A good decorator? Because I already knew that.”

“I’m not.” Matt stops again, takes a deep breath. “It’s not you, it’s me. You know that. I’m just…” Matt still can’t finish the thought.

“Are you trying to say that you’re not likable? Because I think you know that’s not true. You’re… magnetic.”

“Until people find out who I really am.”

Fogy shuffles forward in his seat and rests his elbows on his knees, leaning towards Matt. “Matt, I need you to listen to what I’m about to say. Okay? You have inherent worth as a human, and you matter to me, very much. And that isn’t contingent on us getting along all the time, or you avoiding injury, although I’d really prefer it if you didn’t get hurt. So stop trying to push me away, because I like things a lot better when we aren’t fighting. Or we can squabble, but it’s not the end of the world.”

Matt’s averted his face, away from Foggy and the billboard. He bites his lower lip and shakes his head slightly, and doesn’t reply.

“I love you, man,” Foggy says. “And it hurts seeing you be self-destructive. But that doesn’t stop me loving you.”

Matt squeezes his eyes shut, and Foggy sees a glistening tear slide down the curve of his cheek. Matt’s jaw works, and Foggy waits him out, giving him time to speak.

“There’s a difference between what you tell me I should know, and what I believe,” Matt finally says.

Foggy hates everyone who has left Matt over the years. But he can’t hate Matt.

“You’re so smart, Matt, but you don’t understand feelings at all.”

Suddenly the space between them yawns, impossibly far, and Foggy has to bridge it. In a rush, he stands and moves to sit beside Matt on the couch, and he reaches across Matt’s lap to pick up his left hand from where it’s balled in a fist on his thigh, forcing Matt to turn his shoulders towards Foggy. 

Foggy looks at Matt’s hand. The knuckles are bruised, of course, but it’s the same hand that he’s seen reading, skimming over surfaces in a real or feigned search for information, the same hand that’s so often held firmly but lightly to Foggy’s elbow.

Gently, Foggy unfurls Matt’s fingers, spreading them wide and lifting Matt’s hand to press against the centre of Foggy’s chest, with his own hand spread above it.

The rest of Matt unfurls along with his hand, softening and reaching towards Foggy.

Foggy watches as the lines of tension in Matt’s face ease, and he seems to tune in to the beat of Foggy’s heart. The spiky thing in the middle of Foggy’s chest warms and pulses and softens, and Foggy finally lets himself name it - it is love. Foggy’s love for Matt. And Matt Murdock might be clever with words and stupid with emotions, but no one feels the world the way Matt does.

Foggy leans forward and kisses Matt’s forehead again, gentle and warm, then presses his forehead to Matt’s.

“I’m tired, Foggy.”

Foggy murmurs in agreement. “I know. So am I. And I miss you.”

Matt reaches with his other hand to cup Foggy’s shoulder, a finger playing over the scar under the sleeve of Foggy’s sweater.

Foggy kisses Matt’s forehead again, then pulls back slightly. “You haven’t touched that scar before, have you?” Foggy asks. Matt pulls his hand away, like he’s just realised what he’s doing, and shakes his head, frowning. “It’s okay.” Foggy has to release Matt’s other hand, but he shrugs his left arm out of its sleeve and pulls the bottom edge of his sweater up so that his entire arm and half his torso are bare. “Feel away.”

Cautiously, Matt reaches out with his right hand and touches one fingertip with unerring accuracy, exactly where the bullet left its mark. Foggy watches as fleeting emotions chase each other across Matt’s face. “I’m sorry I didn’t visit you in the hospital,” Matt says. He presses his palm flat over the scar for a moment, lifting his hand away only to press a kiss of his own to Foggy’s skin, to his scar. Foggy shivers.

Matt’s hand moves again, sensitive fingertips trailing from Foggy’s arm across to his chest and grazing a nipple. He pauses, all five fingertips there with the lightest of touches over Foggy’s heart, before his hand spreads out. Foggy feels the contact like it’s a brand.

Foggy lifts his right hand. He has to unzip Matt’s hoody, but then he’s pressing his own hand over Matt’s heart, and confusion, joy and hope are chasing each other across Matt’s face.

Matt leans forward and kisses Foggy on the lips. It’s sweet and gentle, but when Matt presses in more firmly Foggy moves back.

Matt doesn’t look like he’s about to jump out the window, but he does look uncertain. “You don’t want...?” Matt asks.

“Oh, I do. You have no idea. But you’re hurt and tired and you have a very soft bed in the next room, and maybe we’ve done enough talking for now.”

“Want to spoon?” Matt asks, and the hope on his face nearly breaks Foggy’s heart.

“Yes I do, my spoony little friend. And we can talk later.”

Matt smiles, and it’s like seeing the sun burst over rain-drenched lands that had almost forgotten a sun existed. “Later.” And Foggy takes Matt’s hand in his, helps him carefully to his feet, and leads him to bed.

[phantomphangphucker]

Ectober Day 26: Aim - Would You Like Some Bullets With That, Sir?

Vlad would absolutely have a few people who want him extra dead and maybe one or two actually willing to try. Too bad that doesn’t really work when the guy’s already half-dead. In fact, it does pretty well nothing other than provide mild amusement. Danny gets more of a kick out of it than the billionaire does though.

Danny and Vlad were having a decent walk and talk, a decent bonding experience. Surprising, he knows. But one of the key words there was ‘were’, because of course him and Vlad can’t be getting along without pissing off the universe.

Danny had been pointing the straw of his green tea matcha Frappuccino, with more than a couple espresso shots mixed in, at Vlad; trying to explain the nuances of food-related puns, because if he’s going to influence one thing it’s going to be Vlad’s tendency to use foods as swears. Vlad wasn’t exactly being receptive but hey, neither was Danny on the whole ‘etiquette’ lessons the man was trying to give him. But all that got interrupted when a big ass stereotypical white van pulled up with a screech and the doors slide open to a dude with a fucking machine gun. Well fine, handheld Gatling gun is more accurate but sounds a little less cool; besides it’s still technically a machine gun. Which is, in Danny’s opinion, massive fucking overkill. Vlad would be inclined to agree.

Needless to say, they get shot. A lot. Repeatedly. It’s very loud.

All the bystanders around physically pause, stunned a bit stupid that this was happening in Amity of all places not to mention rather desensitised to violence; regardless everyone starts booking it because, y’ know, big ass gun. Vlad actually crouches and moves to cover his head while flashing angry red eyes, he’s dealt with a fair few assassination attempts but in broad daylight? Really? He’ll give them a few points for having the guts. Danny meanwhile, is way too used to getting shot at to even react beyond just standing there at first, before glancing at his cup -which is draining all its contents through the holes onto the road- and grumbling a bit. The gun man stops when Danny bends over and starts laughing though. Even Vlad gives Danny some concerned looks as Danny waves the gun guy off with one hand on his knees, “sorry! It’s- it’s just! Just that! No ones ever-ever shot me! Shot me with a real- real gun!”. Danny sits on the ground and continues laughing while effectively bleeding out of multiple holes as flesh starts moving to slowly repair itself; which clearly the men have noticed and are scared shitless by, as both he and Vlad can feel, see, and smell the fear coming off the truck.

Vlad huffs, stands himself upright and goes about brushing off and inspecting his suit. Huffing again and turning to the van, crossing his arms, “I do believe you owe me a new suit, young man”. Someone inside the vehicle chokes. Danny thinks that’s a pretty reasonable reaction here. But there’s literally zero fucking point of them acting human here, because fuck they were both riddled with bullet holes and their blood was very literally splattered around the ground. Might as well scare these assholes a little.

Hence why Danny sticks a finger in one of the larger holes due to multiple bullets going through the same general area and giggles, “huh, that tickles”, and grins meanly at the driver who looks absolutely disturbed and too far into shock to try driving away yet. Though thinking of it, Vlad might actually try to kill them; tit for tat was absolutely Vlad’s primary go-to in any situation. Hence their arguably insanely prank wars. So Danny stands up and promptly launches himself inside the vehicle, knocking over the man with the bloody machine gun -seriously, how is that not overkill- and landing with his feet on the guys chest. Danny’s pretty sure the guy wet himself. Which, ew, but understandable.

“Okay I’m feeling nice because this is absurdly hilarious and would qualify as some ridiculous ass overkill for normal folks. Kinda pointless against immortals though, dontcha think?”, turning his head to look at Vlad -who’s quirking a single well-groomed eyebrow while his eye goes about repairing itself- through the door, “what do ya think?”.

Vlad walks over calmly and humming, “well I’ll give them points for accuracy, they hardly damaged the surroundings at all. Which I find I can appreciated since that avoids me having to make yet another dip into the damages funds. And I’ll be generous and give another point for dramatics; board daylight, middle of the city, biggest high-powered rapid-fire weapon anyone’s ever aimed at me, the sudden loud noise. Why I’m almost impressed. But I do find the overall end result to be rather lacking”. Vlad kicks one of the front tires hard enough to puncture it while the driver starts scrambling and fumbling to attempt at driving off. The psssssh sound the tire makes actively increases the smell of fear filling the van. Understandable, these guys had effectively just lost their getaway vehicle.

Danny chuckles, “aww, looks like someone’s not going anywhere anytime fast”, Danny grins meanly and flashes his green eyes. The guy passes out. “Ah damn, he passed out”, shrugging, “eh, hopefully he’ll think this was just some bad dream”.

Vlad hums as he climbs in, ecto-beaming another guy in the head to knock him out. Huh, guess Vlad’s really truly genuinely chilled out some in the evil villain department. “Yes that would be preferred, Daniel. I take it Phantom will be delivering these men to the jailhouse after having shielded the mayor and a young boy at the last second”.

Danny snorts as he gets off the gunman and kicks the driver in the head; the guys head bouncing off the steering wheel and obviously knocking him the Hell out. “Obviously. And hey, why not say Phantom healed any injuries to boot. Not like anyone’s sure about the power set of that spooky bastard”, and smirks. Talking about himself like a different person was arguably not necessary right now, no one was around after all, but hey it was kinda funny.

Vlad nods, riffles through the mens’ pockets and pockets all their cash. Which Danny rolls his eyes at, “old bank robber habits die hard?”. Vlad rolls his eyes, “hardly. This is simply to repay me for the damages. This was a nice suit I’ll have you know”. Which Danny rolls his eyes right back at him over while Vlad hops out of the vehicle, looks around, readjusts the remaining scraps of his suit, and saunters off; grabbing a surprisingly intact handkerchief from a definitely not intact pocket and starts dabbing blood off his face, hair, and hands. Danny’s not going to question why the man doesn’t just phase it off or reabsorb it into his body again.

Danny closes the vehicle doors purely to attempt at not transforming directly in open view in the middle of the street. Grabbing up the three guys before pausing and deciding eh why not and telekinetically floating the freaking machine gun onto his back and making that invisible. Flying off through the vehicle's roof.

-

Danny unceremoniously drops the men on the jailhouse floor, “gotcha a present. They tried to unload, like, a bazillion bullets into the dear ol’ mayor”.

Officer Jay sighs, “we were getting some calls about a shooting? But with regular guns”, motioning a few other cops to drag the guys away.

Danny chuckles and nods, “try machine gun”, the cop almost chokes while Danny continues, “not that that is particularly effective on intangibility”.

The cop looks him over, obviously noticing the healing bullet wounds here and there. Healing however many bullet holes takes time you know! “Obviously you weren’t quite fast enough”.

Danny shrugs, “eh, blowing a bunch of holes in a ghost doesn’t really do much other than make a mess. Mayors cool though”.

“That’s... good”, Jay shakes his head, “well, we’ll take care of these guys and I doubt they legally had a machine gun. You didn’t just leave that out in the street did you?”. Danny waves the guy off nonchalantly, “Fenton was there too, took it as his plundered booty”, he makes a point to make that last bit sound pirate-like. The cop sighs and rubs his temples, “so there’s a seventeen-year-old running around with a machine gun”.

“Yup”, absolutely popping the ‘p’.

Danny easily hears the guy mutter, “somedays I would really like to quit”, before looking back to him, “well that family has every weapon license known to man, so I’m not even going to bother. Have a good day and a fulfilling afterlife”. Danny salutes with a cheeky grin before phasing up through the roof.

-

Sam and Tucker don’t so much as blink from Danny suddenly appearing from around a corner and barging in-between the two of them, “hey guys, some guys left me a little present”

Both give a mildly interested and slightly worried, “oh?”. Which is fair, Danny has described getting a taser stuck in his leg as ‘a present’ before.

He grins a bit psychotically, makes the gun visible, and whips it around to be holding it in his hands, “a machine gun!”.

Sam slows her pace slightly, just enough to no longer have a freaking mini-gun pointed at her stomach, “that’s nice Danny”. While Tucker looks much more excited, “Holy frick that’s awesome. Where’d that come from though?”.

Sam sighs, “or more specifically how and why. Ghosts don’t exactly use human weapons and ‘some guys’ is vague as shit”.

Danny chuckles, because that who ordeal was still stupid funny. “Curtsy of one poorly informed assignation attempt in dear ol’ uncie Vlad”.

Tucker blinks, “wait, someone actually tried to assassinate him”, then pauses, “wait no, of course someone tried to assassinate Vlad. He’s Vlad”. Making all three chuckle while Danny fiddles with the massive ass barrel.

All three grin viciously when they spot Dash and co. across the street. Danny deciding to yell, “hey Dash!”, and easily tilting the machine gun up due to, y’ know, super strength, and fires off a bunch of bullets into the air; extending his intangibility to the bullets of course so that they don’t actually hit anything and forming some ectoplasm ‘round his friends' ears so he doesn’t, like, blow out their eardrums or some shit.

Dash stares at him a little bug-eyed before scowling, sticking his arms out to the side, and shouting back, “I haven’t bullied you in a year! Why you still giving me vague ass death threats!”.

Danny cackles, aims the gun to shoot the sign over the assholes head, and riddles it with bullets, “it’s payback bitch!”. Sure Danny would never have done that if he wasn’t absolutely certain his aim was so fucking flawless that there was zero chance of him hitting anything other than what exactly he wanted to. And sure, maybe he swirled some invisible ectoplasm around the bullet trajectory too but no one needs to know that. Dash predictably staggers back, flips him off, and books it down the road.

Danny lowers the gun with a chuckle, “that was fun. So worth getting shot a few times”. Sam blinks at him and looks more than a little not impressed, “you actually got shot, Danny”.

Danny rolls his eyes, “what, in any world, would make you think I didn’t get shot”. Sam just huffs, obviously having no argument for that. Because yeah, Danny always got shot or stabbed or electrocuted or set on fire or a lot of other things.

Tucker shakes his head, “and yet you look totally fine”.

Danny rolls his eyes, “Tuck, what can a regular ol’ bullet do to me”. That gets both his friends to blink and give him disbelieving, “wait, they weren’t even ecto-bullets”. Tucker shaking his head with a laugh at Danny’s nod, “wow, whoever really did, like, zero research”.

“I know right. We scared them real good though”.

Tucker laughs a bit more, “never before have I actually wished to be at a shooting”, shrugging, “first for everything”.

“Amen to that”, Danny emphasises that statement by smacking the gun.

End.

[lets-talk-appella]

i’m nobody’s but yours

Chapter 13/25 - Chloe

Summary: Beca is straight as an arrow. 100%, totally, completely straight. Except for one problem that 100%, totally, completely changes everything: Chloe Beale.

Title borrowed from Calum Scott’s “If Our Love Is Wrong.”

Word Count: 5k

Rating: M (for dark themes, homophobia, masturbation, and eventual smut in later chapters)

AO3, FFN, and below.

“Chlo? Where are we going?”

“Shh.”

“Not one hint?”

“Shh.”

“Is it going to be horrible?”

“Do you want me to tape your mouth shut?”

“Can you do that without taking the hood off?”

Chloe takes her eyes off the road momentarily to look to her right, where Beca sits buckled into the passenger seat with a Hood Night hood over her head.

“If you keep complaining, I can always get my handcuffs,” she grins, expecting Beca to dissolve into a mess of awkward sputtering.

Instead, Beca shoots back, “Save those for later.”

The speed of the response is shocking and more than a little arousing. It makes Chloe’s grip on the wheel tighten and her foot press more firmly against the accelerator, sending her car zooming forward through traffic and closer to their date destination.

Chloe supposes she should have known better than to goad Beca; over the past week, Beca has become more comfortable with making quips like that. Chloe’s normally the flirty one, but having Beca flirt back has been enthralling.

It’s been a week since their first date. They haven’t kissed. They haven’t told the Bellas, they haven’t had a lot of alone time, they haven’t labeled their relationship, and they haven’t kissed.

To compensate (because sometimes Chloe feels like she’s going to die if she doesn’t touch Beca), she might brush by Beca closer than strictly necessary so their bodies can touch. Or her hand will find Beca’s thigh under the table at dinner and rest there. Or Beca’s head will fit itself against her shoulder while they cuddle under a blanket at Bella Movie Night. They’ve done that before, but now with the added bonus of linking their hands under the blanket.

Touching Beca is intoxicating. She needs it like she needs air to breathe.

Chloe pulls into the parking lot of their date destination, biting her lip to keep herself from squealing in excitement. It’s somewhere Beca never would have gone by herself, and she hopes Beca won’t totally hate her for this, but she knows that they’ll have fun. Once Beca takes a second to process, anyway.

She finds a parking spot between an SUV and a smaller car, then pats Beca on the knee.

“Don’t take off the hood yet,” she warns.

“But –”

“Let me help you out and we’ll take it off outside so you can get the full effect.”

“Oh, joy,” Beca deadpans, but Chloe knows she’s just putting on a show. By the way Beca’s right knee bounces, she can tell Beca’s excited, too.

With a final smile at Beca, even though she can’t see it through the hood, Chloe jumps out of the driver’s side and hurries around to Beca’s passenger door. She takes a quick look around before opening the door – it would put a bit of a damper on their date if some good Samaritan were to call the police on her for hauling around a person with a hood on their head. After making sure they’re relatively alone, Chloe opens Beca’s door and takes her right hand.

“Okay, just climb out,” Chloe says. “I’ll make sure you don’t trip.”

Beca grumbles but unbuckles her seat belt and allows Chloe to guide her slowly out of the car. Chloe is sure to keep her hand protectively between Beca’s hooded head and the frame of the car – Beca getting a concussion would also put a damper on the date.

Once Beca is completely out of the car, Chloe steers her by the shoulders so that she’s facing the building they’re parked in front of.

“Ready?” she asks.

“This is a kidnapping,” Beca complains, but Chloe can hear curiosity in her tone.

“A sexy date-kidnapping,” replies Chloe, grinning when Beca’s shoulder muscles tense under her hands. “Here we go!”

Smoothly, Chloe lifts the hood from Beca’s head and moves so she can see her face. She watches Beca blink, first at the brightness of the day, then in confusion as she registers the letters on the side of the building, proclaiming Ricky’s Roller Rink and Arcade. A symphony of emotions cross Beca’s face: first recognition, then surprise, then horror, which finally eases into exasperation.

“No.”

“Yes.”

“Chloe. No way.”

“Yes!”

“I’ll die!”

“I’ll catch you,” Chloe promises, crossing her heart.

“I’ve done this, like. Twice,” Beca groans.

“I know. I’ll hold your hand.”

Beca rolls her eyes, and Chloe already knows she’s won. “I took you on a nice, stable grounded picnic, and you’re doing this to me? Making me rollerblade?”

“Well…” Chloe hedges, taking mercy on Beca. “It’s really more the pizza and arcade that go with the rollerblading. We’ll only do that part if you want to.”

“Oh!” Beca stops, surprised. She seems to think for a second before shrugging, if reluctantly. “Well. In that case, I guess it’s fine. For the pizza.”

“Aca-awesome,” Chloe smiles, then laughs when Beca rolls her eyes.

She reaches down to link their hands together and, pretending she doesn’t notice Beca’s furtive glance around the lot, leads them inside the building.

They’re greeted at the welcome desk inside the front door by a teenage boy, maybe sixteen or seventeen, dressed in the arcade’s brightly-colored polo and wearing a neon orange hat with the name of the rink splashed across the front of it in black text. He has braces and a smattering of acne across his cheeks, but that doesn’t stop him from grinning at them enthusiastically when they walk in.

“Welcome to Ricky’s!” he greets. “What kind of ticket would you like?”

“Um,” Chloe replies, scanning the display behind him. “Let’s go with the couple’s special. That includes laser tag, right?”

Beca’s hand tightens around her own, but the teenager doesn’t even bat an eye.

“Yep, the couple’s special comes with laser tag, a pizza and drinks, five arcade games, and a set of rollerblades. Is that all?”

“Sounds perfect,” Chloe smiles, digging in her purse for her wallet.

“I can –”

“I’ve got this, babe,” Chloe cuts off Beca’s attempt to chip in on the tickets. This is her treat.

“Uh – thanks,” Beca replies, looking at her a little strangely.

Chloe pays for their arcade passes, then they turn to survey the building. It’s massive, set up in a sprawling design that probably only makes sense to the preteens who frequent it on the weekends. The roller rink is on the far side, taking up almost the entire right half of the building. A dining area with a pizza stand and a pop bar separate the rink from the scores of arcade games placed haphazardly in what might be a rectangular pattern. Beyond that, a doorway with a sign proclaiming “Laser Tag” set up above it seems to branch away from the main arcade area. Thankfully, for a Thursday afternoon, the place is relatively empty, with only a few older-looking teenagers running around.

“So,” Chloe breathes, suddenly nervous. “Is this an acceptable second date?”

Beca looks at her, her expression giving nothing away. “Well…” she starts seriously, before her face splits into a wide grin. “Only if you’re ready to have your ass kicked at air hockey!”

“In your dreams,” Chloe scoffs, and then they’re off.

Chloe knows Beca is a competitive person – you don’t co-lead a world-renowned a cappella group with someone and not realize how competitive they are – but she had no idea that competitive spirit bled over into something as simple as arcade games. She soon learns, though.

Because they have five arcade games to play with their tickets, they first decide on air hockey, foosball, Skee-Ball, and Dance Dance Revolution; Chloe is horrible at foosball, but wins the game of Skee-Ball, and they tie at Dance Dance Revolution. That’s when, instead of choosing a game they haven’t played yet, Beca insists on a second round of air hockey because she lost the first time.

“Alright,” she says seriously, cracking her knuckles and rolling out her shoulders while Chloe tries not to giggle at her. “This game is it. This is everything. Whoever wins this becomes Grandmaster Champion of the Universe.”

“Oh?” Chloe asks, arching an eyebrow. “I noticed that rule didn’t apply when you missed all but two cups during Skee-Ball.”

“Didn’t count then,” Beca insists with as much dignity as she can muster. “This is, like, the tie breaker. Of everything.”

“Okay,” Chloe says, deciding not to point out that even if Beca wins this game, they’re still technically tied evenly in arcade game wins.

Beca waggles her eyebrows grandly and, with all the seasoned confidence of an air hockey pro, drops the puck onto the table and nearly knocks it into her own goal.

“I meant to do that,” she insists when Chloe laughs. “Throw you off guard.”

“Mmm.”

Once Beca does successfully start the game, she plays with an intensity that Chloe has only seen her display on stage of their bigger performances. Her eyes are zeroed in on the puck, tracking its every movement, and she moves her paddle with grace and agility, concentrating so hard on the game that Chloe doesn’t think she’s even aware of the way the tip of her tongue pokes out from her mouth.

It’s kind of hot.

That is, until Beca’s fingers, dangling over the edge of the wall and into the “rink” area, are smashed by a poorly-aimed puck from Chloe.

“Fuck! Ouch, shit, dammit –”

“Are you okay?!” Chloe exclaims, running around the table to get to her. “Here, let me see –”

She pulls Beca’s hand into both of her own, examining it for damage, just in time to register the telltale clunk of the puck dropping into her unattended goal.

She looks up from Beca’s (red and bruised-looking) fingers to see a supremely smug look on Beca’s face.

“Shouldn’t have let your guard down,” Beca grins, nodding at the score. She’d won with the last goal.

Chloe huffs in mock annoyance; if Beca can still get a goal with her uninjured hand and brag about it, she’s not badly hurt.

“Cheap move!” Chloe protests. “You distracted me!”

“You’re the one who smashed my fingers!”

“Shouldn’t have dangled them over the edge like that,” Chloe says, then follows with, “I’m starting to care more and more about your fingers lately.”

The shock and understanding that flash across Beca’s face make losing the game totally worth it. With a wink, Chloe leans in and presses her lips against the more bruised-looking fingers on Beca’s right hand.

“Yeah, well,” Beca huffs, apparently recovering. “That helps.”

“I’m glad,” Chloe grins. “So, Grandmaster Champion of the Universe, you wanna get some pizza?”

As if on cue, Beca’s stomach rumbles loudly.

“Great,” Chloe says, taking that as an answer. “Let’s go order.”

They walk over to the dining area and put in the order for a cheese pizza, and while that’s cooking, Chloe manages to talk Beca into trying a couple laps of rollerblading.

The rink is wide open, apart from a couple of teenagers still zooming around it. Chloe leads Beca to the side of the rink, where they pick out their skates. Chloe tries not to laugh when Beca has to hunt for a size small enough to suit her.

When they have the skates in hand, they go to the little outcropping in the blading area and strap them on. Once they’re both ready, they sit, Chloe waiting for the go-ahead from Beca that doesn’t seem like it’s going to come. Beca’s not saying much, which raises a red flag in Chloe’s mind.

“Hey,” she says, resting her hand over Beca’s for a second. “We don’t have to, if you really don’t want to.”

“Hmpf,” Beca grumbles. “First you smash my hand, now you’re gonna strap wheels to my feet and expect me not to die.”

“I won’t let you fall. I promise,” Chloe reassures her quietly.

Beca’s expression softens. “I know you won’t,” she says. “I trust you.”

Chloe isn’t quite prepared for the warmth that washes over her at that simple phrase. It shouldn’t trigger that much emotion, maybe, but the way Beca says it and the way she looks at her makes Chloe think that when Beca said it, she meant a different three-word phrase.

“Okay, right,” Chloe says, trying to shake that from her mind. “Let’s, uh, try it. We’ll go slow.”

And they do go slow. Beca’s left hand never leaves Chloe’s right as they half-skate, half-wobble around the rink two, three, four times, until Beca’s movements smoothen and she becomes more confident with every stroke. By the fifth lap, though, the man working the pizza stand is waving them down, and Beca looks too relieved at the idea of getting the skates off her feet for Chloe to be able to justify continuing.

They wrap up their final lap, find that same outcropping in the rink, and pull the skates off their feet in favor of their regular shoes before heading over to collect their pizza. Beca grabs them a table, across the dining area from a group of four teenage girls, and they sit to eat.

“See?” Chloe can’t resist asking. “That wasn’t so bad.”

Beca shrugs, pizza in hand. “It could have been worse. Thanks for not letting me fall,” she adds more sincerely.

“Of course,” Chloe answers. “We can’t have any more injuries.”

Beca flexes her hand, checking it for damage. “I think I’ll survive,” she grins, then takes another bite of pizza.

Chloe’s just about to reach for her third slice when one of the teenagers from the larger group across the room arrives at their table.

“Uh, hi,” the girl says a little awkwardly. “It’s my friend’s birthday, and we wanted to play laser tag, but we’re two players short. Would you like to…” she trails off, gesturing toward the laser tag area.

Chloe looks beyond the girl at the three others sitting at the table, all watching them carefully. She waves in their general direction, not sure which is the one with the birthday, before checking with Beca.

“I’m okay with that if you are?” she asks. “We have the ticket for it, anyway.”

Beca glances toward the girls, too, then looks down at the pizza.

“After you’re done eating,” the girl says in a rush, turning a little pink. “You don’t have to –”

“No, it’s okay,” Beca interrupts. “We’ll do it on one condition.”

The girl nods enthusiastically and Chloe waits, not sure what Beca’s going to say.

“Take a picture of us?” Beca asks, extending her phone to the girl, whose eyes widen.

“Sure!” she agrees enthusiastically. “Oh, I’m the best with Instagram and finding filters, I’ll make you two look so good…”

She rambles on, but Chloe’s stopped listening. She’s too focused on Beca moving her chair closer to her, pressing into her side. When Beca wraps an arm around her waist, Chloe sinks into it so naturally that it’s like they’ve been doing this for years rather than barely a week. Beca’s hair tickles her cheek, but Chloe refuses to pull away. She just smiles for the camera, already knowing she’s going to make Beca send that to her so she can make it her new lock screen.

The girl takes multiple pictures from multiple angles, all the while assuring them they look “super cute,” and hands Beca back her phone with a smile.

“Thanks,” Beca says, scrolling through the pictures quickly to check them.

Looking over her shoulder, Chloe has to agree with the girl; they look good together.

“So…” the girl prompts, and Chloe stands to get to-go boxes for their pizza. They could have finished the last two slices, but it’s pretty obvious the girls at the table are impatient.

She and Beca join them, make introductions, and file past the arcade games to get to the laser tag area. There, another teenage employee explains the rules and splits them into teams: two of the girls plus Beca on the Blue team, and the other two plus Chloe on the Red team.

“You’re going down, Beale,” Beca hisses under her breath as the clock times down to start.

“Nope,” is all Chloe says, knowing it’ll only make Beca even more competitive. Sure enough, Beca huffs a laugh and starts bouncing in place, full of energy.

The buzzer goes off and Chloe steps inside the dark maze, blinking so her eyes adjust to the blacklight filling the room; she glances down at herself, the whites in her clothing and shoelaces glowing in the semidarkness. It’s confusing, at first; all she can do is keep moving, hearing the five other people with her shuffling along behind the maze walls. At one point, one of the girls on her team flies past in front of her, and Chloe has to stop the knee-jerk reaction to aim and fire at her own teammate.

But then, rounding a corner, she sees a one of the girls on the Blue team crouched and peering around a wall, her back to Chloe. Grinning to herself, Chloe raises her laser gun and aims. Before she can fire, though, something latches onto the back of her vest and tugs, and she’s sent careening backward with an inelegant squawk of surprise.

“Shh!” Beca laughs, her teeth bright in the black light as she pulls Chloe into a corner of the maze. “You’re gonna get their attention!”

“Is this a plot?” Chloe asks suspiciously. “Are you trying to make my team lose?”

Beca grins and shakes her head, looping her arms around Chloe’s waist to pull her closer. “Nah. I just wanted to say hi and didn’t think it was fair to shoot from behind... like you were about to do.”

“Yeah, I’m not above that,” Chloe admits casually, heart fluttering at the proximity to Beca.

“Clearly,” Beca agrees, then speaks even more softly. “Those photos of us are really nice.”

“They are,” Chloe says, hands landing on Beca’s hips. The thought of where this might be going makes her feel like she needs to steady herself.

“And, earlier,” Beca continues, whispering now, their faces only inches apart. “I liked when you called me ‘babe.’”

“When?”

“At the desk. When we came in.”

“I didn’t even notice,” Chloe breathes honestly, her eyes dropping to Beca’s slightly parted lips.

“I liked it.”

Beca’s leaning in then, until she’s so close that Chloe’s not sure if the pounding pulse she hears is her own or Beca’s. Chloe closes her eyes, shivering when she feels Beca’s breath ghosting over her lips. Their noses nudge together, sending a thrill through Chloe’s body. All it would take is one final tilt in from either of them, and the entire world would shift.

With a shaky breath that Chloe can both hear and feel, Beca closes the distance.

Beca’s lips are soft and warm against hers. They’re both still, lips just touching, until Chloe pulls back to lightly rest her forehead against Beca’s.

“Bec…”

Chloe’s not sure who leans forward this time, but then they’re kissing again and everything else is wiped from her mind. Beca’s lips grow more direct and she changes the angle gently, and Chloe can hardly believe that this is Beca, finally kissing her, but when she reaches forward to rest her hands on Beca’s waist, the solid presence reassures her until she’s giving in completely. Chloe tilts her head more into it, parting her lips to make the kiss softer, warmer, and drawn-out, nestling Beca’s bottom lip between hers.

A sound leaves Beca then, just a little hum in the back of her throat, not quite a whimper but almost, and it makes Chloe’s hands tighten on Beca’s waist. She feels Beca’s hands trace up her arms, dancing over her collarbones to rest lightly on either side of her neck. Leaving tingling, twitching skin in its path, Beca’s left thumb traces under her jaw until Chloe’s certain Beca can feel the fluttering of her pulse.

Beca’s lips turn more insistent, pressing even closer. One of Beca’s hands slides into Chloe’s hair, cradling the back of her head. This time, Chloe’s the one to make a noise, a breathy gasp that makes Beca chuckle against her lips. Chloe’s hands slide around Beca’s hips, tracing up her lower back until they encounter the laser tag vest.

Chloe’s not sure how long they kiss. A few seconds, maybe a minute at most, but when the kiss reaches its natural end and she pulls away, her head is spinning and she can’t stop smiling. Beca’s smiling right back, the flush on her cheeks visible even in the semidarkness.

Chloe steps away carefully, her hands dropping from Beca’s sides. Her lips tingle where Beca had kissed them, and she wants more than anything to continue it, but they are still technically in public with a group of teenagers running around somewhere in the laser tag maze.

She feels like she should say something, but doesn’t know what.

That’s when Beca, grinning cheekily, lifts her laser gun and shoots Chloe point-blank, making her vest buzz and light up.

“Gotcha.”

***************

“Wait, why’d you swipe no on him, he was cute!” Stacie protests, peering over Chloe’s shoulder.

“Eh, not my type,” Chloe dismisses, scrolling through some brunette’s profile next.

“Cute isn’t your type?” Stacie asks sarcastically.

“Guess not,” Chloe snaps back. She’s tired of this stupid app. She swipes no again.

“Ooh, her!” This time, Stacie practically pounces on Chloe to get her to swipe yes on an admittedly very attractive blonde woman.

Chloe swipes no and closes the app. “Look, this is stupid. I’m really not into anyone on here.”

“How?” Stacie asks with wide eyes. “Chloe, you’ve been single for as long as I’ve known you. That’s… like three years. That’s insane.”

“I date,” Chloe replies defensively, crossing her arms.

“Okay, you go on dates. That’s different from dating.”

“I – there’s no one I’ve liked.”

That’s only partially true. Yes, she hasn’t really clicked with anyone, but that has nothing to do with their own shortcomings and everything to do with the fact that they aren’t Beca.

“No one?”

“Nope,” Chloe replies, standing from the couch. “Listen, I’m pretty tired, Stace, I’m gonna head up to bed.”

No matter how hard she tries, no matter how many dates she forces herself to go on, Chloe can’t shake her feelings for Beca in favor of a stranger. It’s just not going to happen.

“But –”

“Good night!” she interrupts, heading for the stairs and hearing a soft, “Night,” thrown at her retreating back.

She deletes the app a few days later, despite the large number of unread messages in her inbox from both guys and girls. It doesn’t matter how many of them she could have tried to date; no stranger can replace the increasingly powerful feelings she has for Beca.

***************

“Bye! Happy birthday!” Beca calls, waving after the group of teenage girls. Chloe smiles goodbye at them, though she’s still not entirely sure which of the girls’ birthdays it is. She carries their leftover pizza in her right hand, her left intertwined with Beca’s. Like the boy at the welcome stand, the girls didn’t give them a second glance for holding hands and acting like a couple.

After the girls are gone, Beca looks at her, eyes alight. “Blue team kicked your team’s ass.”

Chloe grins back and replies, “Only because you distracted me.”

“Excuses.”

Chloe bumps her shoulder into Beca’s, both laughing as they make their way to Chloe’s car. Chloe feels like she’s glowing from the inside out; their second date had been just as wonderful as their first, perhaps even more so, with the kiss.

“Beca! Chloe!”

Chloe stops dead in her tracks, dropping Beca’s hand instantly at the familiar voice. A dense dread settling deep in her stomach, she turns in time to see Beca’s dad, Warren, and his wife Sheila climbing out of their car in the row adjacent to where she and Beca are parked. They’re both smiling, not looking at her with anger or suspicion, so they must not have seen her and Beca holding hands.

“Shit, fuck –” Beca swears softly beside her, then, more loudly, “Dad! What are you guys doing here?”

Chloe winces; she hopes the panic in Beca’s voice is only obvious to her.

Warren and Sheila walk over, weaving between a few parked cars to draw closer to them. Beca shifts her weight, putting distance between her and Chloe; Chloe hears the scuff of pebbles under her feet, acutely aware of every inch newly separating them.

“Don’t sound so pleased to see us,” Warren says with a smile when they’re near enough. “We’re here for a Barden faculty event.”

“At a roller rink?”

“Well, Beca, even us old people can have fun sometimes.”

Chloe glances at the ground, the muscles between her shoulders tensing in response to the strain she feels pouring off of Beca in waves. Chloe’s desperate to reach out and touch her, but she knows she can’t.

“How’re you, Chloe?”

Warren’s question startles her. “Good,” she replies hastily. “Great. You guys?”

Sheila nods, looking around the parking lot. “We’re good, all good. Are the rest of the Bellas still inside?”

Chloe’s blood turns to ice. There’s no way they can lie.

She tries to shift even further from Beca without Sheila or Warren noticing.

“Uh, no,” she replies, thinking quickly. “We figured – that is, Beca and I – figured we could use some, uh, captain bonding time. You know, just prepping things for when Emily takes over,” she finishes, gesturing vaguely.

It doesn’t really make sense – there’s no need to bond as captains now that they’ve graduated, and exactly what “prepping” they could do at a roller rink is beyond Chloe – but Warren and Sheila don’t question it.

“Right,” Warren nods grandly. “I suppose Emily will be taking over, now.”

“Yep,” Beca replies, her voice clipped. “It’s all very… is there anything else, or…?”

Warren’s eyebrows draw together and he looks at Beca quizzically. Chloe wishes a hole would open under her feet and drag her down and out of this situation.

There’s a pause, then out of nowhere, Sheila asks, “Have you heard anything from Jesse?”

Chloe’s stomach jolts.

“What do you mean?” Beca asks quickly.

“Well, you know. I mean, he was always such a nice boy.”

“I…”

“It’s just a shame to let the good ones go, you know. I don’t want you to regret anything,” Sheila says, leaning closer to emphasize her point.

Chloe closes her eyes briefly, hoping it looks like she’s shielding them from the sun.

“It’s for the best, the breakup,” Beca replies firmly. Chloe reopens her eyes; from Beca’s tone, she can tell Beca’s struggling to remain calm. “He’s still my friend, but that’s it.”

Sheila purses her lips. “Well. I’m sure if you asked, maybe he’d be willing to be more than friends again. He’s good for you, Beca.”

“I’m really okay.”

Sheila’s eyes narrow at the icy tone, then turn on Chloe. Chloe swallows, hard.

“And what about you, dear?”

“Sheila…” Warren clears his throat, looking embarrassed, but Chloe can tell Sheila still expects an answer.

Chloe forces her face into what she hopes is a polite smile. “What about me?” she asks, nervous.

“Are there any men in your life?”

Pebbles shift again where Beca stands as she moves another inch away. The anger radiating from her small frame tastes sharp and metallic.

“Oh, no, no men for me…” she tries to answer without placing inflection the “men” part.

“Really?” Sheila’s eyebrows lift. “Honey, with your looks, you should be able to get any cute boy you want.”

From the corner of her eye, Chloe sees Beca look down at the ground.

Chloe doesn’t know what to do but try to laugh it off, panic mounting in her chest by the second.

“I guess… just busy, you know,” she says, fighting to keep her tone even. “With Worlds, and... and I’m applying for internships different places around the country,” she replies, hoping Sheila will take the hint and ask where she’s applied.

“Ah,” Sheila nods. “Right, I’m sure once you move on out of this town, get settled, then the dating will pick up for sure. Between you and me,” her voice drops to a stage-whisper and she grins conspiratorially, “they make them better out there than they do here.”

“They make them okay here,” Chloe replies without thinking, feeling Beca’s wide eyes on the side of her face.

“I’m sure,” Sheila nods amicably.

Warren clears his throat more loudly and makes a show of checking his watch. “Well, I think we should let you girls go. I’m sure you’ve got plenty of – um, bonding activities planned,” he smiles at them.

Chloe hopes her answering laugh doesn’t sound as hysterical as she thinks it might.

“Bye, Beca,” Warren nods at his only child, placing his hand on Sheila’s back to steer her toward the entrance to the roller rink. “Chloe, until next time.”

Beca makes a sort of grunting noise, and Chloe tries for a smile, her cheek muscles feeling stiff. They watch Warren and Sheila go. It’s only until they step inside the roller rink that Chloe realizes she’s holding her breath; she lets it out in a whoosh, the start of a headache mounting in her temples.

She turns to Beca, mouth open, though whether to apologize or ask if she’s okay, Chloe isn’t sure. But the look on Beca’s face, equal parts mournful and exhausted, traps Chloe’s voice in her throat. Beca shakes her head, looks at the ground, and without a word, goes to Chloe’s car and climbs into the passenger seat.

Chloe stares at the car dumbly until her body catches up with her brain. She lurches forward, numb inside, and gets into the driver’s seat, closing the door and muting the world outside.

It’s silent in the car. Chloe doesn’t know what to say.

She risks a glance over. Her chest throbs at the sight; Beca’s leaning her head against the glass of the window, eyes locked on something outside.

Have you heard anything from Jesse?

Well. I’m sure if you asked, maybe he’d be willing to be more than friends again. He’s good for you, Beca.

For the first time, Chloe understands what dating Beca might mean for both of them.

Chloe’s hands grip the wheel so hard her knuckles are white. She can’t bear to look at Beca, scared of what she might see, terrified that their first kiss might be their last.

She starts the car, and, leaving the radio off, backs out of the parking spot, and drives toward the exit.

[wonderfulworldofmichaelford]

Star Wars: Episode VIII - The Last Jedi review

WARNING: THE FOLLOWING REVIEW CONTAINS MASSIVE SPOILERS FOR THE NEW STAR WARS MOVIE, AS GIVING MY HONEST OPINION ON THE WHOLE THING IS NOT SOMETHING I’M CAPABLE OF DOING WITHOUT DISCUSSING THE WHOLE PLOT. YOU HAVE BEEN WARNED.

Star Wars is a franchise very near and dear to my heart. Ever since I was a little boy I’ve been watching these films, filled with a sense of wonder and excitement as I was whisked off to a galaxy far, far away.  I always found myself to be an anomaly among Star Wars fans, as I’ve managed to find enjoyment in the first seven movies; even the prequels are films I don’t really hate, and as derivative as The Force Awakens was it was still a lot of fun. So when I heard how incredibly divisive The Last Jedi was, so divisive that half the fanbase was petitioning to have it stricken from canon while the other half was praising it as one of the best Star Wars movies to date, I figured this would be yet another example of me ending up enjoying a Star Wars movie that was controversial among fans.

I was wrong. Kind of.

I was really disappointed by this movie… and I was really disappointed because a lot of this movie really is as good as some people are saying. I totally see why this is the most divisive Star Wars film to date; there are just just so many great moments interspersed with so many boneheaded decisions, that I can see why anyone would love or hate this. I don’t know if I’m really in either camp. I don’t know how to feel at all. And so, in a break from the norm, I’m going to skip the plot summary here, and I am going to do a sort of bullet point list of the good, the bad, and the ugly parts of this movie and my reasonings for why I liked or disliked said points. It’s a bit of a departure from the norm, I know, but so is this movie.

And again, before we get into it… MASSIVE SPOILERS BELOW:

The Good

Luke Skywalker: One of the absolute best aspects of the movie is Luke. Mark Hamill is at the top of his game here, delivering a very complex performance of a bitter, jaded Luke who has failed in a deeply profound way. It is revealed HE created Kylo Ren in a moment of typical Skywalker impulsiveness, and has had to live with this failure for years. He also gets a lot of funny moments, such as in the recreation of the ending of The Force Awakens; after being handed the lightsaber by Rey, he pauses for a few moments, then chucks the lightsaber over his shoulder before walking away. This really sets the tone for how his character is going to be for the whole film. Then there’s his final showdown with Kylo Ren at the end, which is pretty awesome in and of itself, especially considering… Luke was never there. He was astral projecting from half a galaxy away. Fucking. Awesome. Of course, the toll of this ends up with Luke becoming one with the Force… and while this disappointed me at first, the gorgeous final shot of Luke looking at those two suns before vanishing, perfectly bookending his journey… it was beautiful. I can accept it, even if it hurts. Luke’s portrayal here in the film may be divisive to some fans, but not to me.

Princess Leia: I have absolutely nothing bad to say about Carrie Fisher’s performance. Nothing. This is the last time we’ll get to see her in Star Wars, and she gave it her all. And, best of all, we FINALLY get to see her use the force in the most epically gonzo way you could ever imagine. She uses the Force to survive in the vacuum of space and fly back to safety. Leia could have easily been killed off at that point too, which makes this all the more awesome. Almost every scene she was in had me tearing up, particularly her final interaction with Luke, in which he says “Nobody is ever truly gone.” He’s right. Carrie Fisher and Leia will always be with us, in our hearts, in our memories… God, I’m crying just writing this, time to move on….

Poe: It was good that Oscar Isaac convinced J. J. Abrams to let Poe Dameron live, because boy does he really bring a lot to the table here. Hotheaded, reckless, but with an indomitable spirit and his heart truly in the right place, Poe is the heroic rebel he deserved to be in the previous movie, but never got a chance to be. Not much more to say other than he was great here.

Snoke: Look, I’m a sucker for Andy Serkis. Snoke was cool, creepy, mysterious, and one of the most nightmarishly powerful Force users in the franchise. He had that massive Star Destroyer, he had that gold robe, he had that fucked up face… and in his first scene here he basically calls out Kylo Ren for being a whiny little bitch and tells him to take off his stupid mask. Snoke is a fucking baller… which is why what happens to him two thirds of the way through the film pisses me off (but we’ll get to that later). Trust me, I was fully expecting to find Snoke a massive letdown, but instead I felt more like the movie let down one of the most intriguing antagonists Star Wars has produced in a while.

The Praetorian Guard: On the subject of Snoke, his space samurai ninja laser guards are nothing short of awesome. Following in the footsteps of the legendary stormtrooper with the testicular fortitude to fight off a lightsaber-wielding Finn with nothing but a stun baton and sheer chutzpah, these guys steal the show in their single awesome fight scene, in which together they manage to nearly kill Rey and Kylo Ren. While that might not seem as badass as one regular stormtrooper against a lightsaber-wielding Finn, please recall Rey and Finn are both powerful Jedi who were both trained, however briefly, by some of the most powerful Force users in the galaxy. The fact these guys survived more than ten seconds is nothing short of impressive.

Vice Admiral Holdo’s heroic sacrifice: While Holdo herself, as a character, is… well… pretty sloppy and poorly done overall, her final moments are perhaps the greatest heroic sacrifice ever put to film. Faced against Snoke’s massive ship, which for the record is the width of the state of Rhode Island, and seeing the fleeing rebels get blasted to bits, she turns her ship around, aims it at Snoke’s ship, and activates lightspeed. What follows is one of the most epic and gorgeous shots of the saga; it’s completely devoid of sound, just the sight of Snoke’s ship crippled and the other Star Destroyers bisected. The only reason the scene was silent was likely because they couldn’t get the rights to “Rules of Nature,” which would be the only acceptable thing to play over such an incredible moment.

Yoda: Motherfucking Yoda appears, of all people. Voiced by motherfucking Frank Oz, of all people. And he’s an actual puppet! Of all things! This is the Yoda we all know and love, and even after being dead for decades the little guy is still the biggest baller who ever lived, calling down lightning from the heavens and chastising Luke for being a doofus. Boy was this an unexpected appearance, but damn if it wasn’t a welcome one.

Captain Canady and Paige: The commander of the Dreadnought, I’m pretty sure Canady was the only competent member of the First Order in the entire film. He only appears in the opening scene of course, since as a bad guy he’s required to die, but he really steals the show there alongside the heroic rebel Paige who manages to blow him up (which he seems to gracefully accept in his final moments). Seeing the hypercompetent badasses of both sides is a great start, I must say.

Kylo Ren and Rey: These two finally feel like a proper antagonist and protagonist. They’re very fleshed out and given quite a bit more depth here, with a lot of their more controversial aspects toned down. Ren no longer throws tantrums and acts like a Darth Vader wannabe, Rey gets her ass handed to her a few times and is frequently tempted by the allure of darkness… overall, this movie handles them both a lot better than the previous film which, while not bad, was more of a groundwork for them than anything.

Hux becoming the First Order’s Butt Monkey: I don’t have much to say about this beyond… it’s funny to see Hux get slapped around by everyone.

The Bad

Rose: Rose was truly a pointless character. I have nothing good to say about her, she was an utter waste of space, her subplot with Finn wasn’t interesting, her chemistry with him was lacking, her romantic feelings for him are just exacerbated hero worship… she’s quite frankly one of the most annoying characters in the Star Wars canon, and remember that the Ewoks and Jar Jar exist. It’s a real shame her awesome sister died and we got stuck with this schlub for the movie.

DJ getting shafted for screentime: Now DJ himself is a pretty interesting character, adding a shade of gray to the typically black-and-white stories; he even points out the moral ambiguity of the war that’s being fought. Here’s the issue: they write him out of the movie fairly quickly, without him really getting a chance to shine. He has maybe ten, fifteen minutes of screentime before he betrays Finn and Rose and then fucks off, never to be seen again? Fucking lame. Hopefully he can come back in the sequel, because he deserved a lot better.

Finn: He went from being the best new character of the last movie, to… this. It’s not even so much that he’s a bad character now or anything, but John Boyega is given nothing interesting to do here, and Finn’s character just seems stalled. He doesn’t really progress or develop in any way that feels meaningful.

The casino plotline: Rose and Finn go to the casino to find a hacker. Hijinks ensue. Hijinks that end up amounting to nothing at all and actually end up worsening the situation of the rebels. While I do like all the unique aliens that appeared in the casino, it’s not worth it for such an utterly meaningless plotline that ended up hindering rather than helping. Still, this plotline is not nearly as bad as some people make it out to be. It just feels like some of it could have been trimmed, since so little of it ends up mattering.

The Ugly

Killing Snoke: The worst problems of The Last Jedi lie in how they take all the interesting concepts that were teased in The Force Awakens and then just toss them out the window. Case in point: the mysterious, nightmarish Snoke, built up as the successor to Emperor Palpatine and who is established as a Force master able to pull off some wicked moves… is sliced in half two-thirds of the way through the film. Nothing is revealed about who he is or what he had in mind for Kylo beyond the most basic things. Now, one COULD use the excuse that Palpatine was not exactly fleshed out in The Return of the Jedi, and yet he was still a pretty awesome villain… but the issue with that is that Palpatine at this point had three prequels to flesh him out, so saying “Oh that’s how it was in these old movies before we had characterization!” is BULLSHIT. Making an interesting villain and then tossing him aside like he’s nothing is fucking retarded, no matter what way you slice it. Oh, a nd while we’re on the subject…

Phasma: Once again, Phasma is reduced to an utter joke. She actually has a very rich and complex characterization and backstory… seen in comics and prequel novels but not in the movie. In the movie she gets hit with some Bond villain stupidity and is bested by Finn in one of the shortest fight scenes in the movie. And then she (maybe) dies. If this is truly the end for her – which I have my doubts about – then she truly is the poor man’s Boba Fett and an absolute waste off a character.

Rey’s parents: After all the mystery and buildup to who Rey’s parents could be, the rampant speculation driving fans wild as they tried to uncover the answer, after all the teasing from the creators… it’s revealed they were just a couple of lowlife drunks who sold their kid for pocket change. Like this could be an interesting twist – Rey being a nobody is a pretty shocking subversion of audience expectations – but it leaves a bad taste in my mouth for a lot of reasons. It just feels like, on top of the twenty other twists the movie throws at you, like overkill. This big mystery people were theorizing over? Well fuck it, it doesn’t matter.

Killing Admiral Ackabar: Look, I understand why they did it, his actor passed away so the character dies with him… but god, killing one of the most iconic alien characters of the franchise like that just feels really fucking cheap. And then he gets mentioned one time in passing. I GET he was never a major focus or anything, but this is Admiral “IT’S A TRAP!” Ackbar we’re talking about. The fans love this guy, if you’re gonna kill him you could at least afford  him some more respect and dignity than getting blown up and then mentioned in passing.

What now: My biggest issue is that, now that all the mysteries of the previous film have been tossed aside or answered anticlimactically… what else is there to do? There’s nothing like at the end of The Empire Strikes Back, where Han was frozen and needed to be saved and Vader was still out there, planning his big move. The movie kinda just… ends. Oooh, the rebellion is alive! Kylo Ren is the Supreme Leader of the First Order now! None of this feels compelling or exciting, none of this feels enticing the same way the cliffhanger at the end of The Empire Strikes Back did, the movie this film is aping quite a bit from. They kinda shot themselves in the foot repeatedly here; maybe they can put some unique spins on the story, but they really ruined a lot of the interesting ideas that were set up in Episode VII. It’s gonna be hard to feel totally interested in whatever comes next unless they have an exceptionally massive selling point, especially now that the Han and Luke are both dead in-universe, while Carrie Fisher’s death means Leia’s role in Episode IX is being removed.

In Conclusion

There is a lot of stuff I loved, and enough stuff that I hated that it keeps me from loving the movie. It’s the epitome of a mixed bag, one you’ll probably either end up loving or hating; maybe you’ll be like me and find it to be a mixed bag as well, but it does seem to be a movie that elicits only the most extreme of responses. Can I recommend this? You know… yeah. As much as I hate a lot of the decisions they went with here, there IS enough of that Star Wars quality to give it a watch. And if nothing else, seeing Carrie Fisher’s final performance is worth the price of admission alone. This movie is dedicated to her, and you know what? With her performance here, this is definitely a film worthy of being dedicated to her memory.

Maybe I need to watch it again to truly like it, or maybe I’ll still dislike it, or maybe I’ll even hate it more. Who really knows? There’s only one thing I know for sure: anyone who signs the petition to remove this film from canon is an absolute waste of oxygen and needs to sit in the corner and reevaluate their life. Get over yourself you fucking losers.

[creativitytoexplore]

My Deal With The You Know Who by Lawrence Martin https://ift.tt/2OJnN6Y A successful author longs for some musical talent, and is prepared to sacrifice his very soul; by Lawrence Martin.

I entered Jake's Deli on Cleveland's west side and, as instructed, took a seat in one of the booths. The waitress came over and I told her I was waiting for someone, and we would order together. A minute later he walked in. From a distance, he seemed to be just another guy coming from the parking lot. Though we had never met, he seemed to recognize me right away. He walked straight to the booth, sat opposite me. "Hello," he said, in a deep baritone voice that sounded affected. I was still skeptical at that point. We shook hands. His hand felt cool, almost clammy, and his grip quite strong. "Hi," I said, rather meekly. "Why did you choose Jake's Deli for this meeting?" "They have great pastrami, of course. Good enough reason." I searched for some sign of his identity and think I found it in his face. The angles were sharper, more unnatural-looking, and his eyes were deeper into the sockets than normal, as if he was made up for some horror movie. He wore a felt hat and I am certain there were two protrusions, one on either side of his head, poking up the felt. This was no imposter, or if so, a very good one. Our waitress returned and didn't look twice at the new arrival. "What'll it be?" she asked, after depositing two waters. He ordered pastrami on rye. I ordered lox and a bagel. "Are you paying?" I asked, sort of joking. "Yes. You'll pay later." He was not joking. I cleared my throat. "So," he said, in a somewhat haughty manner, "what exactly do you want?" "To play the piano. Well." "You play now, but not well?" "Hardly. I am a beginner. An adult beginner. Still at level one. In fact, my current instruction book says it's written for seven- and eight-year olds." "Ummm," he said, suggesting some interest. "And how old are you?" "Just turned fifty-five." "And playing for how long?" "Lessons for a year. No prior musical experience." "But you're an accomplished writer," he said. "Thank you. How do you know that?" "Ah, Howard Greenleaf, New York Times best-selling author. Murder mysteries, private-detective thrillers, I believe the genre is. Yes, I read the papers. In fact I read everything that's printed anywhere, every day. I focus on the obituaries, I must admit." "Funny." "Death is not funny, my friend. That's my business." "I am aware," I said. "Just what level of piano playing do you wish to achieve?" "A higher level," I replied. "Much higher. To play classical. Beethoven, Rachmaninoff." "Impressive," he said. "Ludwig, I had nothing to do with, a true non-believer. But of Sergei I am familiar. Almost had him, but in the end he changed his mind. Brilliant composer, pianist. This will take some doing." "And to play like Barenboim." "Ah, a true prodigy. You ask a lot." "I wouldn't ask if you couldn't deliver. Just tell me the terms." "The usual. Your soul, plus." "Plus? Plus what?" "A time limit. I am patient but there are limits." "I won't accept an early death, before I can enjoy the fruits of my new talent. We must agree on that date, and you must honor it." "Of course. I honor all my promises. That's more than you can say for the other fellow." "I don't want you to pull a Robert Johnson on me." "Ah, poor man. He couldn't keep his hands off another's wife. Such talent. Only after he met me at the Crossroads, of course." Quicker than expected, the food arrived. It looked delicious, and I felt hungry. We both began eating. "Best pastrami in your town," he said. "So, how much time would I have to enjoy my new talent?" "This change will be a lot of work," he said. "First you must sustain some brain trauma, which I can arrange. Nothing serious, but it must be a medical event, or you will not be believed. There are many cases of sudden musical genius following head injury, so that will give you some cover. It also makes my job easier. Then, I think a decade would be fair." "Just ten years? I die at sixty-five?" "Mozart died at thirty-five, and I had nothing to do with that." "That was over two hundred years ago," I protest. "Just a minute ago, in my book." "Yes, but he had a head start. Even with his early death, a thirty-year career. How about fifteen years? I could live with that." What an ironic statement, I realized. After a brief pause while eating, he said, "I can do fifteen, with a caveat." "Which is?" "To the extent you are successful in your new career, you are unsuccessful in your current one." "You mean as a writer?" "As a writer." "Okay, I can handle that. Writing's a chore anyway. And my agent is a pain in the ass. The publisher's no bargain either. They want my books, which are all best sellers, and they only give me fifteen percent. I've even thought of self-publishing. Everyone wants to nickel and dime you. Hey, wait a minute? What will I do for income? My wife doesn't work." "People are always worried about the minor details," he said. "You'll still receive book royalties, at least for a while. At some point you may find your thrillers, shall we say, out of style. But you can make it with your music, that's how good you will become. Though I have a disclaimer, which I give to all talent seekers." "Talent seekers. You make it sound like a category." "It is. One of my largest. Second only to those seeking sudden wealth." "All right, I'm listening." "I will give you the talent. I will not control what you do with it. How you handle the notoriety, how it affects your personal life, will be up to you. Handle things poorly and you may come begging for less time than the allotted fifteen years. I've seen that happen before." "Fair enough. I understand. Say, what exactly does it mean to give up one's soul?" He looked hard at me, took one last bite of his pastrami and said, "Trade secret." Then he let out an eerie-sounding laugh that sent a chill down my spine. I looked around and no one seemed to notice. Perhaps only I heard it. "Do we have a deal?" he asked. I was desperate. Tired of playing Mary Had a Little Lamb, London Bridge and Alouette like a kid still wetting his pants. Tired of struggling through the F and G scales with both hands, while trying to memorize their numerous chords and inversions. At my rate of progress, I would be able to play Beethoven's Für Elise in another fifty years. "Yes!" "Then we shake hands," he said, "and there is no turning back." We shook hands. He took out a $50 bill from some pocket, placed it beside his empty dish and walked out of the deli.

"Call 911!" I heard someone yell, just outside Jake's Deli. "I think he's alive." Of course I was alive. A Toyota Prius had just come over the curb, aiming right at me. Were it not for the light post between us, I would not be what the bystander said. The car wrapped around the post, hit me broadside. I fell to the pavement and conked my head. I saw stars and darkness but could hear. Minutes later I lay in Memorial Hospital's Emergency Department. Then came the CT scan, the elevator ride to the neuro ICU, the endless stream of doctors, and explanations. "A severe concussion, small subdural hematoma, he'll recover. He's lucky. No loss of motor function." That's good, I thought. Wow! So quick. Didn't expect it. I began thinking of the keyboard. Do I know anything? The C-major scale, what is it? C-D-E-F-G-A-B-C. Good. I still know something. Probably no more than before. They released me from the hospital three days later. Cynthia, my wife, drove me home. Our one son had visited me in the hospital and, assured of my full recovery, was back in college, a thousand miles away. "Do you want to lie down?" she asked, as soon as we entered the house. "No, I want to play the piano." "Really? When is your next lesson?" "I have to call to reschedule." "Well, I hope you haven't forgot everything," she said. Cynthia went to the kitchen to prepare dinner. I sat at my Yamaha 650DX electronic keyboard and pressed the 'on' button. Played the C scale, then the F scale and G scales. Nothing different! No more fluidity than before. Same hesitancy. I wanted to cry. I opened up the piano book, Level 1, to London Bridge. Right hand treble clef, left hand base clef. I could read the simple notes, as before.

London Bridge is Falling Down

I began playing, and humming. 'London Bridge is falling down, falling down'. "Sounds good, honey," Cynthia called out from the kitchen. I decided to go faster. And faster. She came in to the living room. "When did you start playing so fast?" she said. "I don't think you missed a note." "Really? I don't know. Just tried it faster." Could it be? I went to another piano book, with more complicated songs. Must be careful, I thought. Didn't want to alarm her. I put on earphones, so only I could hear the notes, and opened to Scarborough Fair. Always had trouble with that one. I zipped through it effortlessly. Not possible! Can't be. I did it again. I ran to my computer, printed out Für Elise, Beethoven's simplest melody, a piece any conservatory student could do half-awake but was forever beyond my reach. So many sixteenth notes! Impossible.

Für Elise - Beethoven

Zip! No problem. Before the accident I could read and tap out the notes but never play them with any hint of musicality. Cynthia put a hand on my shoulder. "What are you doing with the earphones?" "I don't want to bother you," I replied and continued playing the tune. "You're not bothering me. I'm glad you can still play. Who knows what that injury could have done to you?"

With some trepidation I went for my next lesson, in the home of Mrs. Esther Marples. She is a nice middle-aged woman, always patient with my piano klutziness. I didn't know how she would adjust to what I could now do. Did she even teach at the higher levels? Most of her pupils were kids. "I heard about your accident," she said. "I'm happy you seem fully recovered. Have you had a chance to practice?" "Yes, and I've tried something a little harder." "Oh? Let me hear it." She expected to hear something from the Level 1 book, but instead I removed from my folder the Beethoven sheet music, and placed it on the piano. "Für Elise? Really? My, you are ambitious." I begin playing. Flawlessly. She let me finish, then said, "That was nice." "Thank you." Her smile then turned to a frown. "But that is not you. I've worked with you for some time, I know what you can and cannot do. Have you been hiding this from me?" "No, honestly, after the accident..." "Accidents don't make people better players," she said. "I don't understand. Why have you come here week after week, struggling with the notes, if you can really play like that? Here, play Alouette for me. That is so ingrained in my mind, I know how you handle it." I could not fake my old way. I played like a virtuoso. She closed the piano book and stood up. "Howard, I cannot instruct you. Something strange is going on, some type of change that is beyond me. I have no experience with pupils like you. I suggest, no really, I insist you find another instructor." We were cordial. I thanked her and insisted she take the check I had in my pocket. I did not ask for the name of another instructor. If I was to find another, I would prefer they not know each other.

I needed validation and did find an instructor in a distant suburb, a highly recommended professional pianist. I used an alias: Howard McGuffin. I felt thankful my fame as a writer was by name only, unlike, say, a movie star whose face anyone might recognize. I explained my playing history as starting in childhood, and that I worked as an accountant. Under this guise I progressed rapidly, and was playing Mozart and Beethoven sonatas in less than a year. My instructor said I should qualify for Juilliard except for my age, and asked if I'd ever performed in public. I said no, I didn't want to. He said I had to give a recital, and that until one performs in public, one never knows if they have the stuff to be a good pianist. He would program me into his next one, a semiannual event for his most advanced pupils. The recital - a local for-charity concert - took place in the community's high school. I was the oldest performer, but there were several young adults and the rest teenagers. All quite talented, I must say. The event sold out. I played a Mozart sonata: sixteenth and thirty-second notes! Here's a few of the opening measures.

Mozart: Sonata No 3

Someone recognized me, and afterwards a suburban newspaper reporter sought me out. I could not lie. Yes, I play under the name McGuffin. Yes, I wrote under Howard Greenleaf. Yes, that Howard Greenleaf. The next day, in the suburban newspaper, the headline read: Once-famous author debuts at recital under alias. Then the sub-headline: Developed sudden talent after hit by car. The "once-famous" hurt. I had done no writing since the accident, held no book signings and given no interviews. I was beneath the literary radar. Worse, my last manuscript, submitted just before the accident, had been rejected by the publisher because "it's too much a copycat to your previous book." The editor had suggested a rewrite, which of course I could not do: too busy practicing. Actually, that's only partly true. I did try to rewrite one chapter and but had no interest in finishing it. No, that's not true either. I didn't know how to do it. I had lost my writing skill and my desire. As predicted. It was now music or... senility. Book sales fell off and my income plummeted. Fortunately, the recital proved a success and I was approached to do piano gigs. The first and best offer came from an unexpected source: Majestic Cruise Lines. They were looking for a no-name but accomplished pianist to play in one of their ship's lounges, short classical pieces preferred. Their clientele were the ultra-rich and ultra-sophisticated. Free room and board for two weeks, for Cynthia and me, and a stipend of one grand to boot. I jumped at the chance. The route included several ports of Asia. The cruise was exhilarating. I only had to play two hours a day, so we were able to enjoy most of the sights and shipboard activities like everyone else. Mid-cruise, while alone on the deck looking out over the Pacific, I heard that same deep baritone voice from Jake's Deli. "Enjoying yourself?" I turned and faced him. "What the hell are you doing here?" "Ah, Howard, watch your language, please." "I have many more years to go." "Of course, of course. Just checking up. It's our first anniversary. Just making sure everything is working as promised. I have delivered, have I not?" "Yes, now let me be, please. I want to enjoy this trip." "As you wish," he said, and then disappeared. Not literally - he just walked through the revolving glass door leading to the starboard cabins. Strange, though, I never saw him on the ship again. As luck would have it, one of the ship's passengers was a professor from Oberlin Conservatory of Music, only forty-five miles from our home. This professor taught music theory and played piano himself, but did not perform professionally. He came up to me one evening, praised my playing and offered some unexpected insight. "You are very good," he said, "but if I had to guess, I would say you came to the piano late in life, probably in your twenties." "Oh? Why is that?" "I can tell. There is a difference between prodigies who start as kids, and those rare adults who learn to play well after full maturity. Tell me if I am wrong." I wanted to tell him 'age fifty-five', but knew he wouldn't believe me. "You are correct," I said. "Started in my late twenties." "Ah, so. Once you start late, it is very difficult to acquire the skills of someone who started at five or six or seven. I believe Barenboim was six. Mozart only four." I knew he spoke the truth. And despite my new-found ability, its limitations pained me. He must have seen the pain in my face. "I can help you," he offered. "I think you should come to Oberlin, let me work with you to see if there isn't some room for improvement. Just a suggestion, nothing guaranteed. If you commit, there will be no fee. You will be part of my research." I agreed instantly. Was it just a coincidence that this professor taught near the very city in which we lived? Later, in our cabin, Cynthia had some doubts. "Are you going to commute? It's over an hour from our home, more if there's a lot of traffic. And what about your gigs?" she asked, concerned about our plummeting income. "I can still do gigs but not as many. Maybe I can stay in Oberlin during part of the week, come home on weekends." We agreed I should give it a try. I stayed in Oberlin Monday through Thursday, and came home for long weekends. The professor secured a dorm room for me, as a hotel was too expensive. One night, alone in bed and lonely, I called home but Cynthia did not answer. I called her cell and got a voice message. Where could she be at 10pm on a Tuesday night? Obviously a concert or something, but I got worried. No, really, I got suspicious, so I drove home right then, arriving around 11:30. She was not home. She returned to the house at midnight and was shocked to find me waiting. At first, she feigned disbelief that I would question her, but then she cried. Yes, she was with another man, she admitted. "I'm lonely," she said. "It's got to either be me or the piano." Then I remembered the conversation in Jake's Deli. How you handle the notoriety, how it affects your personal life, will be up to you. I had no notoriety, but my personal life was suffering by devotion to the art. I did not want to risk losing Cynthia. That had not been part of the bargain and did not have to happen. And I had no intention of giving up the piano. I professed my love for her, vowed not to let her transgression interfere with our relationship (though I did think of killing the guy), and in the end convinced her we should sell the house and move to Oberlin. With the money from the sale we could easily live in an apartment, and she could enroll in college courses she'd always thought of taking, mainly art history. And so we sold the house and relocated. The professor turned out to be something of a taskmaster, determined to prove that late starters could learn to play as if they had begun in childhood. I was the oldest adult player in his research project. Somehow I managed to avoid discussing my "early years" of playing since, of course, they didn't exist. Later, he did hear that I became a pianist only after a car accident, at age fifty-five, but I don't think he ever believed it. In any case, it never became an issue. The important thing is that, under his tutelage I played better and better, until one day he asked me to perform with the Oberlin Symphony. The fiend had delivered on his promise. I knew the day of reckoning would come, and I'd have to deliver on mine, but tried not to think about it. Time passed and I became somewhat famous on the second-tier concert market. After Oberlin I played with the Toledo Symphony, then had gigs with orchestras in Columbus, Louisville, Indianapolis and Little Rock. I played mostly the easier piano concertos. Before my accident, these concertos would have been unthinkable. Now I must fast forward. Life was good until it wasn't. I was diagnosed with prostate cancer and underwent surgery that curtailed my performing career for several months. The doctors were optimistic but I was less so. How could I live fifteen years if my life was cut short by cancer? After all, we had a bargain. He showed up in the hospital the day after my operation. "Just want you to know, I had nothing to do with this," he said. "What?" I was incredulous he would make an appearance at this time and disclaim responsibility. "I get you at fifteen," he said. "Sooner if the other fellow chooses to interfere. So don't blame me." As if he had a conscience. "I don't blame you," I said. "Just make sure my talent isn't affected. It damn well better not be." He smiled and then, as he is wont to do, exited quickly, without another word. I did recover, and my talent wasn't affected. Still, I was living from day to day, always practicing but never making enough to get by comfortably. Meanwhile, I concentrated on Beethoven's Piano Concerto No. 5, the magnificent Emperor - my ultimate goal. Anyone who can play the Fifth has arrived. The years went by, and I won't bore you with the life of a second-tier concert pianist. But Cynthia stayed with me. And never once did I think of ending my bargain earlier than the allotted fifteen years. Nor did I ever wish for the old days of writing bestsellers. I let music be my passion. Then one day I was invited to play with the famed Cleveland Orchestra, in a children's concert at Severance Hall. Their pianist had taken ill, and I was the closest good one around. It also helped that I was available on short notice - one day. The program included brief selections from Mozart and Tchaikovsky. My playing must have impressed, because the conductor asked what I could play at full length with the orchestra. Without thinking, I said "Beethoven's Fifth." "Let's see," he said, and arranged a rehearsal. I passed, and he programmed the piece. But not in Cleveland. In Carnegie Hall, New York City. The Cleveland Orchestra performs there every two years or so, and they were delighted to feature Ohio's "newest musical prodigy," as one trade publication later put it. Cynthia and I traveled to New York two days before the concert. There would be only one rehearsal. I was so involved with preparation that only when we arrived in New York did I realize the concert night was the fifteenth anniversary of my handshake. So the big night came. I scanned the audience and didn't see him. You may not believe me, but I did not feel nervous. I played my heart out and the audience loved it. From the opening multi-octave notes Beethoven wrote in 1811, I was transfixed, transformed, in another world. It was as if I had transcended the stage, the hall, the city, and was no longer of mortal flesh but with Beethoven. Yes, with Beethoven. Forty-one minutes later we were done. A moment of silence, then the audience stood, clapped and cheered. They were, it seemed, rooting for me. Not just for my musical ability but for me. The performance over, the orchestra members began drifting away. Just then a tall man in tuxedo entered from the left wing. He stood out because he wore a bowler hat. Of course I knew it was him but, still elated by the performance, played dumb. "What do you want?" "It is time." "I suppose so," I said, ready to meet my fate. I just didn't think the end would arrive at the very pinnacle of my career, on the threshold of becoming, if not famous, at least financially secure. "However," he said, "I must admit, I was so impressed with your performance tonight, I am truly reluctant to call in the chit at this time." "What?" "If you continue to give performances like that, I am willing to extend the term, with no further conditions." What could I say? He was giving me more time. And no conditions! "I don't have to do anything else?" "It would be a pity to snuff out this talent, and where you would be going, sadly, there are no pianos. Continue to play well, my friend." And with that he left, as abruptly as he had appeared. I felt excited and elated. Now I could continue playing, what I loved and wanted most. By this time I was alone on the stage, with the vast auditorium nearly empty. I walked to the front of the stage, to take one last look at the vast space. Carnegie Hall! Magnificent. Suddenly, all the stage lights came on at once, blinding me. I lost my footing and fell forward, head first. On the way down I heard an eerie, high-pitched laugh - vindictive and horrifying in its meaning. His laugh. I started screaming. "No! No! No! No!" Then everything went blank. I woke up in the ambulance with a severe headache. Oh, not again, I thought. Yes again, only this time to New York's Central Park West Hospital. Same routine as fifteen years ago: exam in the Emergency Department, followed by head CT scan and hospital admission. "You've suffered a concussion, and because you blacked out we need to keep you overnight for observation," said the ED physician. When I reached my private hospital room, there were already messages from the Orchestra's conductor and concertmaster, wishing me well, and stating my performance had been great. The conductor said to call him when fully recovered. Very encouraging. Cynthia did not want to go back to the hotel alone but, being assured by the doctors that I would survive, left the hospital around one in the morning. She was told she could pick me up around noon. So I am now sitting in bed, updating this whole saga on my portable PC. For the record, I am a fast typist. Of course you want to know if I can still play the piano. You're perhaps thinking that with the new head banging I might have lost the ability. Well, I wonder also. I can envision the notes for Beethoven's Fifth in my head, but can I play it? I needed to find out, and just after Cynthia left went searching for a piano. All sizable hospitals offer music therapy and keep a keyboard that can be wheeled to patients' rooms. So I got out of bed and walked to the nurse's station, demanding access "to the hospital's keyboard." I might as well have demanded a double dip butter pecan ice cream cone. The night nurse told me, "It's the middle of the night. Everything is locked up. I'll leave a message for the day shift to see what we can do then. Now get back to bed." Okay, she did say "please". Rebuffed, I have just returned to my room. I want to sleep but can't, still excited by the night's events. What you are reading now I typed at two in the morning in bed, on my laptop computer. What's this? Someone has just wheeled in a portable keyboard! My request was honored. Wait. That someone is a tall male nurse. It's him! Dressed in nurse's garb. I must record everything, not get excited. Will type and save as long as possible. I am typing, he is speaking. He says I asked for the keyboard, here it is, he will be happy to listen. And he has my medicine, he says. "What if I can't play?" I remind him I've suffered a concussion. I want to ask if he pushed me off the stage, but sense the question would serve no purpose. Now I remember his words back at the Hall: If you continue to give performances like that, I am willing to extend the term. "We have a bargain," he says "How did you get in? You're not really a nurse, are you?" "We made a deal," is his reply. "Do you not want to play? Just a few opening measures of Beethoven. That will be fine. Then your medicine." I can say no. I want to say no. I want to go to sleep. But there is the keyboard. There is my salvation. Could the concussion take away fifteen years of musicality? I am curious. I am scared. I am getting out of bed. For the record he is dressed in a nurse's uniform and I see the Central Park West Hospital logo. So a male nurse from this hospital. He won't give his name. He just says to play. I am scared. But I want to see if I can still play. If you don't hear from me again, goodbye.

EXHIBIT 15 Above certified and submitted in toto and without alteration, Case #27633, New York City, NY January 8, 2--- Cynthia Greenleaf, Executrix of the Estate of Howard Greenleaf vs. Central Park West Hospital, in the wrongful death suit of Howard Greenleaf...

[megsblackfirewrites]

Our Bond is Stronger than Death: Chapter 3

Chapter 3

“The car isn’t far,” Jack said. “You can go wait in it.”

Jesse shook his head and got to his feet, slapping his old hat down on his head. Why they let him keep the shabby old thing was beyond Jack’s understanding, but even that small token seemed to give Jesse some strength. Jack wasn’t about to take that away from him.

“Not leavin’ ‘til I know what happened to Gabe,” Jesse said stubbornly.

He lifted his chin and Jack had to laugh softly. The kid was half an arm down but he was still ready to fight the good fight. He knew soldiers that weren’t as committed to their job as Jesse was. He reached out and clapped Jesse’s shoulder before he hoisted his pulse rifle back into his arms.

They set off down the corridor, Jesse hissing softly as he tried to find a way to hold his arm that didn’t hurt or interfere with his aim. Jack kept his mind on Gabriel, weaving his way through the facility until he was down in the bowels of the building. He pressed his back against the wall, swallowing as pain laced up through him. Gabriel was close.

“This way,” Jack whispered as he moved carefully along the wall.

“That bond you and Gabe have is freaky sometimes, boss,” Jesse said as he followed on Jack’s heels.

Jack managed a tight smile before he shouldered a door open. He swore and threw himself backwards, staring at the horrific sight in front of him. Jesse, who had been doing his best not to vomit since the surgery, turned away to be sick all over the floor.

“T-that bad?” Gabriel called shakily.

Jack stumbled forward, doing his best not to vomit. Gabriel’s stomach had been cut open so that his intestines were left to steam in the air. Probes were stabbed into his guts, measuring pH levels of whatever it was that called his belly-guts home. Jack could see the base of Gabriel’s lungs expanding as he breathed in and, if he looked carefully, he could see Gabriel’s heart beating. To make it all the more horrific, a screen was set just under Gabriel’s shoulders to keep him from seeing what was being done to him.

“Jack, what’s behind the screen?” Gabriel asked.

“They gutted you,” Jack whispered as he walked forward. “Gabe, can’t you feel that?”

“They have so many chemicals pumping through me that I’m lucky to be conscious,” Gabriel replied as he lifted a hand.

Jack grabbed the trembling hand and gently pulled it to his chest. He leaned across Gabriel’s body, pressing his forehead to Gabriel’s sweat-slicked one. He sent as much love and soothing affection as he could through the bond, reaching out to take some of the pain into himself. Gabriel gently rebuffed his attempt to take the pain, but snuggled down into his love. Typical, stubborn Gabe.

“Nox,” Jack said, “we need that medical evac as soon as possible. Commander Reyes is in dire condition. I can’t transport him in the back of a car.”

“I need something to put on the file, Strike Commander,” Nox sighed. “The medical protocols are not accepting ‘emergency’ without details.”

“Skin of abdomen flayed,” Jack said. “Intestines punctured with test tubes.”

“What the fuck?” Gabriel whispered.

“Muscle mass in abdominal cavity missing,” Jack continued.

“How am I not dead?!” Gabriel shrieked.

“Gabe, ssh,” Jack whispered as he pushed his forehead closer to his husband’s. “We need that evac immediately.”

“Units are already moving towards your location, Strike Commander,” Nox said. “Dr. Ziegler suggests keeping Commander Reyes on whatever painkillers are available to keep him from going into shock.”

“Too late for that, Nox!” Gabriel snarled. “Fuck, fuck!”

“Gabe, look at me,” Jack gripped Gabriel’s hand tightly and squeezed. “We’re getting you out of here, do you hear me? You just have to keep a level head.”

“Level head?!” Gabriel snarled, his feverish eyes widening. “Let me rip your guts out and see how you feel!”

“You’re the one holding all the pain to yourself,” Jack said bitterly.

Gabriel glared at him before he dropped his head down onto the headrest of the medical bed he was lying on. He let out a broken sob and Jack settled down carefully beside him, holding his hand tightly between his own. Jesse stayed by the door, trembling no matter how hard he tried to stop.

Jack injected another dose of morphine under Gabriel’s flesh. Tears leaked fire-hot trails down his face, but he kept his fury and fear internalized. It would do nothing to fool Jack, but Jesse didn’t have to know how much this whole thing was fucking him up.

Jack stayed by his side as the morphine sent a hazy wave of relief through him. The world was foggy around the edges, but Jack was still solid no matter how much painkiller was pumped into him. His solid hand in his, that familiar weight settled on the side of the bed, that soft, ever present smile that said more than Jack ever could; it helped to keep him grounded.

If he said anything out loud, it was for Jesse’s benefit. He and Jack didn’t need to use words; their emotions were as telling to one another as any thousand words were. People often criticized him and Jack for not talking their problems out more, but the truth was, they didn’t need to. All of their dialogue happened internally, a debate that could take hours in real time happened much faster, got side-tracked because someone was humming that damn song again, and then left because Jack had realized that the rerun of Sabrina the Teenage Witch was on and they hadn’t seen this episode yet. It would have been confusing for anyone else to try to follow, especially when they realized how many circles Jack could talk himself into when he got passionate about something, but he and Jack were so old hat at it that it was as natural as slipping on a comfortable pair of jeans. They were talking their problems through even when they were on opposite ends of the base and seething.

“How far out?” Gabriel murmured.

“Three hours,” Jack said as he ran his thumb over Gabriel’s cheek. “Next dosage isn’t for two hours.”

“I’ll be okay,” Gabriel closed his eyes and sighed.

Jesse didn’t make a sound from where he was standing guard. He hadn’t said anything the whole wait; Gabriel didn’t need to see the kid to know that he was horrified by what Gabriel’s body looked like. Jack had reacted just as poorly, so he didn’t doubt that it was horrific. As much as he wanted to know what had been done to him, he knew that it was better that he never saw it.

‘Fuck, I want to puke,’ Gabriel murmured.

‘I’ll hold your hair if you do,’ Jack promised.

‘Brat.’

‘Hey, you married me,’ Jack teased.

‘How could I ever do anything else with you constantly in my head? Wouldn’t you love to hear all the naughty things I would think about my other partner while we’re doing the nasty?’ Gabriel shot his husband a smirk.

‘I would know all of your secrets and you would be in so much shit every few days,’ Jack smirked right back.

“Strike Commander, Medical Officer Ziegler would like an update on Commander Reyes’ condition,” Nox interrupted them.

“He’s still stable,” Jack said. There’s a thin mesh over his innards that’s keeping germs out, by the looks of things.”

“That’s something, at least,” Angela sighed before Gabriel heard the sound of something rustling. “Team managed to hit a slipstream and will be there in about an hour. Just hang tight.”

Jesse was emotionally exhausted by the time the evac team arrived. They were all stronger than him, able to hide their mortification at the sight of Gabriel’s guts out in the open. They wheeled him carefully through the facility, taking his vitals the whole time and ignoring his snarls whenever he was jostled. Jack was talking quietly with the leader of the team, shaking his head as they tried to chastise him for going off on his own without proper backup.

“Jesse, get in the shuttle,” Jack called as he waved towards the open bay door. “I have a few things to sort out.”

“Right, boss,” Jesse saluted before he stumbled into the dropship.

He avoided as many eyes as he could as he sank down onto a seat. He was still in the stupid hospital gown, but there wasn’t anything he could do about it until they got Gabriel secure. His modesty was low priority; he didn’t even care if anyone could see his ass and balls. He tucked the remains of his arm up against his chest and let out a faint sigh as he closed his eyes.

He jolted awake as something landed in his lap, blinking up at Jack as the Strike Commander sat down beside him. Jack looked exhausted and was rubbing at his eyes.

“Change of clothing,” Jack said, indicating the lump of cloth in Jesse’s lap. “We’re taking off in ten minutes, so you’ll want to get changed fast. I can help if your arm screws you up.”

“Thanks,” Jesse murmured as he got to his feet and shuffled towards the washroom.

He struggled with the clothing, angrily shaking the remains of his arm at the second half of everything he pulled out. Jack slipped into the washroom after a few minutes and helped Jesse without a word, buttoning up his jeans and getting his belt set. Jesse pulled the shirt over his head and sighed as he tucked it into his belt. He glanced at Jack before setting his hat on his head.

“Thanks,” he murmured.

“You aren’t broken, Jesse,” Jack murmured as he pressed a warm kiss against his temple. “You’ll be okay once we get you back to base.”

Jesse gave his arm a small shake, looking down at the stump. “I…don’t like this,” he murmured. “I’m left-handed….”

“You’ll be okay,” Jack insisted before he hugged Jesse close. “You know I’ll help no matter what.”

“I know,” Jesse murmured as he returned the hug. “We should sit down.”

Jack nodded and they left the washroom. The rest of the evac team was strapping themselves in as they emerged. A few gave them dirty looks, but Jesse ignored them as he settled down in a seat and strapped himself in. Jack went to talk to the pilot and returned a moment later with an exhausted smile on his face. He sank down into the seat beside Jesse and passed out before the dropship had taken off.

Judging by how loud his snores were, he was extremely exhausted.

[bornfromscarletcords]

Western Dreams: Of Hope And Death

Well It wasn’t precisely a galaxy far far away, not to everyone at least, but given the nature of social economic structures, the general far reaching scope of racism (it just makes everyone more relatable), strange senses of imperfection that are often misplaced (short, tall, beautiful, not beautiful, isn’t that stuff all just a state of perspective), and the miraculous nature of a people’s ability to break certain poorly prescribed habits to rise beyond their common sequences and general dumbness, it would seem that this little western town, more or less out in the left hand of nowhere would become a beacon for destiny, it’s callings and trials.  

Well as it goes, or at least as we’ve heard it told every now and then, there was a bit of a dispute between the strongest and most powerful of this infinitely sided set of stories we call existence. Real bad ass nonsense you know, battles of ultimate destiny, and collision courses aimed at becoming the greatest the universe has ever known. Well as it probably should have been apparent (though in truth it’s hard to really tell these things when you’re punching your dumb brother or brothers in the face) greatness takes diligence, and patience, and something a little more deep than the general superficiality we are challenged with on a daily basis. Something’s are more simple to show than to explain, and vice versa, so we will balance both as best we can, and in short much of the story can be summarized with these words (though in truth the truly sweetest and most awesome bits are in those details oh so personal) “true tests never end” (I suppose we will add the “our loved ones” to the last bit). If you are getting the sense this may be something of a last will and testament, well then you wouldn’t exactly be wrong, as for all intents and purposes, we are already dead, or will be by the time this story is at least half way through. In fact every now and then we have been called something like the grim reaper but we didn’t come here to name drop. I suppose you could consider it something of a time capsule, crafted from the stuff of dreams, bearing the scars of hopes endurance, with many lessons on the nature of nurturing order in a senseless and unforgiving world. If this work speaks to you, consider your existence very carefully, there are enemies far and near, and sometimes your greatest enemy could be right beneath your skin, they could beat with the very same heart as yours, like twins, they are freaky business ya know. I suppose the short way of saying it is, be strong, be smart, and believe that their was a point to you surviving when so many things did not. Heroes are amazing, monsters are scary, but above all others, we needed a miracle. So much has been, and will be sacrificed (again we imagine) do not be sheep just waiting to be slaughtered, or to slaughter yourself. We’ve seen it written, in one way or another, that the god and devil do not look so different, but such is often the way of such complicated, and hilariously dangerous entities.

Well I suppose that’s good enough as far as precursors go, as a last note I should say that the events described here are subject for interpretation, as describing an interdimensional-space-time anomaly of the heart and soul, is more or less like describing a dispute in heaven, or the variance between sins and virtues. Have you ever considered the nature of ideals, or the epitome of chairness and one ultimate chair prime casting all chair’s in it’s image. Well this is sort of like that, one giant map of harmony between principles both divine and mundane connecting everything in existence. Driven home the point looks something like, if every aspect life and death revolves around the nature of a story, as in even the air you believe you’re breathing could be a story, then somewhere out there is the strongest most powerful story of all, and we were all molded around its image. Look for the signs, search deep within, the handwriting is everywhere you could say.

Let’s start with the simple stuff, their once were a couple of strange kids, who became so much more stranger, as kids are likely to do when they are finally convinced (even if only a little) of their ultimate greatness. You could say that there were around forty two potential candidates for this mission or even path, but as things were, in those early days only about seven showed up. It’s okay, though, the youth is fond of its odd schedules.

So let’s see, their names were something like Emma, Jared, Nathaniel, Conti, Anthony, Terra, and Arianne, though in the course of one’s existence you could have many names forgetting and recognizing others as time goes by. I suppose they were special, but you have to understand we are a strange people prone to much martial conditioning and spiritual trials. The simple way to say it is, many of us work on the perspective, that a broken leg will heal stronger than before if only for knowing that it was broken (the how’s and why’s of an event) and those that don’t heal, must have been too weak, and would have been eaten anyway. It’s harsh, and it’s far from right, but the existence of evil, and divine agony (and or irony) , sort of require a somewhat awkwardly twisted perspective on most ideas often taken for granted by the general populace (whoever and wherever they might be). Short version, they were special because they chose to be, it was not something that could be given, it was earned from one deep self to the other.

Emma was native american and had shortish hair around the ears and neck, and was, generally speaking, very very hot (or pretty or whatever). She was also, generally speaking, disagreeable and prone to being especially brutal if not educational to her fellows at the karate dojo her cousin was in charge of. Jared was the picture of at risk teen, though many could be fooled with his somewhat perverse understanding of the complexities of human desire and need, you could say that for all his angst and bitterness he had a way of getting things to go down the path he found most beneficial. He was something like arabian which may not sound right but we are not entirely in tune with the specifics of the niceties and public policies of your dimension (this is a pretty messed up story after all). Terra was half japanese, half dominican (not in the religious sense, more of that half island off the coast of wherever) and was often teased by her friends for being blasian (black and asian) or hispanese (hispanic and japanese). She was a pretty enough girl but like some of the greatest ideas, her true beauty and awesomeness were both internal things as well as a thing that could be understood through much effort and patience. Anthony was Emma’s slightly older, and slightly more ridiculous brother, he often scared people with his stone man disposition or general “don’t make me kill you” manner of bearing, he looked and was strong, if a bit foolish, but we’ve all been foolish at one point or another. He liked to keep his hair long and braided down his back. Conti was a ginger so his soul was always at least a little in question, and though we have no great love for the white man, he was alright as far as things went. With fiery red hair and freckles galore, his general laid back and humorous approach to life and other trials was endearing when it wasn’t downright disturbing. The man could find the gold in a highway pile up (gold because he was not always sold on the nature of silver linings and pipe dreams). He was a bit on the thin side, but we suppose you could say in a sort of lean gaelic swordsman type of way, or even like a highlander or something. Pretty macho when he wanted to be. Nathaniel was funny too in the way all possible future overlords are funny when they’re all cute and without their many tools. Nathaniel was black and was teased, in a not so endearing way, for it, though he didn’t especially mind as he was relatively certain it was the price he payed for the tiny yet effective actions of vengeance he took out on his peers in that not so normal town, where not quite nothing happened. He liked the other seven because they were “real” when so much had failed to be. Plus it helped that they didn’t call him a nigger, and that in a general way he didn’t feel the need to desecrate their family graves. Arianne had a face that was pleasing if you knew how to vibe with a person’s strange rhythms, otherwise it was unassuming, she had womanish curves and hair like autumn leaves which often left people unprotected from the cutting and concussive intellect she could and would often slam them with. It wasn’t exactly her fault, everyone’s a little different you see, and Arianne just had the burden of being awkwardly correct about a lot of things, like those mongolian warmasters of old or time travelers.   

So, one day these seven folk were walking, for reasons both mysterious and tragically humorous, towards the same destination. Because destinies are so strange and disturbingly insistent upon themselves, there were different paths between them, different angles from which to view their trajectory so to speak, but at some point we all just sort of get to where we were going (those that choose to exist are complicated that way). They were heading to an arcade, which occasionally doubled as a magic-shop and source of occult knowledge. Anthony was walking with Terra, because they shared a couple of classes together, Arianne was walking by herself because she had trouble trusting people (often for good reason, people suck), Then there was Nathaniel, Jared, and Conti who were sort of walking with sort of following Emma because she was smokin hot and great at video games (lots of virtual skill that one).

Some traffic accident and general local mayhem made the usual routes of access difficult to achieve, so each group, though pieces of a pattern far grander took their own special way to almost reach the arcade. Their journeys were disrupted/interrupted, by some mean ol’ bastards (or bitches depending on who’s telling the story). In some mythological story, which, like many myths, has far more truths than not (people tend to be more scared of what is true rather than what is false, which would explain the falseness you’re probably sensing in the world you currently reside in) there was a technique, the ultimate execution and counter-force method so to speak. The basics, though it was a relatively advanced style, was to take the negative energy provided by your enemy and the environment (like with pollution, or spiritually corrupted ghost realms) and to use them to fuel your own reverse strike(s). In theory a clear and brutal enough focus could burn the negative energy from your system so that it found no purchase even as you redirected it back at your foe, like creating a dimensional sink in the energies path lines and steering it towards your desired or required end. The technique was used by some of the greatest swordsman and death lords in that world, but it was a great strain on the mind, body and spirit, and so many were often corrupted or broken by the awesome might of the technique. It should be noted that although the demands of battle are great, in theory the technique, in it’s most evolved form expels, and does not allow any excess negative energy into their system. We are not exactly pacifist but our opinion is that it has less to do with morality (though it can play a great part in people’s individual choices on it’s uses) and more to do with the efficiency of focus and the extreme danger of handling such volatile energy all at once. But those are just the basics. The technique could lead to, and was in many ways centered on a slightly adjacent principle or “execution art” of tracking the “channels”  or “frequencies” of cosmic energy. There is a similarly labeled mathematical principle which deals in the nature of critical points, so we will use that term to describe the principle’s purpose. The ability to track and touch the fabric of dimensions and cosmic critical points of space-time, but more pointedly, to see how, at these points existence could be fractured, shattered, and manipulated. At a slightly more straightforward level it operated on the basis of destroying any hard substance by striking it’s most vulnerable point letting some of the hardest materials  more or less crumble like sand with the most delicate, yet precise, of touches (generally speaking, breaking a thing through its own design). By pairing this principle of critical centeredness with what you could call the ultimate reverse strike you could in theory, track the energies of any and all cosmic trendlines, straight to the core of their most pertinent openings and from these openings heal or break the cosmos as you saw fit.

In short you could say that for all the fortune or misfortune which was heading their way, it was within their potential, and still is depending on how or why you read this story, to at anytime become the strongest and most powerful entities within their existences by, in a manner of speaking, accepting and bending their most ultimate and truest selves as well as the most ultimate and truest versions of those both enemy and foe. So, moving things along, they sort of died and or got dimensionally turned inside out and folded to the end and back again. It wasn’t so much an explosion though it might have looked that way to many, it was more like a dimensional energy ripping itself loose through the fabric of creation. You could even picture it as something like a sharp cube-dimension (like an oddly ordered black hole) crashing. They were not okay, but at least you could say they had each other. They each probably saw something equivalently horrible as well as awe inspiring in its own way (glorious you could say) though a person’s heaven and hell is their own business more often than not. They had been shattered, broken though those who have been broken may know much of breaking in turn, and that which has been shattered can unshatter all the same. Most trauma’s require patience and a degree of depth to be understood in a useful way, there is seldom love without heart ache, or the fire of stars without the cold absents of the void.

The left quickly, stumbling and moving together in awkward yet oddly synchronized motions. You could say that what is magic to one world would be science to the other, but we often approach dichotomies from something of a yin yang perspectives or perhaps more straightforwardly, from the nature of balancing scales.  In a world of people more or less out of control, (which is not wrong necessarily, control can often be very overrated) order tends to come as a response to chaos, though by that same logic one society’s logic is another’s insanity. Our champions, if you want to call them that were both themselves and not, each other and nobody, their scales, their energies had been sent into undulation, and who could say if they’d ever truly rebalance. They passed out in a forest.

A couple of abstract and surreal dreams later some of which would give even those inclined to opiation a spark of envy, and the seven had awakened. A somewhat funny story as something of a non-sequitur. Two racers competed with one another every day to see who was the fastest and one racer would always win. The other racer felt really bad about this and pondered what it could be that kept him from succeeding. Well one day he noticed that his rival had always gotten to the racetrack before him, and so on that day he got to the race track first and one every race they had ever had (or never had depending on who’s telling it). Ha ha, a little bit of death-time humor.              

[katrina-jutte-blog]

Message Received

Walking from Garenhoff to Divinities Reach was a pain in the fucking ass. By the time I reached the front gates my feet felt as if they were inflated balloons. If only that were the truth, it'd make the rest of the trip far easier. Of course I could take a waypoint like any sane citizen would however that shit cost money that was better suited for other items or ventures that could in turn grant me a greater payoff.

If tonight was any indication, my fortune telling booth would make a killing, not only recouping my costs, but bringing forth a windfall of at least triple what I put in. At first I was hoping to break a little over even, using this more as a way to get in good favor with the others at the academy. With this revelation doing such would only be a massive disappointment. All three readings gave me differed reactions, each giving pivotal insights.

With Caleb I saw that my act was engaging and enjoyable as he laughed off the reading heartily. Rose provided much of the same with a dash of audience participation, vocalizing what she felt each card meant to her, giving me a great deal to work with throughout the practice session. Key to this seems to be making it both vague yet specific enough that the guest can target in on a moment in their life. With Rose that was naturally the expulsion of the spirits within her, allowing me to build the rest of the reading off that. Admittedly that's easier to do when you know the people you are reading, but everyone has tells. I just need to be sure to keep my eyes and ears open.

Second reading was the most intriguing, showing that I could in fact be convincing. I'd thought Elle was merely humoring me with her questions regarding the validity of the readings. More I thought about it, less likely that seemed. Doing such would be entirely out of character for her. She was not one to humor nor intentionally make herself seem stupid. No, she held some level of belief in the words I told her. Why, I don't know. She of all people should know I'm merely bullshitting.

Somehow I feel it had less to do with what I said and more a timing of the words. There's no doubting that something got to her, be it needing to cut ties and retreat away from others or the distressing need to pass down her knowledge to another before it was too late. Two surprisingly go hand in hand despite their conflicting statements. You simply must look beyond the face value, looking deeper. Both told her something was coming.

With Elle there's no telling what that something may be. If she's as much like me as she seems to believe, her past is coming to swallow her up. Funnily enough, that's what my own reading told me, that I'd be reaping the seeds I'd sown. That to avoid it I needed to keep my eyes open to my surroundings, as if I never did that to begin with. Unlike Elle however I knew it was just a load of bullshit. All I'm doing is drawing a card from a deck, just random nonsense.

Doubt I'd even believe it if I got back to the academy with Elle in a body bag and that loon Matilda waiting in my dorm room to off me. Fact was fate and all that shit didn't really exist, just a bunch of bullshit people prop up to escape blame. We make our own choices, every choice having a consequence to it. People needed to stop sugar coating shit. Or on second thought, they should continue so people like me can continue to prosper.

Streets of the Reach were thinned, those out and about falling into one of two categories. People coming home from work or drunks who wouldn't know their ass from their hand. Either way they were heading to the same place, paying me no attention. It's one of the great things about this city, you could look like you were about to perform a ritual in the street and not a single person would give a fuck. Aside from maybe the Seraph, but they had better shit to do then hassle me. They also knew better than to mill about the part of the city I was heading.

It's amazing what a little bit of gold can buy. Most focus on the material goods and those were nice, really fucking nice, but the more sensible use of your wealth was accumulating power. Even that fancy pantsed buffoon Orpheus knew that. No one knew this more than Dick and I's employer, one so feared that few even spoke their name. Even if you were to tell, half the Seraph were likely on her payroll, you'd be dead before you even spoke a word.

Was frankly impressive I'd managed to deduce their gender. For as supposedly valuable as I was, very little made it's way down the pipeline to me. Made me respect her more, knowing full well I'd use that knowledge to my advantage. Unlike Orpheus, she kept her allies at arms length, all save for Dick of course. I still hadn't figured out how he'd become her right hand man. Maybe he was fucking her or her estranged kid. In time it wouldn't matter, nor would either of them.

Two men stood outside the entrance of Regallina's, some high priced restaurant used to funnel drugs and flesh to some of the higher level clientele in the Reach. Nobles never wanted to be seen as dirty, reputations being ruined if others knew their noses were filled with powder or they had a penchant for girls half their age. On this day however it was closed for a private party. Just so happens I had a guest pass, funny how often that's been happening lately.

Arms raised above my head as the shorter of the two men moved forward, moonlight shining off the bald dome of his head. Hands moved roughly along my body, doing a bit more than patting me down. If he were anyone else I'd of kneed him right in the balls, but you put up with a lot of shit when it came to business. If him grabbing my ass got me in the door faster, so fucking be it.

Second guard merely glared at me during the entire shakedown, eyes as dead as a risen. Wouldn't shock me if his heart was as well. If you were given the personal detail of Dick, you were a killer, someone who'd moved up the ranks of muscle. Another reason my trap stayed shut, you needed to know who you were needling. They wouldn't kill me of course, that would only end poorly for them however few broken ribs weren't out of the question.

Baldy motioned for me to follow his partner inside. Interior of the restaurant was nearly as extravagant as Orpheus's little tea house. Chandeliers hung from above, paintings that cost more than some houses filling the walls. Even the chairs were made of a well polished red wood, armrests available with a soft underlining cushion of a more cherry red. Wooden floors were equally as impeccable, looking as if not a single soul had ever stepped on them.

Entire restaurant was empty save for the one table occupied by Dick, wearing the only garb I'd ever seen him in, a well pressed black suit with a cream colored shirt beneath, tie a pale pink. In the middle of the table sat a bottle of wine, two glasses surrounding it. Utensils were set out both in front of him and across the table where a chair was pulled out, no doubt awaiting my arrival.

Dick smiled as I approached the table, reaching forward to place his wine glass in front of him. “Dressed to impress as per usual, Katrina.”

“You know me, I aim to please.” I took my seat opposite him, grabbing my own wine glass. “I wasn't aware this pressing matter you spoke of was a date. You do know there's not enough wine in the world to make me sleep with you right?”

Dick laughed, but far from the good natured variety. “Charming as ever.”

“Been hearing that a lot lately.” I extended my glass outward to be filled. “Even have noble women bending over backwards to please me.”

Dick popped the cork from the bottle, carefully filling both his and my glass a quarter of the way full. “I'm sure you'll enjoy attending the balls.”

“It's been the only balls I've been enjoying lately.” I leaned back in my seat, taking an elongated sip of the wine. “So what's the occasion?”

Dick swirled his glass, looking intently across the table at me. “Your recent actions have our employer intrigued, sensing a level of opportunity if you would.”

“That so? Let me guess, you want me to spread Gizbo throughout the school? A nice new client base, spreading to a city you once thought untouchable.” I took another drink, wine having a very strong musty taste to it. “I'll do it if my profit intake is higher than just 15%. I'm thinking closer to 25.”

“It always comes down to the profit margin with you doesn't it?” He smirked, resting his wine down on the table. “You'd do anything so long as your getting paid.”

“I believe my infiltration of the Blind Eye proved that.” I said sternly, warmth lingering within my throat, overstaying it's welcome.

“That was pleasure as well. Your relationship with your...” I cleared my throat, both cutting him off and attempting to battle back the flame scorching my throat. “Get to the point.”

“The point...” Dick chuckled, adjusting the placement of his tie. “The point is being made, you simply don't see it yet.”

Heat wouldn't subside, spreading down through my body, insides feeling like they were cooking inside of a range. Sweat started to streak down my forehead, throat feeling scorched, no amount of water in the world being able to quench the thirst. Hand holding my glass began to shake, control of my body very quickly departing. Before it did my fingers curled inward, tossing the wine at Dick, managing only to stain his shirt as my upper body clunked down onto the table, unable to move.

“Do you understand now, Katrina?” He lifted a napkin to his jacket, dabbing at the stain.“If it were up to me I'd of given a lethal dose, you are more trouble than you are worth. Our employer feels otherwise and I do as I'm told, trait you could learn from.”