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needcake · 3 years

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whumptober 2021, day 3: taunting

The King of Northern Lusitania.

That was what his Marshal claimed to be now that he had taken the country without resistance.

France could barely conceal his disgust. The Marshal, standing by the window of a house he had confiscated from a noble family that had fled to Brazil along with the court, seemed to have forgotten for a moment that, although he had been appointed Ambassador to Portugal in the years before the invasion, he was far, far, from the succession line of the new country they would create after partitioning Portugal into three, and that this insubordination would not go unnoticed once the news of his claims reached Paris.

But this was a matter for another time. His last conversation with Spain before coming to Lisbon had left him with a persistent headache and his patience was wearing a little too thin.

“Is he here?” he limited himself to ask and the Marshal informed him that no, the man he wanted had been moved to another location after his last escape attempt. “Take me to him, then.”

He cared very little for the thoughts the Marshal was entertaining in his head as he stared at France, but the longer he went without complying to his order, the more France felt like breaking his nose.

At last a junior officer was called upon and he was taken down the street to an unmarked door, past the two soldiers posted at the entrance with their weapons on their shoulders, and up two flights of marble stairs. All the furniture and the ornaments in the house had been removed, every painting, every object on display, even the chandeliers. Of their existence, only the empty squares of faded color remained on the wallpaper.

The empty corridors echoed their footsteps and the young man guided him to a door at the far end, pulled a heavy keychain from his pocket and unlocked the door.

“I’ll have that now,” he told him and extended his hand. He hesitated, his eyes darting between France’s tight lips to the insignias in his uniform. He deposited the set of keys on France’s white gloves and stood at attention. “You can go wait downstairs now.”

He waited until the young officer had nodded and complied, his steps fading in the distance, before he breathed deeply in. The ache in his head was killing him.

The first thing he saw after he pushed the door open was Portugal’s furious green eyes, his body a shadow against the wall in the dark room.

“It’s a lovely day outside, you should open the curtains,” he said as he locked the door behind him. Portugal remained in silence, still glaring at him. France huffed a breath and walked to the window himself, throwing the curtains open and allowing light to enter the room. Portugal squinted at the sudden change in luminescence, but he soon glared at him again.

France allowed himself a small smirk.

“Do you remember when father dragged you back after your brilliant escape attempt while he was in the East? You looked at him like that too.”

“And he beat me,” Portugal said, his voice a little hoarse. From disuse, France presumed.

“Ah, yes,” he said lightly, unbuttoning his gloves. “Castile wouldn’t leave your bedside.”

“You said I deserved it.”

France held his gloves in one hand; looked at him in the eye. “You did.”

The growl that escaped his lips as he surged in his direction would have amused him were France not in such a terrible mood. Tackling him to the floor and twisting his arm behind his back took less effort now than when they were children.

He pressed his knee over his spine and Portugal stopped struggling, breathing hard into the wooden floorboards.

“You never learn, Ulterior,” he whispered above him, watching Portugal turn his head and snarl at him for the choice of name. “I’ll always win.”

“Get off me,” Portugal spat, but France only settled his weight more firmly down on him.

“You have always been too angry to be good at fighting, Portugal. Stop struggling before you hurt yourself.” He felt him breathe deeply a few times, but his body was still too coiled, still too tense for France to release him just yet.

He looked around the room and saw that it had been stripped bare of its ornaments as well. Only a few pieces of furniture remained.

“Father would have been disgusted with the way we treat our prisoners,” he commented out loud and felt Portugal shift beneath him.

“Stop calling Rome that,” Portugal said, but his voice was lower, his body less resistant.

“Why?” France asked, lowering his body over Portugal’s. “We’re sons of Rome, you and I. Us and the Italies are all that’s left.”

“Romania is still alive,” Portugal countered quietly, the fight finally draining from him, his fingers unclenching behind his back.

“That he is,” France whispered into his ear, brushed his lips against the soft cartilage and felt him shiver in his grasp. “Don’t worry, I’ll find him eventually.”

He released Portugal’s arm and felt his eyes on his back as he got to his feet and walked over to the bed.

“What was the nickname Castile had for you when we were kids?” he asked, sitting on the feather mattress, tucking his hair behind his ear. Portugal got up gingerly from the floor, dusted the knees of his simple cotton trousers.

“Lusi,” Portugal whispered, the word heavy in his mouth, laden with memories France did not know and did not care to know. He hummed, undoing the fastenings on his collar and breathing a little easier.

“Did you have a nickname for him as well?”

France followed Portugal’s eyes down his chest as he continued to undo the buttons of his uniform coat and smiled to himself.

“Dickhead,” Portugal told him and France snorted, undoing the buttons on his waistcoat next. “Yours was Asshole.”

He laughed, shrugging off his outer clothes and folding them carefully by his side, the pressure on his head somewhat subsided now that he had removed his heavy, hot uniform. Portugal’s eyes were trained on him, still standing a few feet away, still hesitant and wary.

“Come here,” he called, extending a hand towards him and watching with some amusement as Portugal’s face contorted into a frown. Huffing an impatient breath, he rose to his feet and went to him instead.

Portugal seemed somewhat smaller, dwarfed by a too big linen shirt and his simple brown cotton trousers. But his body was still the same as France remembered when he pulled him closer, his arms still strong and hardened by years at sea, his eyes still a pale shade of green when he looked at him.

“You are always so difficult,” he told him, settling his hands on the curve of his hips, watching his eyes as he looked down at France’s lips. “Always stubborn as a mule.”

His hands came to rest on his chest, neither to push him away nor to pull him closer, and France sighed, pushed his hair back over his shoulder, ghosted his fingers across his face.

“He is not going to come for you,” he said and Portugal’s eyes turned to his, the soft skin around them tightening slightly in worry. “England has what he wants now that Brazil’s ports are open to him.”

The hands on his chest gripped his shirt, but there was no more fight in them, no more blind, raging anger. “You’re lying,” Portugal whispered quietly, but his voice was thin, threadbare, doubt creeping into his words, taking hold of his thoughts.

“England doesn’t need you anymore,” he continued, petting his hair, caressing his cheekbones, his jaw, his ear. “But you already knew this, didn’t you?”

His fingers slackened, the last wall of his resistance crumbling under his words and France leaned in, brushed his lips against his. “Oh, Lusi,” he whispered, “Aren’t you tired of fighting?”

Portugal's mouth opened beneath his lips and France smiled, “Don’t you want to come home?”

Notes:

In 1807, French Marshal Jean-Andoche Junot led the French army across Spain to seize Portugal in November 30. When he reached Lisbon, however, he was able to see the tails of the ships that took the Portuguese royal family and the court across the Atlantic to Brazil, which effectively saved the Portuguese Empire from falling into Napoleon's hands, but caused them to lose the mainland territory.

After taking control of the country, Junot seized what was left of the Treasury and any wealth available that had been left behind in the escape. He also put in motion the partition of the territory as devised by Napoleon, which would divide Portugal into three, granting the Southern portion to Spain's PM, Manuel de Godoy, keeping the middle part for France itself and giving away the Northern part to the King of Etruria. Junot, however, who had been France's Ambassador to Portugal during 1804-05, decided to proclaim himself as King of Northern Lusitania. Napoleon was not amused.

As part of the agreement to help the royal family escape Napoleon, the Portuguese regent, future João VI, opened Brazil’s ports to British trade, which had suffered under Napoleon’s Continental System and US neutral policy. At the time, Portugal and her colonies were responsible for consuming around half of Britain’s exports. That trade was thus protected after being moved to Brazil, which in turn made the continental territory of Portugal redundant.

However, the partition of Portugal never took place because in May 1808, after trying to double-cross Spain and take control of the territory, the Spanish revolted and the Portuguese followed in June. In August, the British sent troops under the command of Arthur Wellesley, future Duke of Wellington, and the French were forced to leave Portugal in what would be the first of three attempts to take control of the country.

#whumptober2021 #no.3 #taunting #hetalia #fic #emotional manipulation #peninsular war #hws portugal #hws france #fraport #a wild fic appears #if you don't like france being a dick this is not for you #mild makeout

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hb-writes · 4 years

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The Audit

Summary: It’s 1924 in the Little Lady Blinder universe. Clara and Finn make their annual visit to their mother’s grave.

Inspired-ish by this request: Also do the family celebrate her mums birthday? I think it would be a nice occasion where they celebrate her birthday and it’s nice for the twins especially whilst the boys are away polly makes a thing of it. ( I know nothing like this happens on the show, but I think they should) xxx

AN: So while I don’t think the family would celebrate her birthday, and actually find it painful to talk about her most times, I could see Finn and Clara sharing a little tradition like I’ve written about below. It’s not quite what you’ve asked for, but I hope you still like it!

Featuring: Finn Shelby, Clara Shelby (Shelby!Sister), Shelby!Mother

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Clara’s mind was settled on approximately seven things aside from the path she walked along, paying more mind to the questions in her head than the cobblestones at her feet. Truth was Clara had little need to pay attention to where she was going. She was far more familiar with the cemetery and it’s surrounding landscape than she was comfortable with, having buried far too many in her relatively short life.

“You’re late.”

Finn flicked his cigarette away, startling his sister as she glanced up from the pavement. He pushed off the pillar he’d been leaning up against, the entrance a sad excuse for a welcome, composed of no more than two crumbling stone columns and a rusted wrought iron gate.

Clara pulled her coat tighter, frowning as she stepped closer to her brother. “Tommy came back early, said he wanted me to go through some things with him before the… I suppose it doesn’t…” Clara took a breath and met Finn’s eye. “I’m sorry.”

Finn shook his head, closing the remaining distance to pull her into a hug, his chin easily fitting over the top of her head. They hadn’t seen each other for a stretch of time, both of them overly occupied by the vastly different bits of life that customarily kept them apart, the Blinder duties and generally reckless adventures for Finn, and the Shelby Company Ltd. duties, and school, and family business for Clara. It was the recklessness that usually brought them together, the pair accustomed to passing at least a few evenings a week up to nothing particularly good. But with half the family locked away, they’d all had to step up. While Finn found getting up to nonsense revitalizing, Clara had been too busy for it, and far too tired aside.

“Don’t worry about it,” he offered, settling his arm around her shoulder as they walked the familiar route from the entrance to their mother’s grave. “At least it’s not raining again this year.”

Clara allowed herself a light snort, conceded a small smile as she leaned into her brother because there’d been more rainy cemetery visits over the years than not. Clara knew her brother didn’t care for the annual trip quite as much as he used to, had an inkling that he found it a bit asinine now compared to when they were kids, just a couple of orphans grasping onto a handful of wispy memories of a woman they knew very little about. That described them even still.

If Clara was being honest, she found it all a bit silly too, but the ‘do we or do we not?’ of the occasion was never a discussion between them. The only discourse they ever had on the subject, always initiated by Finn about a week ahead out of custom, was in establishing a time they’d both be available on her birthday.

It had been nearly ten years now that the twins had been coming to their mother’s grave and although they’d never told the others, never asked for a sibling’s accompaniment or gave a hint as to what they were both doing sneaking off on their mother’s birthday, Clara had a feeling they all somehow knew.

It was why when not an hour before, as she grew antsy, repeatedly shaking out her wrist to check the time while she sat perched on the edge of Tommy’s desk, something shifted in him. Tommy simply asked his questions about the books and let her go, wordlessly accepting her answer of ‘out with Finn. He’ll bring me home’ when he asked where she was heading off to.

Visiting their mother’s grave usually felt a bit like ringing in a new year but with less of the flair and celebration. Maybe an annual audit was a more apt description, seeing as Clara and Finn kept a ledger, a nondescript notebook stashed in the nightstand of Clara’s bedroom at the Watery Lane house, accessible to them both, though Clara would argue that Finn had more access to the archive now than she did, being as he stayed over on the lane much more often.

Still, neither of them was likely to touch the book between visits to the cemetery, more likely was it that the ledger passed their minds only in the week or so before their mother’s birthday, and even then, neither of them was apt to do more than think on what they’d be marking down, mentally preparing themselves for the occasion, ensuring things went smoothly.

The book came with rules, a certain etiquette that went unspoken between the two of them from conception to practice. The implicit secrecy of the whole thing, and the way they constricted their documentation to a particular day and place had been precedents set from the start. They’d only write while at the cemetery, while in their mother’s supposed presence, and there were limits on what was documented, the format decided nearly a decade prior, each of the entries nearly identical in configuration though the content varied.

Finn and Clara recorded what happened in the preceding year, took an audit between the two of them of anything new they learned about the woman, and made a few promises to themselves and each other, intentions expressed just between the two of them. The words held no true pressure for realization, just an assurance of support from the other in the case they chose to move forward.

This year felt different to them both as they’d prepared though, a bit forlorn and detached and impossible, what with Arthur and John and Michael and Polly locked away, and Ada in America, and Esme and Linda barely speaking with the lot of them, allowing the twins a bit of connection for little more than the sake of the babies, and on the order of their husbands.

Clara had, on a fair few occasions, pondered what their mother would think of their situation, of Arthur and John locked away, of Clara feeling a bit that way herself while her twin brother was left to flounder, feeling lost and redundant as Tommy did what he did, all of his moves in the name of the family he’d allowed to take the punishment for his sins, and all while Ada played at being a neutral party from a continent away.

They went through the motions without discussions, Finn helping Clara to settle the blanket she always brought and taking a sip from the thermos of nearly cold tea while she found the pen and the appropriate page.

“Shall we review?” Clara asked, glancing at the page as she marked the year at the top in bold loopy script, 1924.

Finn took his time with another sip, prolonging the silence with an exhale and with the pen held still against the page Clara trembled, taking no care to pretend that it was only from the cold.

“She’d be ashamed,” Finn finally said and though Clara nodded, she wasn’t entirely sure of what her brother meant. There was far too much she could be ashamed of.

Would she be ashamed that her sons and sister-in-law and nephew were criminals of the worst sort? Murderers?

Would she be ashamed that her once sweet, doting Thomas had ordered it all and let the others take the blame?

Would she be ashamed of the twins? Of their lack of action in the face of the others’ plight?

Despite wanting to fight Finn, despite wanting to say that they didn’t know their mother well enough to say how she would feel, or that they didn’t know Tommy’s plans well enough to decide either way, Clara knew Finn was a bit right, so she swallowed her retort. No mother would wish this for her children, or at least, Clara liked to think that their mother would never wish for this.

And anyway, Clara often questioned those very things herself, pondered if she had put up enough of a fight to Tommy, analyzed at length whether she and Finn and Ada had been too forgiving of it all, but then she thought what choice did they have? Tommy was all they had now, and even if Polly hadn’t been locked away in Winson Green or Ada hadn’t gone off to Boston, Clara didn’t know if she was capable of not forgiving her brother.

She hoped a certain part of her mother would be proud of her, proud of the advanced education she’d received, proud of Clara’s love of stories, and content with the kindness and loyalty she showed to her family, despite it all.

Clara took a sip of the tea, grimacing as the cool liquid hit her tongue.

“Did you learn anything new?” she asked.

Clara hadn’t. The information about their mother, the little anecdotes, usually came so organically, in moments when one of the twins reminded a sibling of some long forgotten trait of hers or when someone was feeling just the right bit of nostalgic, but it had been a busy year, filled with the death and misery and arrests, and very little else.

Finn’s answer came with the slight shake of his head and Clara felt the same difficult swallow as her brother, her eyes growing wet though she’d told herself she wouldn’t allow it. She’d be strong for Finn today, and for Tommy and Ada and John and Arthur, too.

Clara took care as she set the thermos down, a small whimper breaking when Finn took her hand. “She’d be proud of you though.”

Clara coughed and cleared her throat.

“Proud of us,” she said, meeting his gaze.

Something in Finn’s face shifted though he kept his hold on both her hand and her eyes. Clara knew Finn didn’t truly believe it. The sentiment barely registered with him, and she knew that her brother thought that if he had just run a bit quicker, or shouted a bit louder, he could have saved Arthur and John from the current reality. She knew it because despite everything, she similarly held onto the imprisonments, John’s and Arthur’s and Michael’s, like they were her own, like she’d been the one to put them in the cell even if she’d been innocent aside from serving as a bit of fuel to the fire.

Clara put a dash beside the spot she’d designated for the new information and jotted out a few lines below.

“I think this covers the updates.” Clara turned the book towards Finn. “Is there anything...?”

Finn shook his head as he glanced at the information she’d inputted, the neutral bullet points that described the past 365 days honest enough though they were far from agreeable.

“Goals?” Clara asked.

Finn scoffed as she said it and fished out his pack of cigarettes. “You mind?”

Clara shook her head, watching as he lit the cigarette and took a long draw from it, scoffing again as he looked at her.

“You know what I wish for?” Finn said, using his cigarette to point at her the same way Tommy often did. “What I long for?”

Clara shook her head.

“Nineteen fucking fourteen,” he said.

Clara felt a shiver run up her spine at the thought. 1914. Things had been simpler then, lighter, but Clara only remembered 1914, and the tenderly memorialized years that care before it, like mere glimpses of a distant life. She remembered bedtime stories and the one-off moments that had frightened or surprised or somehow otherwise wormed inside her psyche but she’d not give up the decade between just to go back.

“I’ll just take having everyone home,” Clara answered.

“That all?” Finn asked, shaking his head at her. “Can’t believe it would be. I imagine you’re wanting highest marks and employee of the month and a new horse an--”

“That’s what’s most important,” Clara answered, nodding a few times to settle it in her mind. “Fuck the marks and Tommy’s accounting ledgers. I’d just like them all home.”

Finn smiled. “And I’d like for them to take us seriously for once,” he said. “It’s only Esme who ever really listens.”

“Yeah, cause she’s not an idiot,” Clara said. “And cause she’s nearly the youngest in her own family. She knows what a shit hand it is.”

“Ah, well, I wouldn’t know much about that,” Finn said. “It��s you who’s the baby.”

Clara shook her head, a smile on her face despite the words she offered. “Fuck off, Finn.”

Finn smirked at his sister. “Come now, Clara. We’re sitting on mum’s grave, on her birthday of all days, and you’ve gone and cursed twice in less than a minute. What’ll she think of us?”

“It’s been quite a fucking year, Finn. I think she’ll understand.”

“Yeah,” he echoed. “Quite a fucking year.”

Finn watched, quiet as his sister etched two words into the bottom of the page, the twins’ wishes for the next year summed up with two simple words, home and respect.

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Read more Little Lady Blinder here.

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🏷:

@beautycinders @buckybluebarnes @cecii22me @lovemissyhoneybee @marquelapage @midnight-dreams-23 @mo-onstarrs @ohhersheybars @pollyrepents @unicorndetective22

#peaky blinders #peaky blinders fanfic #shelby!sister #shelby sister #finn shelby #finn shelby x sister #clara shelby #little lady blinder

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magalidragon · 4 years

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n°2 - “Have I already told you how cute you look?”

Thank you fluff Queen!💕

Eeeee! Let us return them to all the world’s a stage with these sweet beans and our favorite douchy Uncle Viserys! Bonus points because I included supportive brother Vis!

2. “Have I already told you how cute you look?”

Romantic One Liner Prompts

There were many things Jon Snow had been able to escape, but this was not one of them. He could get out of red carpet events, interviews, and galas. He could weasel himself out of parent-teacher conferences, playdates, and other various responsibilities that he just felt like at the time were contrary to his mood, his muse, and his creative drive.

This was not one of them.

Dany knew he didn't want to escape the event itself, but the way in which he had to attend the event, that was something he couldn't get out of. He made a fuss, wanting to know how come he couldn't just go as a side character, as the supportive husband, what have you, but nope.

"Have I told you how cute you look?"

He scowled, tugging down the very tight white vest, with its shimmery silver thread, the white pants tucked into tall boots, and accompanying plastic sword. "Not in the last five minutes."

"Well you look so cute. My perfect Prince Charming."

"Mummy!"

She glanced down at her daughter, who was wearing the dragon costume, a bright jade and lime green creation, toddling towards her. She chuckled, kneeling and lifted her baby dragon into her arms, kissing Lyella's sticky cheek. She frowned, taking the lollipop from her. "Where did you get this?"

"Vizzy!"

Ugh, my brother. The villain himself, Sorcerer Dread the Night King-- redundant name-- happened to be hiding away, because he didn't want to be seen in the campy black and red costume of the villain from Princess Periwinkle. She plucked the lollipop from her three-year-old, wagging it at her. "No candy."

Lyella pouted, sticking her tongue out. "Mummy, not Charming."

Jon burst out laughing. "You're not charming!"

"No, you are not Charming." Her words were thick and she pointed, scowling at her father. "Prince Kit."

Dany's brows arched, countering her husband, whose mouth fell slightly. "Ha! She knows your character. You aren't Prince Charming, you're Prince Kit of Catesby. Get it right."

"He's a complete buffoon!"

"He's the comic relief."

Jon huffed, tugging at the tight pants, which conformed very nice to his shapely thighs and his even better arse. He'd forgone the codpiece, although she suggested it for later. He plucked at the spandex fabric, wincing. "Dany! They're going up my arse!"

"It's such a lovely arse."

"It's a children's hospital!"

She laughed. "Don't worry, I'm the only one looking at that bum." She walked by, smacking it and he jumped, but his pupils dilated, a low growl caught in his throat. Her voice dropped, whispering. "And if anyone else does they have me to deal with."

"Yes my Queen."

"Princess!"

Lyella was not wrong there; she was indeed Princess Periwinkle, in the lilac costume, with its yards of sparkling tulle, ribbons, and accessories, making her resemble a disco ball. She had gone all out this time, for the children's hospital's annual fundraising event, a worthy cause to return to Princess Periwinkle. And she managed to convince her husband, child-- that was not difficult at all-- and her brother.

She furrowed her brow. "Where is my brother?"

"Do we really care?" Jon wondered, taking Lyella from her. He sighed at his reflection in the floor-length mirror. "Best get on with it."

"The children thank you for your sacrifice, Prince Kit of Catesby," she laughed, pinching his bum on the way out the door and down the stairs.

At the base of the staircase, near the open door, Davos was waiting with Missandei. She posed for a few candid shots that her best friend took, laughing at the silliness of it all. She hopped off the bottom step, turning and hollered up, hands cupped over her mouth to magnify her voice. "Oi! Get your skinny arse down here Vis!"

"No! Not until I'm high enough!"

"I will come up there and drag you out myself and we both know who the real dragon is in this family!"

A door slammed somewhere in Vis's Wing of Darkness, where no one ventured unless they had all their shots and a death wish. He emerged from the shadows, glowering, his silver hair cut off and sweeping over his forehead in a new style that he'd only gotten because Leylla had found bubblegum and decided to play with it while he'd been passed out. Sadly, the silver tresses had had to go.

It suited him, the short hair, she thought, laughing as he descended in the red and black caped costume, resembling a magician rather than an actual villain. Lyella reached for him. "Vizzy!" she shouted. She simpered. "I love you."

"Ugh," he complained, but it was all for show. He shook his head, disgusted. "I cannot believe I am doing this!"

"Think of the happiness you will be providing to the children," Jon said. He closed his eyes, sighing. "Never mind, that would require you to have a heart."

Not that her brother heard him, as Viserys's eyes had glazed over, dollar signs obviously pulsing from them. He glanced between them both, salivating. "Oh, yes....I like this...I understand now...You both are going to do this on camera, right?"

"No!" they shouted.

Dany punched his shoulder. "It's for charity Vis, not attention. The hospital will put out a press release and some choice photos, but that is not the point of this. It's to provide these children a break from the fact they are locked in a hospital fighting for their lives." She grabbed his arm, pulling him to the door. "Even you can spare the single cell in your heart for that. Now come on, we'll be late."

They got to the hospital, which had already prepared a large room for the children, and she swept in, in full Princess Periwinkle, keeping her emotions at bay. Each time she saw the children, so many of them with visible signs of their illnesses and conditions, it broke her heart. It made her grateful every second for her healthy child and simultaneously guilty too, because her baby was healthy and these parents were going through her worst nightmare.

She pressed it down, taking in their gleeful faces, all of them forgetting where they were, because Princess Periwinkle had decided to visit. They were delighted to see her little dragon with her along with Prince Kit of Catesby, the two of them taking seats at the front, and she began to weave a tale, dramatically beginning: "Once upon a time, in a land far, far away, there lived a princess, who only ever wanted to live a normal life, but alas, she could not, because this princess, well she was different..."

It was a childish telling of her story with Jon, one she'd come up with for the event, and she caught his sight, when he realized it, and beamed. He began to weave in his own story-- he was the true storyteller of them both-- forgetting that he hated actors and became one himself. Even Lyella joined in, crawling across the floor and pretending to 'rawr' when necessary.

And then Viserys jumped in, the villain, and everyone shouted and with the plastic swords they'd been given, attacked him and beat him back-- she failed to tell him that part-- concluding the harrowing tale with Princess Periwinkle donning the crown and wielding the Sword of Truth, vowing to always be herself, no matter what anyone thought.

"Because being yourself is the best happiness you can have at all," she ended, sweeping into a curtsey.

One of the children waved their hands, shouting. "But what about prince Kit? And the Princess?"

Jon swept her into his arms, placing a kiss lightly to her lips, half the crowd (mostly girls) cooing and the other half (mostly boys) gagging at the display of affection. His smile radiated pure joy at her. "And they lived..."

"Happily ever after!" everyone exclaimed.

Dany chuckled, accepting the second kiss her husband-- and her true prince-- dropped to her mouth. She picked up Lyella, handing her off so Jon could sign autographs as "Prince Kit" and caught sight of Vis, who was fussing with a makeup mirror in the corner. She furrowed her brow, concerned, and went to him, voice soft. "VIs? You alright?"

"Allergies," he said airily.

Her eyes widened, recognizing the shine in his lilac irises. He ducked his head away, sniffing and dusted his nose with powder. "Vis are you..." This has never happened before, what do I do? "Are you crying?"

"No!"

She laughed, reaching up and hugged him, ignoring his stiff posture until he relaxed into her. She kissed his cheek, murmuring. "You like to be the villain, dear brother, but you're really not. Maybe in another story, but not this one." She broke away, just in time for a photographer to come by and take a snap, of Vis still holding his arms around her shoulders briefly, the two silver-haired Targaryens smiling at each other.

That evening, after they had returned home, with Lyella fast asleep in her Uncle Vizzy's arms-- and photos taken to prove to Viserys that he did love his niece contrary to his protests-- Dany left them on the couch where they'd fallen, and journeyed up to her wing of the townhouse, discovering her prince was still in his costume, playing with the plastic sword.

She watched him a moment, until he saw her reflection in the mirror by the bathroom, and froze. "HOw long have you been standing there?" he demanded.

"Long enough."

He spun on his heel, smirking. He fiddled with the sword. "Been awhile since I actually wielded Longclaw, I was practicing."

She laughed, closing the door, and on a whim, flicked the lock. He arched his brow, a smile curving up slyly. "What are you doing Princess Periwinkle?"

"I seem to have lost my sword, perhaps you can help me find it."

"Hmm....I don't know where it possibly could be."

She tugged him by the belt, towards the bed, and laughed, falling backwards into the voluminous tulle skirts. "I think I have an idea, for your pants are so tight, my prince."

"I knew there had to be a reason for it."

"Let me help you with them."

"Oh thank you princess, I am most grateful."

Dany nipped his lower lip, giggling. "So show me."

#Jonerys #jonerys drabbles #my fics #my moodboards #jomerys fluff #Jonerys au #All the world’s a stage series #UNCLE VIZZY!

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tirorah · 4 years

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Road to Berlin – The Strike Witches Magnum Opus?

Hello! It’s been a long time. I don’t plan on returning to Tumblr long-term—it simply stole away too much of my time and energy, and I had to do what was best for myself. However, I thought I’d pop in for a very special message.

You see, Strike Witches’ third season, Road to Berlin, has now reached its halfway point. And I need you to watch it.

“Strike Witches?!” I hear you say. “That weird show about girls with no pants that you’re obsessed with for some reason?”

Yes, exactly! Hold on, don’t run away yet! Sit with me for a spell and allow me to explain my boundless love for this silly, emotionally gripping show. Allow me to tell you why it might affect you in the same way, and why Road to Berlin may be the best offering yet.

Welcome to the 501st Joint Fighter Wing

If you’ve heard of this anime, you’ve undoubtedly heard of (or witnessed) its rather infamous claim to fame: a group of teenage soldiers fighting strange creatures in an Alternate Universe World War 2 Europe, flying around with guns and magic-fueled leg machines, and none of them are wearing any decent trousers.

That takes some getting used to, doesn’t it? I’m not going to deny that. But while Strike Witches’ rather peculiar design decisions are inescapable, there’s one thing you need to take into account: Season 1 aired all the way back in 2008. And over those thirteen years, it’s evolved into an experience unlike anything its roots would suggest.

Strike Witches has always been a strange beast. It has a large cast and divides its activities evenly between (light) war drama and slice-of-life shenanigans. And there’s fanservice, lots and lots of it! But the show’s emphasis on risqué camera work, and how that camera work is handled, highly depends on which entry you’re watching.

You see, Strike Witches is strangely ambitious. It could’ve easily taken its bizarre concept and pushed that to its limits, bringing in as much fanservice as possible and playing a simple story in the background as window dressing. But it was never satisfied with just that. Even early on in Season 1, the show deals with heavier themes like pressure, trauma and loss.

And then there are the characters, the undisputed stars of the show. Twelve strong and all with different backgrounds and personal quirks, they may at first seem like TV Tropes come to life. And certainly, sometimes they are. However, as the series progressed, things started to change. Even Season 2, arguably the lightest and silliest of all entries, featured material that built on character development and character growth earned in its predecessor.

With the movie and a trio of OVAs to round out the cast a bit more, the stage was set for Road to Berlin.

The Difficult Road Ahead

When this season was first announced back in 2018, two things stood out to me. First of all, the key visual and promotional video released along with the announcement were much more similar in style to the movies and the OVAs, featuring serious-looking characters and stormy clouds. Secondly, for the first time in Strike Witches history, an entry received a subtitle. Yes, the OVAs were named Operation Victory Arrow, but that was merely wordplay to spell out “OVA.” It wasn’t wholly serious.

Road to Berlin, however, is deadly serious.

Let’s start with an overall theme. The vaunted 501st Joint Fighter Wing has had some major victories, but much of the continent is still under occupation by the Neuroi. The Hive over Berlin is the Wing’s new target, but the journey there is fraught with obstacles. Plans are thwarted and delayed by Neuroi more powerful and far craftier than their 2008 counterparts.

And as the opening song tells us: “We all have flaws.” The Road to Berlin isn’t an entirely literal road; it’s also a metaphorical one. The push to Berlin is their hardest battle yet. Victory can only be achieved if the characters face and overcome their weaknesses. But they’re not alone.

Friendship Is Power

As the characters have long since been established, there’s greater room for growth not just in one character, but also in how that character interacts with others. Road to Berlin chose the best possible route and decided to emphasize character dynamics. Episodes don’t focus on a single character anymore; they focus on relationships, and those relationships are at their peak here.

There’s a newfound maturity to the writing in Road to Berlin, a gentle touch that allows the characters to breathe and be more than their foremost traits. You get a sense that the characters have grown from their experiences; they feel different, more well-rounded, but they still behave exactly as they should. This is difficult to get right, and while I’m sure there might be a few eyebrow-raising moments here and there, the overall result is a cast that continues to improve every week.

Chekhov’s Gun

Underpinning the character work is a highly intriguing execution. Road to Berlin delivers subtle setups and satisfying payoffs in every episode. The pacing is also seriously tight. No moment is left unused, every opportunity for additional development is taken. Even the script itself doesn’t like to waste time; it explains things here and there, but it rightly assumes you know who the characters are and what everything means, so it doesn’t bother with many unnecessary lines.

On top of all that, this season is reaching new heights in confidence and sheer audacity, and it uses that to deliver something truly special. There are interactions here that I never could’ve imagined, twists that genuinely caught me off-guard, moments where I had to sit back and digest what I’d just witnessed.

Not a single episode has been predictable thus far; I’ve had more surprises than I can count. In fact, before I started watching I made a bingo card on a whim, filling it with trends and running gags I’d spotted over the course of the series. Some of those bingo spaces have already been proven wrong, and others are in question. Road to Berlin has done such a spectacular job at simultaneously defying and exceeding my expectations that I honestly have no idea where this journey will take me.

The Fault in Our Stars

Okay, hold up, stop the hype train! I admit, I’m a massive sucker for Strike Witches. One could say this somewhat clouds my judgement. Shocking, I know. So, to make this enthusiastic recommendation fairer, let’s dig into something that I hope to see an improvement on.

There is some terrible imbalance in screen time going on here. I know I said earlier that the cast is great, and it is amazing, but some characters have definitely been favored over others. Yoshika is the main character, of course, so it’s not unreasonable for her to have a large role. Similarly, characters like Minna, Gertrud and Shirley have more experience and higher ranks than the others, which means they have an easier time fitting into scenes.

So, who’s gotten the short end of the stick?

Let’s start with Lynne. She hasn’t had as much of a presence as I’d hoped. The primary reason for this is Shizuka, who’s taken up the role of newbie to the squadron and is often paired with Yoshika because they’re working together. As each episode focuses on the relationships between a select few characters at a time, the others are often relegated to minor roles, and poor Lynne hasn’t had an episode to highlight her yet. I’m sure her moment will come eventually.

I don’t know if the same thing applies to Minna. She’s mostly stuck behind her desk again, it seems, and while she’s definitely had some scenes, her role as Wing Commander hasn’t allowed her as much wiggle room as some of the others. What I want to see from Minna is more time to be a nurturing mom to her girls. The thing is, I’m not sure how they’d accomplish a Minna-centric episode. I suppose they could pair her up with Mio, but even then, I’m uncertain where to take her. It seems redundant to have her be worried out of her mind over Mio again, and she seems to be keeping it together pretty well so far anyway.

In a trend so merciless it’s almost comical, Sanya and Eila seem forever doomed to the peanut gallery. They started out with few lines and have pretty much remained in the background since. Of course, a big factor to it all is their role as the night patrol, which naturally separates their activities from everyone else’s. It’s my current prediction that their relationship is next in line to be showcased. The quality of that episode will likely hinge on how their personalities are tuned, but there’s potential for something great.

And most shocking of all, Mio—She Who Has Practiced Plot Armor Ten Thousand Times—has had the most infinitesimal role of all. I’m of two minds on this. It appears that Road to Berlin has realized that having Mio fly into battle without a shield or Striker Unit is silly, and this is good. On the other hand, Mio is an iconic and beloved character. She deserves some screen time as long as she doesn’t overshadow the others. For now, she seems to be relegated to strategizing and logistics, although I have a hunch that a way to circumvent her newfound vulnerability has already been set up. Time will tell if this ends up being utilized.

Journey’s End

In closing, Road to Berlin highlights the best of what Strike Witches has to offer. It’s striding boldly forward, eager to dazzle us with its animation and audio, grinning as it challenges our preconceptions about where its characters can go and what they can do.

The path to this greatness can be tough. Watching Strike Witches means accepting a number of strange concepts, which can give quite a few viewers a rough start with the series. However, if you made it all the way here and haven’t given Strike Witches a try yet, I sincerely implore you to make the attempt. If you allow the characters to sweep you off your feet, then Road to Berlin could be the apex of a most satisfying viewing experience.

Especially if its second half is as impressive as the first. I, personally, have high hopes. There’s no sky this show can’t conquer.

#strike witches #road to berlin #anime #yes I made a bingo card in Excel #I'm a passionate fangirl with ample Microsoft experience #oh right #I should point out that I changed my name from NeandaFFnet to TirOrah #as I don't use that old handle anymore #sorry for any confusion caused

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medievalfangirl · 4 years

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A Letter From a (very enthusiastic) Fan.

It’s me again! Haha

First of all I’d like to apologize for possible typos since English isn’t my first language but I hope you can understand the general ideia.

When I found your fic, I was a little hesitant to start reading it because usually time travelling stories to the middle ages never seem to completely portray the danger and violence it was known for. I cannot tell you how many stories I read in which the female lead spends all her time at the alehouse spending the money that we have no idea where it came from, being completely accepted for society even though she’s not like them, magically learning how to use a sword the first time she holds it and being her sassy arrogant herself with no punishment whatsoever for her disrespectful behavior. Oh yeah and everybody seems to love and admire her even though she’s just a pain in the ass.

Now that I got that out of my system, I just wanted to say what a pleasant and beautiful surprise it was to run into AGFTF. Girl, that’s MASTER WRITING! I fell for the story instantly because it’s so incredibly realistic (given the circumstances)! Adeline was held captive for months before she was rescued, she was mistreated and suffered for her loose tongue, she realized through the most despicable way that woman’s rights back then were none at all, she even got her period at the worst possible time ever for fuck’s sake! Adeline had to work to pay for her ale she didn’t create gold out of straw like some Rumpelstilkin lead, she faced the prejudice for being a woman and she took a normal amount of time to learn how to use weapons. You absolutely nailed all the descriptions and realism, thank you so much for that.

About Adeline. So hard for me too love a lead usually I just like them but I didn’t stand a chance against Adeline. SHE’S SO FUCKING FUNNY! Every time she has an inappropriate thought or just a sassy one I shit myself so hard I’m laughing. She’s so relatable and yet so unique. Her clumsiness is not Bella Swan/Anastasia Steel kind of thing, it’s something ridiculously funny and more important: the characters think that too. They’re not charmed by the way she fell of a hill and lost her unicorn panties, they’re amused by it as any real person would be. Every time I feel something’s about to go wrong for her or Adeline just makes a dumbass decision I cover my eyes like “oh, no, Adeline, not again”, but I do it laughing and with lots of loves for her. Taking a darker turn, the way she faces what happened at Dunholm is a shitty unhealthy way but it’s how most of us deal with a trauma and I can only hope she’ll learn how to deal with it in time. I love how she’s not obviously a brave warrior but totally determined to prove herself to everyone including herself and this will prove to be a hard journey mainly when she lives by the Murphy’s Law. Although it’s already very clear to me how much she’s matured and developed in that three years passage of time. I’d like to give you my top five moments of Adeline:

Adeline almost flashing Alfred, the Great. (WHAT WAS THAT HAHAHAHA I LAUGHED MY GUTS OUT);

Adeline having her hair braided by Sihtric at the alehouse (I loved this part so much it was like receiving a warm hug during the hardest winter and their friendship is EVERYTHING);

Adeline and Finan talking by the fire at the camp back from Balbury (they’ll have a topic specially for their relationship just you wait);

Adeline learning how to use a bow;

Adeline braiding Dorito’s mane alongside Finan.

Shall we talk about the marvelous job you did with the characters? We shall. It’s like I’m watching a spin-off from TLK because their personalities are FLAWLESS. I can see them talking to me. Hild being that perfect herself, too good a woman for God alone; Sihtric always so silent but also friendly and compassionate; and Finan. Oh dear God, Finan. There’s no other way to describe him other than quoting Adeline:

“I liked the duality of his nature: he laughed so easily but he wasn’t a man to be messed with – he’d fight his corner, and fight twice as hard for his friends”. Girl, you made me cry. In a good way. That is everything I love about Finan and that’s why I was so happy to see that it’s also what Adeline likes about him.

Now last but definitely NOT least.

Finan and Adeline. Sweet Lord that lies in heaven what a perfect ship. Slow-Burn? It’s more like Slow-Motion-Burn, girl. I’m a person with zero patience and you made me CRAVE for a little romance between these two from the beginning. I just kept praying and hoping they’d have some involvement soon but you made me wait and boy was it worth it. You know, it wasn’t tiresome to wait for those too to start flirting because I just adored Adeline’s relationship with everybody else (Sihtric, Hild, Clapa… even Uhtred and Gisela).

I started to feel the reciprocity when Finan chased her outside the hall and Adeline challenged him for a fight. I actually giggled in every scene they had together after the small ruse for the loaf of bread because that’s what took me to sail my shipp. The small bickering, the smirks and smiles they exchanged, flirty Finan implying “he didn’t know he’d have to EAT anything” (I had mad goosebumps I had). You built their relationship with patience and through crumbs I happily fed on only to realize that they were satisfying me and making me beg for more. It was so beautiful to see their friendship turning into something else and now all I want to see is their wedding. Just kidding but not so much.

I get a little excited when a story has everything I was looking for so I’m sorry I actually wrote you a letter hahaha if you managed to read it all, I just wanted to thank you one more time for taking the time and talent to telling us Adeline’s story. I’ll probably write another letter when I’m finished with the 25 chapters and then I’ll just leave a comment on the chapters like a normal person hahaha

Thank you again and congratulations!

XOXO

A response from a very grateful author who cried at least three times reading your letter

Saying a simple thank you feels a little redundant considering the magnitude of emotion your letter brought me, but that’s where I’ll start. THANK YOU! 🥰🥰 You’ve filled my heart with such happiness it’s difficult to put into words. So, again, thank you! 💕

My goal from the beginning with this story was to try and tell a realistic (or at least, as realistic as time travel can be) story, with a character who struggled, and learnt the hard way that this experience wouldn’t be all sunshine and rainbows. I didn’t want to write a ‘main character’ in the way that she is automatically liked and respected and admired, just because she’s The Main Character. I wanted to write about a real person, with flaws, who handles things poorly, and who some people dislike. Because real life is messy like that.

So to have you tell me not only did you find the story realistic as I dearly wished, but it exceeded your expectations? I’m delighted, and blow away a little to be honest. You’ve broken down the story and how you felt about it in such detail, really taking your time, and I feel totally and utterly honoured.

I can’t tell you how happy I am that you like Adeline so much! “oh, no, Adeline, not again” truly is her catchphrase, because while she tries, she is nothing short of a disaster at times. I’m so, so happy you feel you can relate to her and enjoy her journey. I agree with you - I think most of us aren’t good with serious trauma. We get there, but it takes time, and a fair few mistakes first. Again, I’m pleased as punch that you like that she handled things badly, that she’s scared but determined, and trying to grow. You’ve picked up on every single theme I’ve been trying to portray with her as if you’ve been in my head for a sneaky look, and it’s incredible. You’re so insightful and thoughtful 🥰🥰

Taking the time to rank your favourite Adeline moments? Well, you’ve reduced me to happy tears once again. Seriously, I’m just a mushy mess at this point. THANK YOU💕

Ahhh, Finan. Straight away I’ll apologise because you’re so right - Slow-Motion-Burn sums this up perfectly😂 I did wonder if readers would find the wait until the romance a drag, so I’m relieved and happy (you’ve made me happy rather a lot, so i apologise for being repetitive) you enjoyed the build up, and friendships with the rest of the Coccham family. I wanted to push Finan and Adeline towards each other in a way that felt natural, and have this gradual realisation from them both that, oh shit, this person means a lot to me. And the flirting? So much fun to write, so I can assure you that will continue forever, to the wedding and beyond (oh i promise, you’ll have that wedding).

One final thing - please don’t apologise for being a beautiful, kind soul who took the time to share their thoughts and bring a huge, huge amount of happiness to my day. As you can see, I write essays too, so we’re in this together!

Thank you so, so, so much 🥰💕💕

#the best submission #im still crying a little bit #day=made #week=made #and lets be honest month #submission

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giorgiastastes · 4 years

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Cidade De Deus (2002)

“Why return to the City of God, where God forgets about you?”

Let’s start from the title, which is certainly enigmatic. Calling city of God, a suburb that is the scenario of a reality abandoned by God is not a mistake, nor is the frequent recourse to religious faith seen as the only motivation, the last hope of these young men for a better life, that does not lead them in a coffin before the age of twenty. I am in favor of full religious freedom and belief, but I cannot fail to notice how, if faith can lead to extremism, bigotry and fanaticism, very often it is also the only light of those who have already touched the bottom or are about to do it.

Speaking of the plot, the film begins in medias res, in the Cidade de Deus, one of the most dangerous favelas in all of Brazil.

The initial scene, so frenetic and almost surreal, is part of the history of cinema, with the chicken running away through the alleys of the neighborhood, while at least twenty boys chase her, trying to catch her with guns and rifles, as if it were Pablo Escobar reincarnated.

The chicken finally ends up clashing with our narrator, aspiring photographer, now stuck between the street gang and the police.

Masterfully we see the camera rotating around this boy, over and over again soon becoming an hypnotic rhythm, while at the end of the last turn we find ourselves in another time space, in the 60s, accompanied by the phrase A PHOTO COULD HAVE CHANGED MY LIFE, BUT IN THE CITY OF GOD IF YOU ESCAPE YOU ARE DONE, AND IF YOU STAY YOU ARE DONE, IT HAS ALWAYS BEEN SO, SINCE I WAS A CHILD.

The protagonist, faced with such a difficult choice, returns to the past with his mind and begins to tell us about a naive gang of thieves in order to narrate with their story, also the reality of the favela, which, using the the film’s wording, is too far from the idea of a Rio’s postcard that the government wanted to portrait at the time.

After a series of episodes that I don't want to spoil, we will move on to the next decade. This initially will seem like a positive turn and then will turn out to be only a patination of the neighborhood, which in the end is even more socially structured and cruel than how it used to be.

Finally, let’s move to the strongest part of the film, the children. They are the ones who make the choices that will most mark them.

In the city of God you cannot live your childhood with carefree, you must immediately decide which side to stand on, and this childish decision, you will take to your grave.

Among the children there are those who immediately think of themselves as an outsider in that climate of crime and violence, but according to them, not because of a sense of morality,but simply because they’re afraid of getting a bullet.

Then we find those who were born for it, and even plan for new robberies, who feels strong and great showing off a gun often bigger than their head.

To say that the film offers us several times the philosophical doubt of WHO ARE GOOD ONE AND WHO’S THE BAD would be redundant and perhaps too direct even to be discussed, with the police who often behave worse than the bandits, and the only “non silent” citizen is the one acting the most violent crime, so I want to focus on other points.

Can you choose which side to fight for or are you facing a one-way street? And then, badness, evil and violence are innate or you learn them, you discover them with living?

Answering the first question, the most objective and direct of the two, there is certainly no doubt that in such ill-famed neighborhoods, it is the crime that pursues us and not the other way around. When you are so abandoned by institutions and authorities, often even with a lack of reference figures from which to take example, Crime is not a choice, simply because there are no choices, it is the only option, even if unjustly glorified.

About the second question, on the other hand, in my opinion, the evil is innate, but not because it is to be considered hereditary, more because but it is part of the human nature, of the animal part in each of us, which, unfortunately, is not held back by human intelligence, but brought to extreme sadism from this intellectual capacity which other animal species lack.

It is morality that then represses these instincts, but if we left the world to anarchy, only a few would stop, and as Plautus says, Homo homini lupus.

To better explain my thoughts, I must refer to another masterful work.

I'm talking about Dogville by the controversial but brilliant Lars Von Trier. I won't talk about this film, but just to summarize the idea, we are faced with a town where cruelty is so eradicated in the population that it is a same child who starts the cycle of violence and abuse. This episode perfectly reflects how human’s evilness is, in my opinion as much as that of the director, genetic, and that can also be seen in City of God.

The undisputed head of the city, Ze Pequeno, begins his rise to power at the age of eighteen, as soon as he realizes that he wants to become the absolute king of the favela.

But if we were to talk about his desire for blood, that was born much earlier, when he was still a child and, as the narrator tells us, "he wanted to act out his whim of killing" and then took advantage of the robbery at the motel to make a massacre.

Certainly the number of its victims grows with its age and so its desire for power but, however questionable this choice is, it was not homicide for futile reasons. In fact, he decides to exterminate all the main drug dealers in the area with the intention of becoming the only owner, when he begins to understand that it was necessary to switch to the drugs field.

What makes me reflects is that, although the character will always be easily triggered, and it is not uncommon for them to put a hole in someone’s head, the reason why he killed as a child was not even money, it was just an innate desire to kill, to take the life of another human being and watch him take his last breath.

His disturbing laugh proves it.

Even the punishment, albeit excessive, that will lead him to death, inflicted on children who had robbed a rotisserie, is still part of his plan to be the owner of a favelas that respects him because in good or bad it is he who protects the city.

And it is precisely in that scene that we see how the cycle begins again, when Ze Pequeno forces a child to kill another child, or when those same children make up any type of story just to receive a weapon or the same one who will then take control of the city at the end of the film, probably taking the man they killed as an example.

They are always the victims and executioners, as well as the heart of the story. Of course, in the seventies we see the protagonists grown up, but of adult men they only have the appearance.

Their character is still that of the decade before, as well as their choices and behaviors. One of them was marked by the sight of a camera as a child and this became his greatest passion as a teenager and then an adult. The same one, despite knowing who his brother's killer is, decides not to take revenge in order to respect the choices he made years before, that is, to abstain from evil.

I don't even need to dwell on the exceptional and impeccable shots because, although there are unforgettable scenes such as the death of Benny between the screams and the intermittent lights of the disco, each shot would have to be studied and likely more than that, the transitions between one and the other.

The plot remains a rhythmical crescendo, we never get bored and the story remains in evolution: we don't have a real incipit, a problem that upsets the balance, a resolution of the problem and then a conclusion, it is a story that it follows changes without actually being a real beginning and end, just like a cycle.

Another and final theme is the power of art, the only means of escape from such a difficult reality, but art itself can often be used improperly to advertise and almost glorify this underworld. In this case we are talking about photography, but it could be any type of art from poetry, cinema to music.

The film must be said that it has no clear defects, but if I could have put my own I would have made the symbol of the camera even more important, since mainly we see it in the very first scene and in the change of decade, and then obviously for the whole last half an hour, while I would have made each photograph part of a chapter of the story, which did not happen.

All in all, I went too far and if you still didn't get the message, run to discover this masterpiece of cinema.

#cidade de deus #city of god #City of god 2002 #Ze Pequeno #Fernando Meirelles #Kátia Lund

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pr0sciutt0 · 5 years

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not sure if you're up for holiday asks but could i request some poly bruabba with s/o telling the boys they're pregnant on christmas morning?? ✨

it’s july but u know what. here’s christmas. (reader is afab and fem pronouns/terms such as ‘mother’ are used to describe them!)

You have been holding a secret to your chest for what seems like years but has barely been a month. You've spent this whole time pushing back the bubbling desire to sing out what it is to Bruno and Abbacchio, knowing that there's a date coming up that would be perfect for it.

This whole time, you've smiled at Bruno and Abbacchio like nothing is different. You've looked in the windows of children's boutiques in secret, imagining the reactions of your boys - imagining Bruno choosing out delicate lace dresses in soft pastel shades, imagining buying those silly 'baby Mozart' CDs with Abbacchio and listening to them with Abbacchio's head pressed against your stomach.

And you've known that on Christmas morning, you are going to wake up and give Bruno and Abbacchio a gift that you hope - no, that you know - they will treasure beyond any other.

You've been trying for this for a few months, with both of your boyfriends. The difficult questions have already been addressed; after Bruno and Abbacchio had left Passione, they'd been given a sizeable amount of money that Giorno had looked at you all and smiled as he called a "redundancy package". It's more than enough to cover expenses of a child. It's more than enough to cover you all for the rest of your lives. And you all want children and a family and nobody cares whose genes it is in particular that convene to make the child.

You hadn't expected it to happen so quickly, but a little less than a month ago you'd squinted down at the faint lines on the pregnancy test and had to stop yourself from shouting with joy.

You'd taken a while to fall asleep on the night of Christmas Eve, excitement fizzing in your stomach that Bruno had laughed at and kissed your forehead for, teasing you about how you were clearly far too excited to open your presents in the morning.

"What presents?" Abbacchio had grunted, wrapping his arms around your waist and pulling you into him. Bruno, his head propped on his hand, smiled lazily at the two of you with his dark blue eyes filled with affection so great it makes your heart skip a beat every time you notice it. "We were supposed to be buying presents?"

"You've bought more presents than any of us, Leone," Bruno says, laughing. "Too many, I'd say, if we're too excited to sleep!"

You'd drifted off into sleep eventually, although the slightest shift of your boyfriends against you had been enough to have you awake and looking towards the window to see if the sun had made its appearance yet. You don't know how much sleep you got in the end - you know it can't be more than a few hours, and yet when the alarm clock on Bruno's side of the bed reads seven in the morning you feel wide awake and raring to go.

You manage to escape Abbacchio's iron grip, batting away his questions by saying you need the bathroom. It's not entirely untrue - you need to be in the bathroom to calm your nerves before you do your big reveal. Now, this close to your secret finally being revealed, the nerves are beginning to set in. What if, despite all of your better judgement, things do go wrong? There are so many things that could happen. There are so many ways that this could backfire.

Abbacchio had been afraid at the prospect to begin with. He'd given all sorts of excuses about being a terrible father figure and somebody who should never be entrusted with the next generation. Bruno and you had always gently tried to calm him and tell him all of the wonderful things about him you both adored, but you still occasionally saw a flash of fear in his eyes before a determined smile came onto his beautiful face. He might break down when he knows for sure, a voice whispers.

And it whispers, too, that perhaps they do not love you as much as you may think they do. Perhaps actually they do not love you at all. What if this is the thing that makes them admit it, and they throw you out of their home on Christmas Day? You know that these things are silly to fear about. You know that your brain is working in overdrive and there is little chance of any of them actually happening. But still, you fight them down. You breathe through them.

You stay in the bathroom for ten minutes, steadying your breathing and the beat of your heart, and when you emerge with your face damp from patting it down to keep yourself calm and collected, Bruno and Abbacchio have both sat up in bed. Both of them have a few gifts strewn over their laps - Abbacchio's are rather more neatly wrapped than Bruno's, and you recognise one of the shapes in front of Bruno as a bottle of wine.

"Why didn't you get a bottle bag?" You say, laughing, as you take your seat on the edge of the bed. You have some physical gifts for your boyfriends downstairs beneath the Christmas tree, but you'd neglected your tradition of early morning special gifts this year because the one you were intending to give them needed no fancy wrapping paper or neatly tied satin ribbons.

Bruno gives his gifts first. His gift to Abbacchio is a very fancy bottle of vintage wine - Abbacchio had once had the same kind, and you and he had polished off the whole thing whilst watching some terrible horror movie late at night. You feel a pang that you won't be able to share this one with him when Abbacchio throws you a wink and a grin.

Hmm. Perhaps he'll save it until after the baby is born.

Bruno's gift to you is a beautiful necklace set with one bright blue stone, ringed with a halo of dark onyxes. The blue is the colour of Bruno's eyes, and you're almost certain the onyxes represent your other boyfriend - and as you let Bruno do it up for you and his warm hands brush your back, you prickle all over with excitement. But Abbacchio has his gifts to give first.

For you, there's a beautiful set of dark lace lingerie that you'll have to wear soon, because you don't think you'll be fitting into it in a while. For Bruno, there's a new lace bralet - white, this time - with an even more interesting and delicate pattern on it; Abbacchio, reddening, admits he'd bought them both from the same artisan, and your heart swells with adoration as you think of your boyfriend, six feet of pure muscle, earnestly talking about these delicate pieces.

Your turn comes, at once too quickly and not quick enough, and both of your boyfriends have caught onto the fact that something is out of the ordinary. You take a deep breath, and you look at both of them in turn, thinking on how lucky you are.

Bruno is lovely in every sense of the word. He's gorgeous, of course - but his beauty runs far more than skin-deep. He cares about you more than anything else in the world. You and Abbacchio are his reason for existing - and when either of you are wronged, he is cold and unfeeling. You know that he was a gangster, but it's only ever believable when he rushes to your defence. And Abbacchio, beside him, is just as beautiful and just as kind, even if he doesn't believe it of himself. You see his dislike of everything he's done written clear in his eyes, but to you and Bruno . . . for you and Bruno, he would do anything. He would go anywhere. He's so much stronger than he realises.

You realise, now, that your eyes have filled with tears as you look at them both.

"Amore?" Bruno says, at the same time as Abbacchio murmurs your name and both are reaching over to touch you. "Is there something wrong?"

Abbacchio forces a smile, as he says; "Now wouldn't be the best time to leave us, if that's what you're going to do--"

"Not at all," you manage to breathe out. "The opposite, in fact."

"Oh?" Bruno says, and he's smiling at you now. "You're staying in this bed forever? The rest of your life?"

"We should change the sheets first," Abbacchio says, and both of them look at each other and smile, their expressions soft with adoration. They love each other so much. They love you so much. They are filled with so much love to give, and you and your child are so lucky. They are going to be such wonderful fathers.

"I'll be staying in the bed a lot more," you say, and though your heart is beating frantically and you feel fuzzy and light-headed, a smile has risen to your lips that you can't shake. "When I get further in, I mean."

"Further in to what?" Bruno asks, his smile matching yours because he can't see either of the loves of his life happy without his own mood lifting.

You look from your boyfriend to your other boyfriend, letting the moment hang in the air.

"To the pregnancy," you say, and silence stretches before you, so intense that a pin dropping would have echoed for hours. "I'm pregnant. We're - we're going to be parents."

The silence goes on, and that brief flare of disquiet rears its ugly head again - and then, Bruno's mouth drops open and he's reaching over and pulling you into him, whilst Abbacchio is suddenly laughing as he too launches himself into the hug, and you're lost in the scents of your boyfriends.

Abbacchio is crying, you register dimly, as their laughter and their shouts of pleasure fade into a dim kind of background noise. He's smiling, but he's crying - and when he leans over and drops a kiss on the top of your head, one of his tears drips onto your head.

"I'm alright," he says, sensing your concern, "I just . . . I can't believe it, tesoro. Me. A father."

"Me too," Bruno says, smiling, jabbing a finger into Abbacchio's chest as he wraps his other arm about your shoulders. "We, a father."

"We, fathers," Abbacchio corrects, and then shakes his head, his grin not subsiding, tracks of tears still shining on his face. Abbacchio is always so stern and sharp, in cheekbone and stark eyebrows and lip colour. In bed in the early Christmas morning light, he has never looked so soft - and certainly, the look on his face is just as sweet as you've ever seen it. "Both of us. And you, amore--" He looks at you, and your heart skips a beat. "Us. Parents. You. A mother."

"You'll be wonderful," Bruno says, squeezing your shoulder.

All of you will.

#jjba #writing #leone abbacchio #bruno buccellati #sfw #Anonymous

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lovemesomerafael · 5 years

Text

Others Like Me Chapter 1: Abduction

Source: @heybinary

[Oh, shit. I might be obsessed. Again. This is my first attempt at writing anything related to The Avengers, and I’m really only focused on Bucky and Steve. Not sure what’s gonna happen here. It’ll be full of swearing (helloooooo? It’s me) and it’ll be smutty, but not sure yet who’s gonna be doing whom. Stay tuned. Right now, Bucky’s about to make a new friend.]

It’s a beautiful spring day when they come for Bucky. It’s calm and sunny, just warm enough not to need a jacket, with the first promise of true summer on the breeze, and he’s walking around Brooklyn. Just walking around, minding his own business, trying to pull memories out of the deepest recesses of his mind. The places Hydra never touched.

He stands outside a deli that he swears was there when he and Steve were kids and, judging from the age of the building and some of the fixtures, he could be right. It’s the smell that holds the closest thing to a memory for him. So he’s just standing there, breathing it in and squinting a little behind his nano mask, trying to fill in the bare sketch that could be a memory, or might just be a fantasy.

When Bucky sees them coming for him, he knows they’re real enough, but he almost doesn’t believe what he’s seeing. It’s the way they move. It’s too synchronized. It’s like they’re one person in many bodies – twelve or fourteen, he thinks – moving in absolute concert without a command or even much sound. From every direction – including up – they converge on him and before he has time even to register a threat, it’s too late. They just appear from doorways, dropping down from balconies where no one had been a split second before, and piling out of a dirty, beat-up panel truck so perfectly common he hadn’t even noticed it. He feels a stupendously painful pinprick, and he’s out. They bundle him into the truck. The whole thing takes fifteen seconds and, of all the passersby on the street at that moment, not one is sure anything strange happened.

He comes to, and finds that he’s as trussed up as he’s ever been, and he’s been bound plenty of different ways in the course of his hideously eventful life. These restraints are different. They’re not the crude clamps used by Hydra back when he was first their prisoner, which relied on bulk for strength. They’re not even the crazily redundant engineered system used on him in Berlin. These are something he’s never seen before, something so advanced he thinks even Tony Stark would be impressed. For one thing, they’re too light. He knows before he tests them that they’ve got to be made of something immensely strong. Vibranium, maybe? What he knows for sure is, he can’t get out, and the people around him in the plane know it. He’s struggling against the bands holding his arms, legs, chest and abdomen, and they’re barely paying attention to him.

He wonders, irrelevantly, what happened to his nano mask. It’s when he’s testing the restraints that he realizes he can’t move his left arm. It’s just lying there, powerless, dead and useless. How the fuck did they manage that?

They don’t even seem to care that he’s woken up, although he sees them notice. It’s the same people who captured him in Brooklyn; he remembers catching glimpses of most of them. They’re obviously a team of some sort. Soldiers, or operatives or something. He guesses he’ll call them “agents,” for lack of a better word. They’re not wearing street clothes now; all of them are wearing what looks like tactical gear, although they’re not wearing body armor at the present. They’re speaking Russian, debriefing his capture.

A striking-looking woman with a lot of hair bound up in a tight knot at the back of her head is clearly the leader. Bucky’s fascinated for a few minutes by the fact that, although most of her hair is dark brown, there’s a section on the right side that’s blonde. He’s also fascinated because she seems to think the mission went badly, sloppily. Which pisses him off, because they sure as shit took him without a fight.

“Where are you taking me?” Bucky decides to ask, because it’s kind of getting to him the way they’re pretending he’s not there. He doesn’t like it at all. It reminds him way too much of what it was like… before.

A few of them look at him, but none of them answers or responds in any other way. Until he hears sounds from behind him and a tall, fit, older man in the same type of tac gear as the rest of these people steps in front of him. His hair is a very short, white cap and his skin is badly weatherbeaten, as though he’s seen a lot of time in the field. Bucky thinks his head looks like a bullet, and immediately christens him Bullethead. The guy has true believer written all over him, and Bucky notices he’s holding one of those fucking stun batons he learned to hate so much.

No. Please, no. These people cannot be Hydra. Hydra is dead. It can’t be happening again. He can’t be going back… there. Bucky Barnes makes a decision right then and there. He’s not going back to that. He’ll die first. Hopefully, he’ll get to take some of these motherfuckers with him. He feels a tight, cold core of fear form in his stomach, and stuffs it away like he’s done a thousand times before. That’s easy. He’s got a limitless vault inside him where he can stuff fear and pain, and get on with whatever he’s got to do.

It’s the other stuff that’s always been harder to ignore. Stuff like guilt. Steve’s gonna be insane with grief and fear when Bucky disappears without a trace. And now there are more people who care about him, too. People like Sam and Natasha, Clint and Bruce and Scott. Even Tony tolerates him, although it's debatable whether Tony can be said to really like anyone other than Pepper. He’s let them all down, and he knows that Steve will come looking for him. Again. That’s a whole lot of distraction he can’t afford right now, and it’s a hell of a lot more difficult to stuff that mess into the vault and slam the door shut on it.

Bullethead, holding the stun baton in one hand and smacking it into another, speaks to him in German-accented English. Of course, Bucky thinks. Why’s the accent always gotta be German? The dread boils inside Bucky’s chest and he stuffs that into the vault with the rancid memories that come flooding through him just hearing the guy’s voice.

“It’s an honor to meet you, Sergeant. I’ve been studying you for a long time. The things you’ve accomplished… I feel very fortunate to have the opportunity to work with you.”

“Can’t say I feel the same,” Bucky growls. The leader of the team of agents flicks a look at him as he speaks. There’s no expression on her face.

“Do you need anything? A drink of water, perhaps? Are you feeling all right? The tranquilizer can make some people a little queasy, I’m told.” Bucky decides he really, really hates this guy. The whole thing about being smugly courteous to a prisoner has never sat well with him. He prefers being smacked around. At least that’s honest. He doesn’t bother answering, just closes his eyes and leans his head back.

“Very well. We’ll let you sleep it off. It’s a long flight.”

They must drug him again, because the next thing Bucky knows, he’s waking up in a cell. The walls are solid, riveted metal of some indefinable dark color, and the door is a grate of thick bars. It’s so familiar he nearly vomits just from the hellish sense of déjà vu. It’s not the same cell, not the same place as before. But it’s close enough. In fact, it’s so close he wonders if he’s back in Siberia. He can feel the same dry cold, and smell the same musty scent.

He’s no longer bound. No need to be; he’s not getting out of this cell. It’s made of whatever metal the restraints were made of, and his arm’s still as dead as it had been on the plane. It feels unbelievably heavy. He squeezes his eyes closed as tightly as he can and concentrates on his breathing. For a full five minutes, he forces all the chaotic, roiling emotions he can’t afford right now back into the vault in his mind, and seals the door tight.

When he opens his eyes again, he realizes that the leader of the team of… agents who abducted him is standing inside his cell holding a tray of food. He has no idea how she got there without him hearing her, but there she is. And the cell door is shut behind her. If nothing else, he has to admire her guts. She’s wearing the same tac gear as she was on the plane, and he again notices her dark hair. It’s in a plain ponytail today, and it’s strangely thick and very long. That blonde patch is cool, Bucky decides. Half her bangs are blonde, and the blonde continues a ways toward her right ear. He wonders if it’s natural. There’s something odd about the idea of hired muscle worrying about her hair but, then again, he never met a dame who didn’t. He christens her Blondie.

He nods to the tray. “You really think I’m gonna eat that?” He spits out, just to be difficult.

“I hope so,” Blondie says, in English, with an almost-perfect American accent. There’s just a slight hint of something else, something Slavic, behind it. She sets the tray down on a small folding table next to the cot he’s lying on. As she does, she looks him straight in the eye. Her eyes are large and deep brown, and unlike when they were on the plane, there’s an expression in them now. “We’ll both be glad you did.”

Bucky has no idea what that’s supposed to mean. She stands up and takes a step back, looking to her side out the bars of the door. There’s someone there, and she gives the slightest nod of her head and says, “Devyatnadsat.”

Huh? Nineteen what? Bucky doesn’t get anything this chick has said so far, even though he’s understood every word.

A hulking blond guy with a military-looking haircut comes to the door and unlocks it, and Blondie turns her back on Bucky and walks out of the cell. She’s obviously not too bright, turning her back on a prisoner like that. It’s been so long since Bucky’s met anyone who wasn’t afraid of him that it never occurs to him to think this woman might not be.

“Eat.” She says as the blond guy closes the cell door behind her. “Please.”

Bucky eats. Because why the hell not? Or maybe that’s his reason. He really wonders what Blondie meant by “We’ll both be glad you did.” It’s a little more difficult to eat when his left arm’s completely useless, but he manages. He pays no attention to what the food is. It’s fuel. That’s all that matters.

There’s no way to know how long it is before they come to get him. It could be one hour, it could be five or six. There are no windows, nothing going on that he can see or hear, that might help Bucky measure the passage of time. But if there’s one thing he learned in the Army, it’s how to wait. As he does, he reiterates to himself his determination that he will not go back to being the Winter Soldier. If he has to die to escape that fate, that’s what he’s gonna do. He sits up on the side of his cot and says a little prayer that God, and Steve, will forgive him. But he’s pretty sure they’ll both understand.

It’s Blondie that leads a team of whatever-they-are to the door of his cell. They’re all the same ones from Brooklyn, and wearing the same tac gear they had on when they were on the plane, only this time, they are wearing body armor. They’re heavily armed, and they’re bristling with other weapons. The blond guy unlocks the door of Bucky’s cell and, again, Blondie just walks in casually. She does take the precaution of handing her weapon to another woman behind her, but she’s still got a massive sidearm, an automatic pistol strapped to her thigh, and three knives that he can see, not to mention some other things on her belt and in her armored vest that are undoubtedly weapons, too.

Bucky thinks about it. Of course he thinks about it. If she’s that dumb… but there are simply too many of them, and they’re just too heavily armed. Anyway, if he’s going to take somebody out with him, he wants it to be more than just Blondie. So when she takes a pair of combat boots from one of the others and kneels down to put them on him, he lets her. With only one arm, he can’t do it.

It’s then that Bucky realizes what he’s wearing. The same black tac gear as the rest of these people. Why the idea that somebody changed his clothes while he was unconscious bothers him more than anything else that’s happened so far, he doesn’t know. But it does.

Blondie stands up when she finishes fastening the complicated buckles on his boots. Bucky stands, too, and when she signals him to, he just turns around and lets her bind his wrists behind him with cuffs of the same material he was bound with on the plane. There are ankle chains, too. This is all so fucking familiar. The helplessness. The absolute lack of options. It gets harder to ignore the terror.

They surround him – four in front, two on each side, and four in back - and walk him through what must be some kind of bunker, because there are no windows anywhere. Everything’s metal, utilitarian, ugly. Just like before. Again, he notices the eerie synchronization in the way these people move. They walk in step, their strides all the same length. They turn corners in formation. If he didn’t want to kill them all so badly, he might find them graceful.

But that’s the last remotely pleasant thought he has, because they come to a set of doors that looks way too fucking familiar. Thick, metal doors with a small glass slit of a window in each. There are armed guards in front of it, outfitted and armed exactly as his escorts are, and they pull the doors open without a word or signal that Bucky can see. The escorts don’t break stride or slow in the slightest as they arrive at the now-open doors and walk into a large room where he notices several people and a bunch of what looks like… oh, shit… oh fuck no…

Bucky can’t help it. He stumbles and recoils in horror when he sees that same fucking chair with the same damn restraints and the same hellish apparatus behind and above it, like a massive mechanical halo with those things that clamp onto his head and…

Strong hands take Bucky’s arms and legs, and he’s lifted from the floor as if he weighs nothing and placed, quickly and efficiently, into the chair. He tries to fight, but there are too many of them, and they all seem to be a strong as he is. Besides which, he’s shackled. Eight of the black-wearing agents hold him down while Blondie engages the restraints built into the chair. One of the agents unfastens Bucky’s handcuffs once his upper arms are bound, and two others wrestle his forearms into cuffs in the chair’s arms. The rest take positions around the room, all of them with weapons aimed at him.

Even with all the thoughts wildly careening through his brain and the horror that has broken completely free of his control, even as he screams in defiance, Bucky has the presence of mind to realize that he is the only one making any noise. From the time they appeared at his cell door to bring him to this torture chamber, no one has said a word. Not one. There have been no commands, no questions, nothing.

Once he realizes he’s fully trapped, unable to escape no matter what he does, he stops wasting energy on shouting, even though the stream of profanity he’s been yelling helped with the panic. He needs to focus. He needs to figure out how to die before they use that accursed machine on him again. He can already feel the overwhelming agony that’s coming. No. NO. Anything, even death, but not that.

And then something utterly bewildering happens. The rest of the team, or whatever they are, let go of Bucky now that he’s fully strapped into the chair, and back away. As they do, Blondie leans over him, ostensibly to check a strap and, so close to him that only she and Bucky can see it, flicks something into her hand from underneath a wristband she’s wearing.

“Say nothing,” he hears her mutter into his ear as she sticks whatever it is to the inside of Bucky’s left arm. It’s tiny and apparently strongly magnetic, because he can feel it latch onto his arm. And when he does, he feels his arm come to life.

As she backs away slightly, she again makes full eye contact and pulls at other restraints as if to check them, too. “Watch. Be ready.”

It’s so quiet he can’t be sure he heard her, and her lips don’t move as she says it, but there’s no mistaking the eye contact.

What. The. Fuck.

He doesn’t move his hand or his arm. Mostly because he’s so stunned.

“Vocem’!” A man with a hideous scar where one eye and cheek should be barks at Blondie. She steps back from Bucky and goes rigid. Her eyes go blank. “What did you say to him?”

She looks toward the others in the room, away from Bucky. “To whom, Sir?”

“To him!” The man’s harsh, guttural Russian only accents the hate in his voice. He’s already pulling one of those damn stun batons from a loop on his belt.

Blondie blinks and fights not to let amusement show on her face.

“To… to him?” She asks, indicating Bucky, as though it’s the most ridiculous thing the man could possibly have suggested. “To the… cyborg murder-bot?”

One of her team members, standing very near the scarred man, cracks a grin. It’s the most emotion Bucky’s seen on any of their faces. The guy nods to the scarred man.

“Good one, Sir.”

And several of the others in the room laugh a little. Bucky notices that, in addition to the armed team, there are men and women in uniforms who, to Bucky’s trained eye, are clearly higher-ups. He sees, with a roll of nausea, that they are, indeed, wearing the skull and tentacles symbol of Hydra. Bloody hell! How the fuck many times do they have to kill these assholes? Why doesn’t Hydra fucking die already?

There are also a number of men wearing lab coats. Some of them are fiddling with dials and pushing buttons on the banks of electronic gizmos lining the walls, others are just standing, watching him as if he’s some particularly fascinating lab specimen.

That’s when Bullethead, the guy from the plane, comes from behind the chair to face Bucky. “Sergeant, welcome back. It’s very gratifying to be a part of helping you to return to your previous extraordinary level of functioning. I look forward to seeing Hydra’s most legendary asset in action. You are the model on which we’ve built these troops,” he indicates the team of armed agents scattered around the room with their weapons trained on him. Bucky notices that even the ones who strapped him into this chair are now aiming weapons at him. There’s something really odd about their positioning, though. They’re everywhere in the room. Why aren’t they all equidistant, making a perimeter around him? He doesn’t get much of a chance to consider that, because Bullethead’s not done speechifying.

“Of course, they have nothing like your ability to function as a one-man strike force, but Hydra has decided that is as it should be. After all, those with your skills have proven much more difficult to control than this… livestock. But they are useful in their own way, if only as a unit.”

There is no flicker of emotion on the faces of any of those the man’s just described as “livestock.” Jeez, Bucky thinks maybe he should be flattered. At least they’d called him a weapon.

The man goes on and on, pacing a little in front of Bucky as he warms to his sermon about the re-emergence of Hydra, so long in the making, and how he, The Asset, as they like to refer to him, will be integral to bringing it about. Bucky’s not listening. He’s too busy choking down bile and trying not to scream.

Blondie sniffs. Just once, and very quietly, but it seems odd in the circumstances, and Bucky automatically looks at her, standing behind the preaching jagoff who’s still spouting off about the new Hydra. She moves the barrel of her weapon the tiniest fraction to the right. It’s a slight movement, but Bucky’s a sniper, and he sees immediately that she’s no longer aiming at him. She’s still looking at Bucky, but she’s now aiming at the man in front of him. Bucky swears she nods imperceptibly at him before sweeping the room with her eyes.

Bucky does the same. No one is aiming at him anymore.

And then she makes two short, soft whistling sounds. Immediately, Bucky hears every one of the armed agents in the room fire their weapon twice, but the only reason he knows it’s multiple weapons is the volume of the sound. The shots are in absolute, perfect synchronization.

Almost before Bullethead falls dead at Bucky’s feet, Blondie hands her weapon to another agent beside her and steps over Bullethead’s body to Bucky. She begins unfastening the restraints holding him in the chair.

“Thirty-two, make sure they’re all dead,” the woman orders, still speaking Russian. The entire squad begins to move with a purpose, each one clearly well aware of his or her assigned task.

This is crazy. One second he’s surrounded by mad scientists and Hydra brass, the next every one of them’s been double-tapped and the same babe who strapped him into the chair is now getting him out of it. Bucky feels like he’s in the hall of mirrors at Coney Island and all he can think of to say to the woman is, “Cyborg murder-bot?”

She kneels in front of him, taking a key from her armored vest. As she unlatches his ankle chains, she looks at him with a wide-eyed, open gaze. In English, she says, “You better be. Otherwise, we’re not getting out of here.”

Once again, Bucky understands her words but has no idea what they mean.

“What the hell is going on?” He demands. Bucky’s completely free of restraints now, but he doesn’t get up from the chair. He stays perched on the edge.

“What would it take to get you to trust me?” The woman asks.

“A miracle, and about a thousand years,” Bucky answers.

“We have three-point-eight minutes.”

“You’ve gotta be kiddin’ me.”

The woman turns to her left just as another agent tosses an armored vest to her, which she hands to Bucky. “Put this on.” She doesn’t have to ask that twice.

While he’s strapping the vest on, her teammate tosses Blondie a weapon like the ones the agents are carrying. “You know how to use one of these?” She asks, holding it out to Bucky when his vest is secure.

Bucky gives her a look that he hopes conveys his disdain at such an asinine question, and takes the weapon. She grins a little and holds up her hands as if in surrender, mocking him back.

“Are you… You don’t actually think I’m gonna lead you all out of here like Moses to the Promised Land, do you?” Bucky asks, incredulously.

In another situation, the offended look on her face would be funny. “I will lead my squad,” she says imperiously. “No one’s asking…” Her expression changes again, this time to one of confusion. “You do understand that we’re rescuing you?”

“Yeah, you don’t get a whole hell of a lot of credit for that seein’ as you’re the ones who brought me here in the first place.”

She gets up and takes her own weapon back from the woman she’d handed it to. “Now we’re getting you out. Let’s go.”

Bucky stands then and slings the strap of the weapon over his shoulder. “Thanks for the help, Doll, but I’ll make my own way from here.” He begins to cross the room to the door through which they’d entered.

“Really.” He hears the woman say from behind him, all attitude now. “You got a plan for getting out of here? Because I do.”

Bucky turns around.

“A route, accomplices, staged weapons, supplies and transportation once we’re clear of the bunker. You got any of that?”

“This was kind of a last-minute trip,” he shrugs.

“I see. Well, just so you know, genius, that door you were about to go through leads you to a nest of guards we didn’t kill. You might want to at least use the door we’re using.”

“Fine,” Bucky bites off and crosses back toward her, then follows her to a door on the other side of the room. They join three other members of the squad and begin making their way carefully and quietly down a dimly-lit hallway.

It’s way too easy, and Bucky’s pretty sure this is all an elaborate trick of some kind. He feels completely unhinged, and he doesn’t trust these people in the slightest. Plus, they’re dumb. They’ve got him at the back of the line, with no one covering him. Which is why he slips down a hallway without a sound and hopes like hell he’s far away before they notice.

He needs to think, and find a way to get his bearings. It occurs to him that maybe the best thing to do is get out of sight and hope there’s a ventilation system with shafts big enough for him to crawl through. He’s not small. That’s a pretty tall order. But desperate times…

He finds a door that’s slightly ajar and whips into the room, surprising a guy sitting at a desk. The guy’s dead before he even looks up at the noise. Closing the door, Bucky scans the room. He swears viciously when he finds a tiny ventilation grate on one wall. So much for that idea. Next, he rifles the desk to see if he can find some kind of map of this place. No such luck. He’s going to have to try the hallway again. Striding toward the door, he sees that there’s a little sign on the back of the door with the fire evacuation route marked on it. Bucky actually smiles. God bless bureaucrats.

Back in the hallway, he flattens himself against one wall and makes his way along the route the sign indicated. He makes it halfway before three people in uniforms emerge into the hallway in front of him. He takes them out easily, but it makes a lot of noise. Damn. He doubles his speed and comes to the T-intersection where he needs to go left. Except Bucky has the bad luck to peek around the corner just as a guy in an officer’s uniform is striding purposefully right toward him. The guy opens his mouth to shout and, at that moment, a small red dot appears in his forehead, just above his right eye, and he crumples. Bucky whips around to see Blondie standing halfway out of a doorway, her weapon still aimed at the officer.

“They said you were smart,” she mutters quietly, and jerks her head toward the doorway she’s in. Bucky shakes his head and runs down the hall to follow her. When he gets to the room, he sees it’s some kind of equipment room, and she’s climbing a metal ladder to a hatch in the ceiling. He slings his weapon to his back and follows her up. What the hell. If she’s playing him, he’ll just kill her.

It’s a long, straight shaft that goes God knows where, and Bucky’s very surprised to see that he and Blondie are the only ones in it. He has no idea where the rest of the squad is now. They climb up what must be four or five floors until, at last, they come to the top. The ladder ends in front of a metal doorway with no hinges or handle on this side. Blondy waits until Bucky is just beneath her on the ladder, then knocks softly on the door in a definite pattern.

The door’s instantly opened by a woman Bucky recognizes from Brooklyn, one of the ones who dropped onto the street from a balcony, he thinks. He’s surprised to see that they’re outside now. It’s nighttime, it’s freezing, and there’s a foot or so of snow on the ground. Yep. Siberia. The shaft they’ve just climbed is the only part of the bunker above ground. From outside, it just looks like a small utility shed within a large complex of buildings. Bucky has no idea what the other buildings are for, but most are big and have very few, if any, windows. They’re all made of concrete blocks.

Again, neither woman says a word or makes a signal. The one who opened the door silently hands Blondie and Bucky white coveralls, which Blondie immediately begins to put on, so Bucky does, too. When they’re zipped into the coveralls, the woman hands them fresh weapons, and also gives Blondie a small package which she tucks into a pouch on her armored vest. With that, the other woman goes in the metal door. Bucky sees her begin to descend the ladder as Blondie closes the door and engages the latch.

“Low and fast,” Blondie says to Bucky. She shoulders her weapon and, at a crouch, begins to sprint across the area between the door they’ve just exited and a long, low building fifty yards away. He follows, the heavy snow pulling at his legs. The white coveralls will make them harder to see in the snow, but the second they begin to run, shouting and gunfire erupt from somewhere behind them. Blondie and Bucky both aim and fire blindly behind them, not hoping to hit anything, just trying to make the assholes shooting at them knock it off and take cover.

It doesn’t work very well, but they make it to the other building where, just as they arrive at a man-sized door within a larger roll-up door, another of Blondie’s squad opens the door and they rush in. Several bullets hit the door as it closes behind them.

This building is some kind of garage. Blondie keeps running across the floor toward a group of vehicles, flinging both of her larger weapons to the floor as she does. “Get rid of those,” she calls behind her to Bucky, so he tosses his away, too. He’s let the second one fall before it occurs to him that she still has several guns and knives and probably other weapons, but now he’s unarmed again. Smooth, Barnes. Well, if he has to relieve her of some or all of her weapons, he will.

They’re running between the vehicles when a deafening alarm goes off, and the whole garage lights up like mid-day. Bucky squints but neither of them slow. Blondie approaches a long, black SUV but he’s shocked to see that, rather than climb in, she drops to her belly and slithers underneath it.

“C’mon, Sergeant,” she hisses, and he rolls his eyes and drops to the floor, too. Blondie’s now squeezing into a shallow box of sorts built into the underside of the SUV. Bucky sees that there’s a part of the exhaust system that’s separated from the rest, hanging down on hinges. He just has time to admire the cleverness as she urges him silently with hand gestures to hurry and slide in beside her. He does, and doesn’t need to be told to pull up the hinged section of the vehicle’s undercarriage and secure the latch he sees on the inside.

It’s pitch black in the cramped space, but at least the alarm is quieter from in here. Bucky’s pressed up against Blondie and they’re both panting from exertion.

“What now?” He asks in a whisper.

“Catch your breath and stay quiet.”

Within a very short time, there’s yelling and the sound of running feet outside, and the SUV starts up. Bucky can feel the vehicle begin to move, and he spends the next half-hour in a very tiny space with a woman who has abducted him, put boots on him, frog-marched him into a torture chamber, insulted him several times, and is now helping him to escape. He doesn’t even know her name.

“Hey,” he says in a low voice that can barely be heard over the engine and road noise. “What’s your name?”

“Tishina,” she hisses angrily. She’s not telling him her name. She’s telling him, in Russian, to shut the fuck up.

The SUV stops several times, and there are tense, shouted exchanges in Russian at each stop. Each conversation is about the search for Bucky and, he guesses, the team of rogue soldiers, because they keep talking about “Trup vocem’” – Troop Eight.

After the fifth or sixth stop, Bucky feels the SUV cross onto a gravel road. He feels Blondie tense, and she leans toward him and whispers into his ear. “This is the tricky part.”

Bucky wants to make a crack about that – which parts of this haven’t been tricky? But he has a sinking feeling he’s not going to like what comes next.

“Unlatch that panel again, but don’t let it drag on the road.”

He does as he’s told, hoping like hell she’s not about to say what he’s afraid she is.

“When I say so, let go of the panel, and slide out as fast as you can. Try not to get run over.”

“Are you out of your mind?”

“Ten seconds,” she replies calmly.

It’s both the shortest and the longest ten seconds of Bucky Barnes’s life.

“Now!” Blondie hisses and, for good measure, gives Bucky a healthy shove onto the panel he’s holding up. It falls to the road under his weight, with him on top of it. He swears mightily – but quietly – as he slides to a painful, scraped-up stop on the gravel road. The small amount of snow in the gravel probably helped him slide further to dissipate his speed more smoothly, but not nearly enough.

He looks up in time to see Blondie fall to the road from the bottom of the SUV, sliding and only missing being run over by the thinnest possible margin. Snow flies up around her as she slides and , when she comes to a stop, she wastes no time getting to her feet and running to the side of the road, where she throws herself into a shallow ditch. Bucky gets up and does the same, then crawls through the snow up the ditch until he gets to her.

“You OK?” He asks, wiping a hand across his cheek where he is sure he’ll have gravel embedded for the rest of his life – however long that might be.

She looks at him strangely and turns to the side of the ditch away from the road. He hasn’t really had time to wonder where they are, or how she knew when to bail out of the SUV, but when he looks up, he sees that she clearly knew what she was doing, because they’re at the side of a small airfield. The SUV they were in has now turned onto a short road leading to a series of hangars and outbuildings. In the middle is a small, two-story building with more windows than the others, which looks like it houses offices.

“You can fly a jet, yes?” Blondie asks, not sounding confident.

“Which one?” Bucky asks, seeing that there are a few different types on the tarmac, some of which he can probably fly. Probably. It’s been a while.

“That one.” She points and Bucky relaxes. A little.

He’s not nearly as confident as he sounds when he says, “Yeah. I can fly that.”

Bucky turns to Blondie. “I have no idea why the hell any of this happened, but thanks for getting me out. What are you gonna do now?”

“I’m coming with you.”

“You’re… But…” Bucky sputters, finally resolving on a simple, “Huh?”

“It’s complicated, Sergeant, and we have a long flight ahead of us. I’ll explain once we’re in the air.”

“But what will you-“

“Sergeant. Focus. We need to go.”

“Fine. I’ll take you with me. On one condition.”

She looks at him expectantly.

“Tell me your name.”

She hesitates just a beat. “Eight.”

“Huh?”

“I am Troop Eight.”

“That’s not a name.”

The look that flashes across her face makes him wish, fervently, that he hadn’t said that.

“No. It isn’t. But it’s all I have. Can we go now?”

Bucky wants very much to apologize. He spent a very long time not knowing his own name. Being referred to as “The Asset” or “Soldat,” with no idea that he should even have a name. He, of all people, gets why she’s looking at him like that. But it’s way too much to get into right now.

The jet’s not that far away, maybe half a mile, but it takes over an hour to get there. First, they have to low-crawl their way through the snow to a chain-link fence, and then they have to cut through that fence. That’s when they ditch the white coveralls, which helped hide them in the snow, but will make them more visible as they run from object to object to hide in the shadows from the bright light spilling over the tarmac. Finally, scraped up, cold, and tired, they make it to the shadowed side of the jet. Bucky boosts Eight up to unlatch the cockpit entrance and roll in, then she reaches down and pulls him up as he scrambles after her. He’s stunned at how strong she is.

Once they make it into the cockpit of the jet undetected, they take a few minutes to simply rest and catch their breath. They can’t take off yet, anyway. Eight tells Bucky they’re waiting for a signal. Members of her squad are going to have to incapacitate the skeleton crew manning the airfield, or their flight will be disappointingly short.

“So what’s the signal?”

At that moment, half the little office building explodes.

“That.”

“Subtle,” Bucky grins as they strap themselves in. He begins flipping switches and says a little prayer that flying a jet is like riding a bike.

Whether it is or not, there are suddenly a small group of people running out of the burning building, shooting wildly at the plane that’s just roared to life on the tarmac. Bucky wastes no time getting them off the ground.

“Where are we going?” He asks once they’re airborne and out of danger.

“You tell me. This is as far as the escape plan goes. From now on, I’m following you.”

“I was afraid you were going to say that.”

#Steve Rogers #Sebastian Stan #Chris Evans #Tony Stark #Robert Downey Jr.#Bucky Barnes #The Avengers #Its cute that you thought Hydra was dead #Bucky's in trouble again

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tymime · 5 years

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I generally consider Gen IV the last good generation of the Pokémon franchise, but really only up to a certain point. I’ve played a bit of Platinum, and it’s... okay. Doesn’t inspire me with wonder like Gens I and II do. And I pretty much gave up entirely on the anime after the Battle Frontier arc.

And looking at the Pokémon introduced then, I really only like Bidoof/Bibarel, Buizel/Floatzel and Riolu/Lucario. Buneary/Lopunny is pretty good, and Gible etc. is okay, but almost all of the rest of them I can’t stand their designs at all.

Of course, I really like HeartGold and SoulSilver, but I guess I’m biased.

Back when I was growing up, the anime was the most important to me, and it still is. I hardly ever played the TCG, as I was more of a collector, and I didn’t even play the games that much because I was so bad at it (although I did complete Silver). I remember that when it came to Pokémon, the online fandom in the early 2000s was mostly concerned with the anime as well, whereas you mostly heard about the glitches and rumors in the games and schools banning the cards. The main reason I preferred the anime was because of the characters. Ash, Brock, and Misty made a great trio, and Jesse, James, and Meowth are among the greatest sympathetic villain characters of all time, imo. Nowadays you hardly ever hear anybody discuss the anime.

But ultimately the reason anybody becomes a fan of Pokémon is because of the cool monsters. I think sometimes fans forget this, incredibly- too much focus is given to gameplay mechanics and metagaming and competitive gaming, which I really couldn’t care less about. I remember one of my first interactions with a Pokémon fan, way back in 1999 or so, was when somebody asked what my favorite Pokémon was. I told him it was Charmander. And why not? He’s a cute, fire-breathing dragon-lizard thing! His reaction was “But Charmander is weak!”, and all I could do was stare at him incredulously. I didn’t care if he was “weak”, which is an exaggeration anyway. Must I quote Karen?

That’s actually the entire point of Pokémon. Lots of PETA-types didn’t understand this: We’re not forcing them to fight as slaves, we’re making friends with all these creatures. The early episodes of the anime especially emphasized this, culminating in the movie Mewtwo Strikes Back, and it’s message of peace, sacrifice, and love still makes me misty-eyed to this day.

The anime started going downhill as soon as Ash left Kanto for the Orange Islands. We all remember how incredibly dull and pointless Tracy was, and how repetitive and formulaic the Johto episodes were. This was despite how amazingly good the G/S/C games were. It was around this time that the fandom was diminishing, and people who weren’t all that in love with it in the first place started sneering at it and saying it was “for little kids” and “uncool”. I remember Digimon fans were especially obnoxious about it. Here’s the thing: It might sound a bit shallow, but I don’t think I would’ve become interested in Pokémon if the monsters didn’t look cute or cool. I’m very keenly aware of what kind of character designs I like, and if I don’t like the way a cartoon looks, there’s absolutely no way I can get into it. Lots of people are gonna hate me for this, but I find the vast majority of Digimon to be downright butt-ugly. They’re mostly wrinkled and lumpy and look as though they’re made up of leftover puppet parts. There’s a tiny amount of them that I actually think look decent, but not nearly enough to make me want to watch the show.

But that ties into what happened next- when the Gen III games were coming out, I was looking forward to it, but I was disappointed in how unappealing some of the Pokémon designs were, especially the legendaries. I thought they looked more like Digimon. I don’t see anybody else who has this view. Sure, occasionally I see someone complain “They don’t look like Pokémon anymore!” but they’re always shot down with the rationalization “Who says what Pokémon look like is set in stone?” It’s not a good idea to slowly drift the art direction of an ongoing franchise with an established look and continuity. It’s what makes for a TV series suffer from Early Installment Weirdness and Seasonal Rot, among other things. Things like Mickey Mouse and Looney Tunes can get away with this because they don’t have an established canon, but a series like Pokémon shouldn’t start looking weirder and weirder. I remember having high hopes for the Hoenn episodes of the anime, hoping that the fresher, more sophisticated animation would bring the series out of its doldrums and return to the more heartwarming, personality-driven stories of it’s golden age. For a while it seemed like this would be the case- Ash seemed wiser and more experienced at first and the Pokémon were showing more personality. But it slowly but surely entered a long string of indistinguishable contests for May to compete in. Another thing I wish there was more of in the anime is the Pokémon themselves having more personality. Too often they’re just used as battling tools and have few chances to show emotion or interact with the other characters. The Hoenn episodes also made one thing clear: Ash was going to replace his battling team pretty much every region from now on.

This trend flies in the face of the early franchise’s message of friendship. Ash’s Pokémon from yesteryear are hardly ever seen again once they get sent to Prof. Oak or to some other place.

I suspect this new attitude towards the Pokémon is why they’re becoming uglier and uglier. It doesn’t matter what they look like, you just want to train something NEW, right? Something with good stats and EVs?

I've never seen anybody who shares my view about the Pokémon designs from Gen IV and onward. There was a brief period when older fans were saying the new Pokémon were dumb ideas- ice cream cones and garbage bags and key rings aren’t my idea of a cool concept. But then came the whole “Genwunner” backlash. “But Gen I has inanimate objects too! Dont’cha think Voltorb and Grimer are dumb??” people would say. My answer is this: A living Pokéball and a pile of toxic sludge are cooler than keys and garbage. And just because Gen I had a dumb idea like a bunch of eggs doesn’t mean you should repeat it. And of course there’s an excess of foxes, cats, bats, small electric rodents, and cutesy legendaries that look vaguely like Mew. When the Pokémon aren’t stupid or ugly, they’re redundant. And now it seems like older fans are almost entirely silent about their opinions.

I don’t understand why this isn’t a more common opinion. A Pokémon’s visual appeal is absolutely crucial and yet they still continue to look inorganic, cluttered, and awkward looking with every new generation. There’s only a handful of recent Pokémon that ever get fanart, and 100% of the time the fanart is better drawn than the official version.

This seemingly coincided with the American dubbers having the brilliant idea of replacing the entire voice cast of the anime to “celebrate” the tenth anniversary. It was difficult watching the anime after that, and I only stuck around because they were revisiting Kanto. After that, I stopped watching it entirely. It got worse, of course- Ash was redesigned and looked almost entirely different. The eyes are the windows to the soul- if you ask me, by changing Ash’s windows, they changed his soul.

The Pokémon franchise was dead to me by then. As far as I’m concerned the whole series is a shambling zombie, a shell of its former self. And with the anime using retconning flashbacks and remaking the first episode and Mewtwo Strikes Back, the anime has split into two different continuities anyhow. And yet people still try to defend it, even older fans, which boggles my mind.

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killscreencinema · 6 years

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Xenoblade Chronicles X (Wii U)

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Xenoblade Chronicles X, released by Monolith Soft “X”-clusively for the Wii U in 2015, takes place on an alien planet named Mira, where the last remnants of humanity have crash landed after Earth was decimated by a mysterious alien force known as the Ganglion. The human survivors live on in the form of “mimeosomes”, which are enhanced cyberorganic duplicates, which are being controlled remotely by their real bodies while in stasis in a massive vault known as the Lifehold.

You play as a freshly revived from stasis new recruit in an organization known as BLADE, whose mission statement, besides gathering resources and fending off hostile creatures for the residents of the fledgling city of New Los Angeles, is to find the Lifehold, which was lost during the crash landing, before it runs out of power, killing the rest of humankind in the process. The only problems is that BLADE is in a race to find the Lifehold against their old pals, the Ganglion, who are committed to finishing the extermination they started.

I normally don’t go into so much detail about a video game story, but goddamn if this one didn’t capture my imagination like no other video game in awhile, especially a J-RPG, with all of their tired tropes. In fact, while I greatly enjoyed the first game, Xenoblade Chronicles, I found the story to be disappointingly banal, especially from a studio like Monolith, who are known for complex plots since the days of ye olde PlayStation with Xenogears (when the creative team was working under Squaresoft). I love the idea of humans rebuilding civilization, with their main hub of New Los Angeles having the familiar California architecture juxtaposed against a strange, alien landscape. I love the idea of these people being trapped in cyber-organic bodies, which if killed, would merely trap their consciousness back in their real bodies in stasis. What a mind trip it would be for someone close to you to die, but if you’re able to find where their real body is tucked away, you might have a chance to bring them back for realsies! To the game’s credit, it deeply explores both the negative and positive psychological implications of such an existence, albeit in a melodramatic fashion one comes to expect from most anime (which J-RPGs are basically offshoots of). The characters are all well-rounded, with Elma, your commanding officer and all around badass bitch, being my favorite. I even love what Elma says whenever she levels up:

“Strength comes from experience. That’s true on any planet.”

Meanwhile, whenever my character leveled up she’d exclaim “MY GROWTH SPURT!!!” Which is... weird. I guess it’s better than your 13-year-old teammate, Lin, yelling that.

You’re well-advised to spend most of your time with Elma and Lin, getting them nice and strong. You can also choose fourth party member from a variety of characters you meet along the way. The longer you spend time with your team completing missions, the more your affinity grows with them. One you reach a certain affinity level, it opens a personal side-quest with each respective character, which are worth doing not only to further dive into the story, but for the “fortune and glory, kid, fortune and glory”, as Indiana Jones would say.

While I can’t say enough things about the story, the gameplay is just as solid and immersive. It plays basically just like its spiritual predecessor, for it should be noted at this point that gameplay is the only thing is has in common with the first game as it does not continue the story. It’s almost like how Mega Man X *kinda* continues the story of the original Mega Man series, but with a darker, more sci-fi tone. Xenoblade Chronicles 1 and 2 are pure fantasy (with a lil bit of sci-fi), while Xenoblade Chronicles X is sci-fi fantasy all the way. It’s pretty much the J-RPG version of Mass Effect, but without all the sex.

The battle system is in real-time, with your various special moves set up in slots. You can unleash them at will, or wait for your comrades to request a specific move, which is optimal as it is one of very few ways to heal your party. Plus, those special attacks have to recharge, so you don’t want to be stuck with no specials while your party’s HP is in the red, and one of them is begging for a heal. Aw~kward! I do like how streamlined it feels as opposed to the kind of turn-based fighting I’m used to in J-RPGs, although it’s always stressful not being able to control the three other party members beyond issuing generic squad orders like “Concentrate your fire” or “assemble with me” or “GET THE FUCK OUT OF HERE” before running from danger like King Arthur and his knights running from that bunny in Monty Python and the Holy Grail.

You’ll be using that order a lot by the way as, similarly to the first game, low level enemies cohabit alongside extremely high level enemies all over the world maps. While most of the time the super strong monsters will ignore your existence, unless you pick a fight or bump into them, others might not have such a chill disposition and will prefer to trample you instead. Running into an area populated by high-level enemies can feel a lot like when you accidentally wander into a dangerous neighborhood. There’s nothing like looking for a rare item in a cave only to realize it’s full of enemies twice your level, so you carefully back away like the Homer Simpson meme:

You might think I’m complaining, but I actually really enjoyed this in both games, as it really makes it feel like a truly open world and having to tread softly or risk sudden annihilation from a level 80 tyrant you didn’t know was there makes it feel more like an adventure. That being said... it can also be incredibly infuriating when you’re flying around in your mech suit, which are called “Skells” in this game, and you innocently bump into a powerful bad guy only for him to promptly blow up your Skells, leaving you with a salvage cost in the MILLIONS. Yep, that’s when you normally “save scum” by loading up a previous save, but damned if they didn’t make it a pain in the ass what with the obscene loading times and all the fucking menu screens you have to press A through. While it’s true that players who are savvy about planting mining beacons in the most optimal way to earn money will have more credits than they know how to spend, you will trash your Skells a lot, and that shit adds up, especially when you’re trying to save for more powerful Skells or expensive equipment.

By the way, I don’t want to understate how fucking cool it is that you get a giant mech robot to ride in halfway through the game. I was already onboard with Xenoblade Chronicle X before that happened, so adding a giant mech robot to the mix is like discovering for the first time how freaking delicious Fritos are in chili. Like... I love chili, but I had not idea it could be improved THIS much with Fritos! And just as the initial buzz of getting a Skell starts to wear off, YOU GET A FLIGHT MODULE THAT ALLOWS YOU TO FLY ALL OVER THE MAP WITH IMPUNITY! Hey, you like chili and Fritos? Howz about a blow job too? I mean, you’ll have to listen to an irritatingly catchy J-pop song while you’re getting the blow job, but still awesome!

Which finally brings us to the music. Holy shit. The music is composed by Hiroyuki Sawano, who did the music for the anime series Attack on Titan. There are lots of great tracks for the game... well except for both the day and night themes for NLA, which will get stuck in your head so much you’ll scream into your pillow while trying to sleep at night (meanwhile in your brain you keep hearing, “Uh, yeah, uh, yeah, oh oh oh”). Even the worst track is forgivable if only because the main theme to game, innocously titled “Theme X”, is one of the most goddamn beautiful pieces of music I’ve heard in a game in years. Listen and let the goosebumps wash over you:

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It’s obvious I love the game, but there are negatives too. For one, I didn’t finish the game, because HOLY HELL are the final bosses difficult. Firstly, any hope that you have of beating them is with your Skells, so should they get wrecked somewhere along the way, there’s no way to bring them back, so you’re SOLAMWF (or “Shit out luck and mighty well fucked” as George Carlin coined). If you saved before the fight, your heard was in the right place, but guess what? You’re fucking trapped. You can’t leave to buy a stronger Skell or level grind. It’s a goddamn dead end, emphasis on the word “dead”. Fortunately, being a seasoned RPG player, when Elma asked me not only once, but TWICE, if I was ABSOLUTELY sure I’m ready to enter the Lifehold, I got the subtext and didn’t save once inside. However, stupidly, I did save after accepting the final mission, which effectively locks out the affinity missions, which can be much less redundant way to level grind than doing the “Basic Missions” (which consists of tasks like fetch quests and monster bounties). I tried like hell to grind to level 50 and save up enough credits to buy a level 50 Skell (which were the minimum recommendations for evening the odds against the boss), but I still couldn’t beat him.

So out of frustration and boredom, I rage quit the game and moved on to something that will hopefully be a lot less strenuous... Bloodborne (wah-waaaaaah). I like Xenoblade enough that I’ll return to it and continue grinding away until I eventually beat it.

So yeah... Xenoblade Chronicles X is pretty fucking great. I would cautiously nominate it as the best RPG you’ll play on the Wii U (below Breath of the Wild of course).

#xenoblade chronicles x #Monolith Soft #jrpg #wiiu #nintendo #rpg #role playing games #scifi #skells #video games #xeno #anime

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mochenle · 6 years

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Hidden Gems | Renjun

genre: angst; apocalypse au

word count: 3,894

the old floorboards creaked under your feet. every step you took was a call and response, the rickety wood screeching like that of a cry for help. step. creak. step. creak. a continuous cycle of sounds and actions that once was neglected, but was now all you could hear. the redundant creaks and thuds were sonorous, booming, ringing in your ears. that was all that was in your mind at the moment. the only thing that could distract you. any current thoughts, feelings, anything, blocked off by a step, a thud, and a creak.

he always knew how to calm you down when you were like this. pacing what was left of this living room like a madman, hands clammy and trembling, eyes frantically zipping to everything in your field of vision. even in situations like these, he remained calm and kept his composure. his serenity was contagious, slowing your breaths, and calming your nerves. as soon as his soothing voice made its way to your ears, you felt so safe and secure no matter where you were. he managed to bring peace to your world, no matter how much it’s been damaged at the moment. how you wish he was here.

him being Renjun of course. Huang Renjun. he sure was something. you always thought of him as a hidden gem since the very first time you met. you were actually in quite a similar state as you were at the moment during your first encounter with him. and of course, under all the wreckage, you found Renjun. you would never be able to express the gratitude you felt toward him.

~~~

the first time you met was at an abandoned convenience store about seven months ago, though, almost all business places were deserted by now. you were unaware of the undead presence behind you until its reflection was visible in the glass door of the fridge that sheltered a variety of long expired foods. clearly panicked at the unwelcomed company, you grab hold of the revolver hooked to your belt. you were about to pull the trigger, but it was closer than you thought. its grubby, rotted hands had made their way to grip your shoulders, causing you to drop your weapon and extend your arms to prevent the creature from getting any closer. it’s soulless eyes were boring into you and it’s decayed teeth snapped and chattered in your direction in attempts to finally catch a meal after lord knows how long. the miasma of decayed and torn flesh was even more putrid at this distance.

those things were pretty weak in general, but when they were hungry and there were enough of them, they never hesitated to put up a fight. it took all your might to slam its skull into the refrigerator door, ultimately resulting in a mess of broken glass and a heap of rotting flesh and blood scattered on the floor and wall. your breaths were shaky and hands were trembling as you slowly reached for the gun you had previously dropped beside the now motionless carcass. you’ve seen it happen before, people have done it thousands of times, but doing it yourself always left an uneasy feeling at the pit of your stomach. those things were once human. they were once like you. once like the curious stranger who was watching you from behind the aisle to your right.

you had just about regained your composure, when a certain someone made you lose it all over again in just a matter of seconds. you whipped your head towards the sound of a can of soup coming in contact with the cold tiles of the floor. as soon as you saw a glimpse of his shadow, you were beyond terrified. tightly shutting your eyes, you blindly fired shots until you ran out of ammo. the resounding gunshots that echoed throughout the area were replaced with empty clicks of the trigger. then, you heard a voice. a human voice. his voice. that was something you hadn’t heard in a long time.

“hey, hey! stop! i’m not one of them, please stop shooting. you might attract more of them like that!”

though the weapon in your hand was no longer a threat to anyone, your sweaty palms kept their grip on it and continued to point it up in front of you, hopefully aiming at something. you were quivering and panting, clearly not succeeding in intimidating anyone. still, the stranger kept his distance. your ears perked up at the voice, slowly opening one eye and seeing his figure standing in front of you. you finally faced him, but you still kept the gun pointed at the defenseless boy.

finally getting a good look at the boy, you saw that he wore a frightened expression and his hands remained frozen in the air, evidently shocked he was still alive after your sudden outburst. his clothes were tattered, shoes that had to be taped to keep the soles from falling apart, but whose weren’t at this point? though his face was slightly scuffed you saw his soft features perfectly, round, brown eyes, dry, pale lips, and a narrow nose that fit perfectly with the rest of his visage. quite the beauty to be seen amidst all of the dread, but you knew better than to trust him.

“it was kinda dumb of you to waste all that ammo. you know that won’t be able to hurt me without any bullets right?”

hearing this, you immediately pulled the switchblade out from it’s spot tucked securely in your left combat boot. although he was correct, your mind remained in a panicked state, so the thought of protecting yourself was all that ran through your mind. still, it did take a while to find more ammo for that gun.

“i guess you can hurt me without bullets.” “don’t come any closer! i won’t h-hesitate to use this.”

that was a lie. it was blatantly obvious. you weren’t bullshitting anyone. and even though he could see right through your bluff, he continued his attempts to calm you.

“okay, please keep your voice down though. if not, you might end up coming across another one of those.”

he gestured to the now fully deceased stranger that laid dormant on the floor of the abandoned store. you did not want to be near another one of those things. just thinking of that made your breathing even more rugged than it already was.

“you saw that? how long have you been here? w-why were you just standing there?” “i’m sorry i didn’t help you, but i thought you were going to hurt me. you could’ve killed me just now, but i can help you now okay?” “i-i don’t… i d-don’t trust y-you…” “hey, it’s okay, calm down. just breathe okay? you’ll be fine just listen to my voice. my name’s Renjun. you wanna tell me your name?”

it took you a minute to steady your breathing and keep your knees from wobbling, but you eventually gained self-control. Renjun was surprisingly patient with you, still keeping his distance and hands up in defense, but shuffling closer to you every now and then.

“y-y/n. y/n’s my name.” “alright y/n, nice name. now do you mind putting down that knife? slowly please?”

it was obvious that you still didn’t trust him, but nonetheless, you complied to his request and slowly retracted the weapon. however, when you heard several low moans and growls outside the building, you quickly flicked the blade back out. your eyes widened and you took a few steps back when Renjun strided towards you, hands gripping your arms, face just inches apart from yours.

“they heard us, we have to go. we can go through the back door so grab what you need and let’s get out.”

eyes still wide, your gaze flickered from his face to the oncoming sounds of the herd at the front of the store. your parents never told you what to do in this type of situation, but then again, who would’ve seen this coming?

“i get it, you don’t completely trust me right now. we just met, but if you stay here you’ll be one of them. i want to help you, but you have to let me. i know what i’m doing, i promise. do you trust me?”

your eyes were trailing all over his face at this point, scanning to see even the slightest sign of bluffing. you were definitely conflicted, he was a stranger after all, but this was a life or death situation, and the look on his face was the most sincere expression you’ve seen.

“y/n please, we don’t have much time. will you come with me or not?” “...” “y/n!” “...o-okay.”

and with that he quickly grabbed a bag and hastily filled it with various toiletries, gadgets, and snacks that seemed needed from the store. as soon as he heard the window shatter at the front of the store, he immediately grabbed your wrist and sprinted to the back door avoiding the oncoming herd.

from there, the two of you had stuck together for the rest of your journeys. you’ve learned a lot about each other during the time you spent and the many miles you’ve trekked. after the world was left in shambles and the walking corpses infested every square inch of land, the two of you learned that you’ve have had the same experiences of loss. families, friends, loved ones, all taken away by the plague that crawled around every corner. it hurt both of you to know that among the crowds of those pests, there were people you once knew, but were not the same anymore.

after many, many, close encounters, you came upon this deserted neighborhood and were lucky to find an empty house. it was the most home any of you have seen in a while. comfort grew between the both of you in your new home and have stayed there ever since. what was left of the world now made it difficult to stay at one place for an extended amount of time. either a not so friendly stranger finds the place and plunders it, or the walking corpses find a way through the thresholds, but the two of you have grown quite accustomed to the place and decided to make the most of your stay. even if it did take a while to find supplies to restock and keep away from trouble. this was a place to cherish.

~~~

there were memories attached to almost every corner of the house. in the pantry, you’d find the empty cereal boxes of your favorite cereal that you two would end up eating almost every meal of every day since it was the easiest food to find, but you didn’t mind living off of it. on the fridge, you’d find the tiny tops of cream soda bottles that you and Renjun glued magnets to for fun. if you guys were lucky, you’d find a few bottles of the carbonated drink and sit on the rooftop to watch the sunset if the streets were clear. slowly sipping and softly starting little conversations that had you relishing in each others presence at the moment. on the kitchen table, you’d see the soft red and white checkered tablecloth covered with a few stains of late night messes from very competitive games of go fish. in the closet you’d see the fluffy sweaters and blankets you two stored there for when it got too cold and the fireplace wasn’t enough to keep you warm, so you’d have to huddle together at one corner of the couch in a heap of linens. in the bedroom, you’d find the creaky mattress where you and Renjun laid, holding each other as close as possible and hiding under the sheets, when you couldn’t sleep because of the herd right outside the neighborhood. he would always trace tiny circles along your back and sing soft lullabies to get you to calm down. god, you really needed to hear that voice of his right now.

as your boots paced along the dingy hardwood floors, taking you to no particular location, you came to an abrupt halt when your footsteps came across an object. you looked up and the large, mahogany armoire came into your field of vision. like everything else in this house, it stuck little memories shared with Renjun in the back of your mind. the mirror attached to it had little polaroid pictures of the two of you taped to the corners. though they weren’t the best pictures you have taken, you loved them dearly. it was the last of the film you had, and they were the only photos you had of each other. there were lots of other little trinkets and gadgets that you two left for fun or decoration, and although you did cherish every single one of those items, your hand was already drifting over to the handle of one of the drawers.

gently sliding the drawer to your left, it revealed the precious contents it held. something that you would treasure forever.

though they were done on just a few pieces of scrap paper, you held them so dearly. you picked up the first paper you saw and studied every corner of it. it was the latest picture he drew for you. if there was one thing that soothed you more than his voice, it was watching him draw.

this picture specifically was your favorite. it was a picture of the tree right in the center of the neighborhood. the same tree you two climbed as high as you could to get a view of the world around you. the view you rarely see, but when you do it’s ten times better than the rooftop. next to the image, he left a tiny footnote for you. you surely remember the day he drew it for you. it was just a few days ago, the freshest memory in mind.

~~~

you two were sitting at the kitchen table, Renjun working on his artwork while you observed from the seat next to him. though it was therapeutic to see the artist at work, curiosity burned within you. you’ve been meaning to ask him about this for a long time.

“why’d you help me that day at the convenience store?”

he stopped and put down the pencil. turning to face you, he looked at you with those soft, brown eyes and responded with utmost sincerity.

“we’ve both seen a lot. this whole world we live in now, we’ve seen it become how it is, we’ve seen it fall apart. the people we cared about, we saw them get taken away right in front of our very eyes. i just- i couldn’t see it happen to another person. not again.”

after hearing this, you became lost in thought. before you two met at that store, neither of you had seen actual living people in months. you suppose the loneliness had gotten to your brain when you agreed to stick together. that was probably the best agreement you’ve ever come upon. without it, without Renjun, you probably wouldn’t even be alive right now. to say you grateful for him was an understatement. you were indebted to him. you owed him you life.

he turned to face his drawing once again before speaking.

“besides, if you saw the way you looked that day, you’d see how much you needed me. if only you could see your face. you looked like you were about to shit your pants.” “shut up. i could’ve shot you, you know?”

you said as you punched him in the shoulder. you two sure knew how to test each other, but always ended up in a fit of giggles in the end.

“hey! no hitting! you’ll ruin the masterpiece.” “are you almost done? this one’s taking forever.” “just about, i just need to sign it. and…done!”

taking the piece of paper, you observed what he had in store this time. one thing you knew for certain about Renjun was that he never disappointed you with his art. or anything really. he always made sure to get down the best details, even down to the shading it was impressive. as your eyes scanned the rest of the piece, they trailed down to the bottom right corner where you found his signature.

“to y/n, a masterpiece for a true gem, from Renjun hulk”

you couldn’t help but let out a giggle. his handwriting wasn’t the best compared to his artistic ability. you both had established this. Renjun always called it shitty, but you found it quite cute and admirable.

“Renjun hulk? really?” “hey, you know me. i’m actually surprised you’re one of the people who can decipher my chicken scratch.”

it was one of the little stories he told you about. his little group of friends from school called him hulk all the time. apparently, he was quite aggressive, which you find understandable sometimes. the reason being his short temper. you were an eyewitness of the little mishaps that ticked him off enough to let a string of curses fall from his mouth. sure he had a temper and a foul mouth, but whenever he turned to you, he was a different person. soft and tender, a comfortable shoulder to lean on. a diamond in the rough, one might perceive, but a diamond nonetheless.

“okay, well what’s the gem part about? do you have a crush on me or something?” “no, shut up! i’m a linguist, i live for figurative language. i was just lucky to find you, you know?” “okay, whatever you say.”

the pink shade that crept its way to his cheeks were clearly visible, causing you to chuckle. he did have his moments with teasing you, but now it was your time to shine. at least by now, you finally realized he saw you the same way you saw him. a hidden gem. after a few moments of getting lost in thought, he managed to control the color of his face and spoke up again.

“so the picture, is it anything like the others? do you like it?” “i love it.”

and the smile on his face was enough to brighten the whole day. almost.

~~~

two tiny water droplets soaked through the paper. you peered through the mirror again wiping at the tears that trickled down your cheeks. you were a mess. eyes bloodshot and puffy from all the tears shed, hair disheveled with several loose strands strayed elsewhere from running your hands through your locks, nose and cheeks dusted pink from the sobs that emitted from you.

taking the tear-stained picture, you folded it neatly, and tucked it safely inside your pocket. your now empty hands reached for the handle of the drawer on your right and plucked the revolver from its rightful place. the same one from when you first met. the same one from that day.

suddenly, you felt claustrophobic being cooped up in that house. you felt the need to leave. seeing those pictures and the rest of the house you two called home, you knew what you had to do. there was only one thing left to do. you couldn’t just leave him out there. you had to go back.

you hooked the gun to the side of your belt once again and packed a bag and filled it with you don’t even know what. they must’ve been things you thought were important at the time, but you only had one thing on your mind.

moving unconsciously, your feet took your body elsewhere, almost like an instinct. your mind wasn’t telling you where to go, but your body thoughtlessly trudged along the cracks on the pavement, past all the other neighborhood houses and their once thriving lawns. you only had one destination in mind. you only had Renjun in mind.

he was pulling you to him. he pulled you around a few corners and across a few lawns. hell, he would’ve pulled you across the whole neighborhood if that’s what it took to find him, but you knew just the place. you just had to go wherever your feet took you.

and there it was. just like you remember it. just like the day you left it. the day everything left you. there was no avoiding it. not anymore.

just like everything at that house, you remember it. you remember it well. too well, actually. well enough that it kept you up more than you wanted it to. what could you do though? it was impossible to forget about it.

that day where you two were a little too careless when coming to that same special spot. that day where neither of you saw it coming. that day where you saw where its teeth punctured the skin in of his arm. the day its corpse hit the ground after your switchblade came in contact with its skull. the day he said he ‘didn’t have much time left’ and hooked himself to that damn tree. the day you barely made it out alive. the day he didn’t. the day he smiled at you for the last time and you took the gun from his hands. the day you couldn’t do it. the same damned day. where everything fell apart all over again.

~~~

“y/n. it’s okay. i promise. you do remember how to shoot right?”

everything was all too familiar. the feeling of tears streaming down your cheeks, the feeling of the gun in your hand, the feeling of losing another one. all too familiar.

“no i-i can’t do it.” “you have to. there isn’t much time, please… y/n…” “...” “...” “...Renjun…”

~~~

fuck. it hurt. it hurt like hell.

looking at him now, looking at what was left of him, left your heart aching, your eyes stinging, throat burning. seeing him like this was torture. the guilt was eating you alive. seeing those once gentle eyes now soulless, hearing that beautiful soothing voice turn into gruff growls and groans, witnessing all of the beauty that once was, now gone. that hurt like hell. your precious gem, gone. this wasn’t Renjun anymore.

“i’m the worst aren’t i? i should’ve never let this happen to you. you don’t deserve this, you never did. this is all my fault.”

the world came tumbling down for you once again. you had lost everything you had. it was back to just you and the desolation of the world and was left of it. it was back to being wandering all alone again. it was back to just you. no more you and Renjun, and that left you feeling even less alive than the corpse before you.

hands drifting and picking up the revolver hooked to your belt, you point it up slowly. grip tightening around the weapon, you let out a few choked sobs before saying your last goodbye. no waterfall could compare to the amount of emotion pouring from you at the moment. every ounce of sorrow, guilt, and regret, welling up and seeping through your eyes. you were bawling and shaking, barely able to stand on your own two feet. this was like doing the impossible, but you knew you needed to move on. you had to. for Renjun.

“i’m so sorry.”

…

bang.

fin

23 notes · View notes

kley-blog · 4 years

Text

Just for the Record: COVID

This is what any well-trained virologist will tell you:

My advice: Ignore it at your peril. To quote from the Conclusion below:

When one follows the science, and nothing but the science, it becomes extremely difficult to not label ongoing mass vaccination campaigns as a crime, not only to public health but also to individual health.

Thus, it will soon be clear whether “politicians” are taking notice of medical knowledge or have a hidden political agenda driving their behavior.

We must halt all ongoing Covid-19 mass vaccination campaigns as a temporary health benefit to the most vulnerable groups does not justify a public health disaster of international concern.

Geert Vanden Bossche, DVM, PhD virology, independent seasoned vaccine researcher, previous SPO at the Bill & Melinda Gates Foundation and SPM at GAVI is urging WHO and world political leaders to immediately halt all ongoing Covid-19 mass vaccination campaigns as there is compelling evidence that they will soon dramatically worsen the consequences of the current pandemic.

Attached to this letter, you will find a summary of the manuscript I am currently in the process of finalizing. I initially intended to attach the manuscript in full to my letter. However, given the exceptional urgency of my call, I have no choice but to send you the summary (+ conclusion) in advance. I will post the manuscript in full on LinkedIn as soon as I can (presumably in the course of next week).

In the upcoming manuscript I will share my insights on the immune pathogenesis of Coronavirus pandemics. Those are based on an in-depth analysis of Covid-19-relevant scientific literature (key references will be appended) and backed by my deep vaccine knowledge and relentless perseverance in unraveling the host’s immune defense mechanisms and strategies viruses have evolved to escape those. Understanding the interplay between the virus and the host immune system is a prerequisite for designing vaccines able to counter the immune subversive strategy of infectious pathogens. I do not think that it is reasonable for WHO or any other health authority to approve ‘emergency use’ of vaccines aimed at conducting mass vaccination campaigns in the very heat of an infectious pandemic without having gained an in-depth understanding of how this may impact on the outcome of the pandemic.

In particular, lack of understanding of the consequences of immune pressure on highly mutable viruses has now allowed for the approval of a number of Covid-19 vaccines that are completely contraindicated for fighting a pandemic, regardless of the technology used. Although safe and efficacious and providing temporary relief to part of the population and to healthcare facilities, these vaccines will soon come with a heavy toll to be paid by the entire population if mass vaccination campaigns continue.

Again, given the urgency of my call, I will neither allow time for peer-review, nor for English proofreading, nor for fine-tuning the wording or for screening the manuscript for redundancy. As I merely seek to provide enough of compelling scientific proof for sounding this warning bell, I will not deal with relevant matters as exhaustively as I would normally do. Clearly, the upcoming manuscript is not meant to be submitted to a scientific peer-reviewed journal but to explain the scientific rationale behind my cry of distress and urgent wake-up call. May they for God’s sake draw the world’s attention to what I think is now likely to become the biggest and most tragic mistake made in the history of public health in general and in the field of vaccination in particular.

To support my wake-up call and credibility, I am not nearly as much relying on my credentials (which you can find at LinkedIn: https://www.linkedin.com/in/geertvandenbossche/) as I am on a diversified set of relevant scientific reports from the literature and on the evolution of the pandemic itself. The latter is now featured by the emergence of much more infectious viral variants.

Nevertheless, you may still opt for now to not believe the statements, conclusions and forecasts that will be made in this manuscript and which have already been summarized as attached. However, I have no doubt that in the days and weeks to come ‘doubting Thomas’ will have to admit that he was proven wrong. In the meantime, these disastrous vaccination campaigns will likely be intensified and even extended to younger age groups. Given the power, influence and blind ambition of the stakeholders driving these campaigns, it is going to be incredibly difficult to stop this act of complete madness. When all of them will finally have to admit the catastrophic consequences of this ‘experiment’, precious time and, more importantly, many more lives will have been lost. Eventually, complete lockdowns will likely be imposed for an indefinite period of time as a last resort.

Although largely based on direct or indirect scientific evidence, the views expressed in the manuscript will be my personal views. Of course, I take full accountability of what I am saying and I can only hope that those who’re in charge will be sufficiently convinced to take their responsibility and stop all ongoing Covid-19 vaccination campaigns immediately. There should be no excuse and certainly no complaints about lack of warnings by dedicated experts. I cannot emphasize enough that continuing these vaccination endeavors will dramatically prolong, instead of shorten, the current pandemic and take a much higher toll in terms of disease and fatality rates in all of the population. It goes without saying that a such enhancement of this crisis will come with unbearable socio-economic consequences for many years to come.

The manuscript will provide compelling evidence that – as far as acute self-limiting viral infections are concerned - the natural course (i.e., without human intervention!) of a Coronavirus pandemic is typically featured by 3 waves that ultimately flatten as the infection merges into a seasonal ‘common cold.’ However, it is difficult to predict how long it would take a natural Covid-19 pandemic to ‘downgrade’ to yet another kind of seasonal ‘common cold’ without human intervention. Maybe somewhere between 2 to 4 years, but that’s a personal guess. This is, of course, not to say that in the meantime one should not do whatever is possible to mitigate the disease in those developing severe symptoms. But first, “do no harm” (“primum non nocere”): Given the huge amount of immune escape that will be provoked my mass vaccination campaigns and flanking containment measures, it is difficult to imagine how human interventions would not cause the Covid-19 pandemic to turn into an incredible disaster for global and individual health.

I would have been able to put the appended manuscript together without having dedicated the last 10 years of my career to designing an entirely new vaccine concept that aims at enabling our immune system to kill a multitude of infectious (and even, noninfectious) diseases without allowing the pathogen, or any ‘variant’ editions thereof, to escape the immune response induced. In contrast, all of the current Covid-19 vaccines rely on strengthening adaptive (as opposed to innate) immunity in general, and humoral (i.e. antibodies) in particular. Hence, none of them will prevent immune escape and, for that matter, all will be subject to anti-viral resistance. Adapting the composition to the new circulating variants does not solve the problem as science tells us that this will even accelerate the rate of immune escape (in asymptomatic Covid-19 carriers).

Isn’t it surprising that while we have now become so well aware of all dramatic consequences and threats surrounding microbial resistance to antibiotics, we still don’t believe that fighting viruses in ways

that do not completely kill them opens the door to vaccine resistance? While we have been taught to always take the medication for as long as prescribed, even if we were already feeling much better, we still don’t seem to believe that viruses can escape to specific antibodies if antibody concentrations or affinity are no longer sufficient to neutralize the virus. Widespread use of antibiotics is generally acknowledged to raise a serious global concern about antimicrobial resistance, but nobody seems to bother about resistance to vaccines that are used in mass vaccination campaigns in the context of an ongoing pandemic. Since those are conducted against a huge infectious background, a multitude of vaccinees will be in the process of seroconverting while being exposed to circulating infectious virus. Prophylactic vaccines against viral or other infectious diseases are typically administered well in advance of a likely risk of infectious exposure. While this is ensuring full-fledged protection to the infectious agent, it is also preventing immune escape and hence, resistance to the vaccine. Aren’t we not already witnessing an increasing number of cases of Covid-19 vaccinated people who still shed virus and sometimes even develop mild symptoms? Aren’t these cases compelling enough in proving how easily Covid-19 viruses can escape antibody responses? How can we then be so excited about current Covid- 19 vaccines knowing that they allow immune escape and thus, enable the virus to select more infectious variants? And do we really think that going for a one dose shot (instead of the prescribed 2-dose vaccination schedule), as some propose, is not going to even expedite immune escape?

In our naïve and simplistic attempt to prevent the pandemic from running its natural course, we are in fact providing the beast with an even much better opportunity to escape host immunity than natural infection does. The only way to do better than the natural pandemic is to eradicate Covid-19 right away. To do so, there is probably no other way but to concentrate on vaccination strategies that allow DURABLE priming of innate immune killer cells (i.e., NK cells), the activation of which has already been shown to correlate with full viral clearance in asymptomatically Covid-19-infected subjects. As innate cytotoxic cells enable non-antigen-specific killing of the virus, they don’t drive immune escape.

By implementing immune intervention strategies that capitalize on empowering these innate immune cells to acquire immunologic memory, it must be possible to fully, broadly and durably protect human populations against all Covid-19 editions, and even against Coronaviruses at large. The ‘sterilizing’ immunity they provide would not only protect people who would ‘naturally’ become asymptomatically infected (but, unfortunately, only enjoy natural protection for as long as they keep their innate immune system well-trained through moderate but regular pathogen exposure) but also subjects who would ‘naturally’ develop (severe) symptoms or even succumb to the disease.

In conclusion, fostering the development of NK cell-based vaccines should become a public health priority. As will become obvious from the manuscript, NK-cell based hold great promise for stopping this pandemic at its source while also ensuring future preparedness to emerging pandemic threats at large.

Immediate cancellation of all ongoing Covid-19 mass vaccination campaigns should now become THE most acute health emergency of international concern.

Executive summary

The manuscript, which is in now in the process of being finalized, should shed some light on how the virus and especially its interaction with the host immune system determines the natural course (i.e., without human intervention) of a Coronavirus (CoV) pandemic. The interplay between host immune defense and viral immune escape determines the course of a natural CoV pandemic (including a natural Covid-19 pandemic).

In the clinic, viral immune escape is known to occur when the neutralizing capacity of serum antibodies (Abs) does not suffice to fully eliminate highly mutable viruses (e.g., CoV) for lack of their concentration or affinity. In a CoV pandemic setting, seroconversion occurs against a background of high infectious pressure and is, therefore, prone to promote viral immune escape.

The first wave of disease 1 (and mortality) primarily affects elderly people (or otherwise immunocompromised subjects). Selective (i.e., adaptive) immune escape is expected to cause this wave to transition into a more severe, second wave in younger age groups. Subsequently, non-selective (i.e., innate) as well as selective immune escape operated by increasingly infectious viral variants will trigger a third wave. The latter would primarily affect subjects who recovered from disease they contracted during the first wave as their seroneutralising Abs do no longer properly match the new circulating viral variants. This third wave of disease (and mortality) would come to an end when those who recovered from the disease will have mounted new functional Abs against these immune escape variants. As seroconversion in this population will now occur much faster (due to recall of cross-reactive T helper memory cells) and as the majority of the young and middle-aged population will either be seronegative or have seroconverted already by the time the third wave starts to expand, chances are slim for the virus to escape the host’s Ab response. Asymptomatic 2, seronegative individuals (i.e., the vast majority of young and middle-aged people) may spread virus upon (re-)infection and hence, constitute a relevant source of viral transmission. However, CoV infection in these asymptomatic carriers is abrogated after a short period of viral shedding. Viral clearance in these subjects is likely to occur through activation of NK cells. The latter are capable of recognizing CoV-associated, antigen (Ag)-nonspecific patterns on the surface of CoV-infected epithelial target cells. As killing by NK cells is, therefore, not Ag-specific and as seroconversion

1. For the purpose of the manuscript, ‘disease’ refers to severe Covid-19 disease with involvement of lower respiratory airways 2. For the purpose of the manuscript, ‘asymptomatic’ infection refers to CoV infection which does not cause clinically relevant symptoms or only causes a mild level of disease (i.e., only involving upper respiratory airways) in asymptomatically infected subjects is only short-lived, viral immune escape does not normally occur. Consequently, new, more infectious, variants are unlikely to emerge from this population as long as viral infectiousness does not dramatically increase.

At the point of ‘no immune escape’, the pandemic will be under control and merge into an endemic infection. However, as long as the point of ‘no immune escape’ isn’t reached, any additional immune selection pressure, for example as a result of suboptimal concentration or affinity of Ag-specific (e.g., spike protein-specific) Abs, will allow the virus to rapidly unfold more infectious, immune escape variants. Additional immune selection pressure, especially when exerted during the second wave of a CoV pandemic, is likely to precipitate and amplify viral immune escape. This might even cause the second and third wave to merge into a single huge wave of mortality and disease that affects all layers of the population (possibly, with the exception of small children).

Especially mass vaccination campaigns, particularly when conducted in the midst of a pandemic, are prone to exerting enormous immune pressure on circulating virus strains. This is because the vaccine is used in an increasingly infectious context (as escape variants are more infectious). Mass vaccination campaigns will accelerate the emergence of even more infectious immune escape variants. This because the number of vaccine recipients who seroconvert within a given time period will dramatically increase . In addition, Ag-specific, high affinity Abs induced by any of the current vaccines will outcompete natural, broadly protective mucosal IgM antibodies as the latter only bind with low affinity to the receptor-binding domain of CoV (RBD). This will particularly affect natural resistance of younger age groups which - thanks to a well-trained innate immune system- resisted disease during the first wave. The new circulating CoV variants may now even be able to escape the host’s CoV variant-nonspecific line of immune defense at the mucosal portal of entry. These age groups may, therefore, become more susceptible to symptomatic infection and shedding caused by more infectious variants.

But mass vaccination campaigns will also have severe consequences for those who got vaccinated first (mostly the elderly or people with underlying disease or those who are otherwise immunocompromised). In the highly likely event that mass vaccination will soon result in antiviral resistance (see below), these people will have no single bit of immunity left to rely upon. In contrast to the infectious circulating virus, current vaccines do either not contain any critical killer cell motif or fail to activate dedicated killer cells. It goes, therefore, without saying that vaccine-induced immune responses will inevitably result in a dramatic enhancement of morbidity and mortality rates in all of the human population (except for small children?).

Alike naturally infected subjects, vaccine recipients need time to mount a full-fledged Ag-specific Ab response. Further to all of the above, low exposure to circulating CoV strains (e.g., due to stringent containment measures) will increasingly weaken innate mucosal immunity for lack of training. Again, this is particularly relevant for those who - thanks to their sufficient and adequate innate immune defense – got away with asymptomatic infection during the first wave. Stringent and widespread infection prevention measures are now increasingly compromising their innate immunity and rendering them more susceptible to symptomatic infection. Especially the younger age groups may, therefore, end up with relatively higher morbidity and mortality rates, even regardless of the emergence of more infectious viral variants. This is to say that broadly implemented infection prevention measures will only amplify the already detrimental consequences of ongoing mass vaccination campaigns. It is reasonable to assume that the combination of non-selective and selective immune escape will cause morbidity and mortality rates in younger age groups to explode.

The more Covid-19 vaccination campaigns in the young and middle-age groups will be delayed (i.e., relative to their initiation in the elderly), the more they will enhance morbidity and mortality rates in this group: By the time mass vaccination campaigns are about to start in the young and middle-aged groups, a substantial number of these people will already have been infected with Covid-19. Enhanced rates of infection by highly infectiousness viral variants significantly has now increased the likelihood for them to become re-infected while being in the process of seroconverting. So, by the time vaccinations will be initiated, viral immune escape in this group may already be fueling a vicious circle of enhanced viral infectiousness resulting in more seroconversion and hence, more immune escape. Mass vaccination campaigns in this group will only dramatically deteriorate the situation as they will lead to a fast and massive increase in the number of asymptomatic subjects that are in the process of seroconverting against a highly infectious background. and, therefore, prone to promoting viral immune escape. As there is naturally no reason for them to isolate, there will be plenty of opportunity for the highly infectious circulating strains to replicate in the presence of suboptimal Ab titers and, therefore, to escape the host’s immune control.

Hence, the more vaccination campaigns in this group get delayed, the more selection of even more infectious viral variants will be expedited. The ensuing exponential increase in viral immune escape rates will ultimately enable viral variants to even break through vaccine- mediated protection in the vaccinated elderly. As their Abs increasingly mismatch the ever more infectious emerging variants, they will no longer manage to control viral replication and shedding and rapidly allow for massive viral immune escape. Because seroprotective Abs primarily confer protection through targeting Covid-19’s RBD, the virus will now increasingly select mutations in this particular part of the spike protein as those most readily enable the virus to escape vaccine-induced Abs. This will inevitably precipitate resistance to the vaccine. As a result of mass vaccination, people who got the vaccine first will suddenly no longer be protected and, despite vaccination, fall prey to a wave of catastrophic morbidity and mortality.

There can, therefore, be no doubt that current vaccination strategies are rendering the impact of mass vaccination campaigns even more catastrophic and only adding to the magnitude of a pending global health disaster. However, mass vaccination also harms individual health as vaccine-induced variant-specific Abs will outcompete natural variant-nonspecific mucosal Abs for binding to CoV variants and thereby deprive individuals from their broadly protective natural (life)line of immune defense.

As large scale vaccination campaigns combined with the sustained implementation of several containment measures will only expedite the occurrence of viral escape mutations, the illusory hope that current Covid-19 vaccines could generate herd immunity should once and for all be thrown overboard. Along the same line of reasoning, it is not unthinkable that Covid-19 will, once again, cross species barriers. One can definitely not rule out that with growing immune- mediated selection of virus variants, Covid-19 is ultimately going to be able to jump to other animal species, especially industrial livestock (e.g., intensive pig and poultry farms with high stocking density) as i) these species are already known to host several different Coronaviruses and ii) variability/ mutations in the very same spike protein, and particularly in the RBD, are known to be responsible for shifts in host tropism/ susceptibility. Similar to the situation with influenza virus, these animal species could then constitute a reservoir for SARS-COVID-2 virus. Depending on the prevalence of circulating animal CoVs in those farms (and hence, the level of trained immunity), those animals could now serve as asymptomatic carriers, thereby constituting a serious threat to humans.

Conclusion:

The combination of mass vaccination and infection prevention measures is a recipe for a global health disaster. Following the science, one has to conclude that all age groups (possibly with the exception of small children) will be heavily affected and subject to rates of morbidity and mortality that raise much faster and much higher than those expected to occur during the natural course of a CoV pandemic. This will particularly apply if the sequence of mass vaccinations following the first infectious wave parallels that of natural infection (i.e., immunocompromised people and elderly first, followed by the younger age groups).

No one, for that matter, should be granted a right to implement large-scale pharmaceutic and non-pharmaceutic immune interventions, especially not during a viral pandemic, and certainly not without an in-depth understanding of the immune pathogenesis of a viral pandemic. When one follows the science, and nothing but the science, it becomes extremely difficult to not label ongoing mass vaccination campaigns as a crime, not only to public health but also to individual health.

To substantiate the reasoning above, the manuscript will first explain how components of the innate immune system can protect against Covid-19 and render infections asymptomatic. It will then go on to explain in more detail why and how, in an immunologically Covid-19-naïve population, selective (i.e., adaptive) immune escape shifts the first wave of disease and death from the elderly (and immunocompromised) subjects to those who at the outset of the pandemic got away with asymptomatic infection (i.e., the younger and middle-aged population segment). Similarly, it will be explained how viral immune escape in the asymptomatically infected population finally shifts back the burst of morbidity and mortality to the elderly, and how the population eventually controls the pandemic by controlling viral immune escape. This will already illustrate the critical importance of desiccating the changing contribution of innate and adaptive immunity to the population’s overall immune defense against a viral pandemic. Understanding these dynamics helps to comprehend the sophisticated course of a natural CoV pandemic, how it eventually merges into an endemic infection and why human intervention has a highly detrimental impact on the refined interplay between the virus and its host. In regard of the latter, the devastating global health impact of ongoing mass vaccination campaigns and accompanying stringent and widespread containment measures will be explained in more detail as the global and individual health consequences could simply be unbearable for many years to come.

After the introductory section on innate immune defense mechanisms relevant to Covid-19, other relevant topics will be addressed in form of questions and answers. Last, a section will be dedicated to the scientific rationale for using NK cell-based vaccines that could provide sterilizing immunity and hence, wipe out Covid-19 and related variants all together.

The natural course of a CoV pandemic is controlled by the population’s innate and adaptive immunity and dramatically aggravated by antibody-based vaccines when used in mass vaccination campaigns conducted in the course of the pandemic and flanked by stringent containment measures.

NAC:

Natural asymptomatic carrier : for the purpose of this manuscript, NAC is defined as a subject disposing upon a level of innate immunity high enough to resist disease

nonNAC:

For the purpose of this manuscript, nonNAC is defined as a subject who is not endowed with a level of innate immunity high enough to be able to resist disease when exposed to infectious virus during the first wave

Author: G. Vanden Bossche, DVM, PhD; 26 February 2021

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