#and even if he does have the requisite qualities one word about him being fucking daddy and I’m calling the goddamn cops

[daincrediblegg]

Tired of people saying “oh look at my old man😍” and the picture they attach is some buff anime dude with grey hair grow up

[andthroughthewire]

You’ve heard me whine before but I wish so much there was more good Chuck meta that wasn’t just “he’s evil bye” (no he’s horrible *and* complicated) or the brain breaking take that I saw recently of “Chuck was right and it’s okay that he treated Jimmy badly even when Jimmy was a small child because Saul was always there” like I love every single person actor or creator talking about how fucked up these brothers are but that’s a finite resource

I'll compare Chuck and Walt since the show itself did and, well... they're both insufferable pricks but Walt is 'allowed' to be one because he represents this power fantasy to an unfortunate amount of viewers while Chuck is just a regular man with a laundry list of deep-rooted issues, he doesn't make bombs from God-knows-what and brings them to hospitals to blow up a meth kingpin. He also fills the role of the main antagonist and stands in the way of the main character so people are more inclined to just see him that way.

...or that's how it was for the first three seasons. I think his relapse and suicide either triggered some sort of 'do not speak ill of the dead' kind of thing or the same portion of viewers I mentioned earlier turned on Jimmy in a way they never did with Walt, probably because (for the most part) we are talking about normal people with normal problems and it's harder to justify a character when they're not larger than life or so far removed from our own experiences, if you get what I mean? As an example, I've never seen long dissertations about Lalo killing the guy from Travel Wire, but I've read countless posts on Reddit about how Jimmy and Kim's actions are somehow more morally deplorable than what Walt does in all of Breaking Bad.

So, in a way, I think that people's opinion of Chuck has more to do with how favourably they see Jimmy than Chuck himself. The same thing happened with Kim and Howard at the end of S5.

It's also just easier to see characters as either 100% good or bad no in between, but if there's anything Better Call Saul asks the viewers to do is to not do that. Not even Lalo is a moustache-twirling villain and genuinely cares about his uncle. Chuck doesn't get the benefit of the doubt characters like Lalo (or Jimmy!) do because he's not charismatic enough... or at all, honestly, which is kind of the whole point of his character and why he resents his brother so damn much and thinks he somehow manipulated his way to a law degree and passing the bar. Never mind the fact that having a way with words is kind of a requisite for being a good lawyer and Jimmy, Kim, Howard and Chuck all have that quality in different ways. But I'm going waaayyy off topic so I'll stop.

[goldenkamuyhunting]

Do you think Ogata is a sociopath?

Sorry for the late reply. Sadly this is an extremely busy working period for me.

Anyway…

is Ogata fitting sociopath trope?

It’s a really interesting question and also, if I’m not wrong, a hot topic for the fandom so I’ll try to answer it the best I can.

I’ll use as reference for the Sociopath trope tvtropes because it’s good enough to analyze a character of a litterary work.

So, for this trope, we’re given 5 defining qualities (I’ll copy the words of tvtrope below so people don’t have to go back and forth to check it).

1) Lack of Empathy and Devoid of Conscience: Their defining feature. Utterly ruthless doesn't begin to describe them: except for when trying to appear normal, they will disregard any social norms and semblance of morality in pursuit of their own selfish desires. The Sociopath will do whatever it takes: lie, cheat, steal, extort, manipulate, or use outright violence without the slightest hesitation, disgust or remorse, and for as little as Pleasure or The Evulz. Murder and violence have no more emotional weight than eating Chinese takeout or some other mundane activity, and they have no concern for the direct or collateral damage they do to other people, being unable to understand why anyone should. Likewise, they never truly understand the feelings of others on anything more than an intellectual level, and may even believe that everybody else is faking it too. As many Real Life criminal psychologists put it: "They know the words but not the music." Techniques for learning moral behaviour, such as reason, therapy, rehabilitation and behavioral reward/punishment, will not work on them or tend to only make their behavior even worse by making it easier for them to fake it. This is why the only thing resembling consistently successful treatment involves teaching them to avoid behaviors that have predictable consequences; they may still believe that consequences are bullshit, but if they have been made sufficiently aware of the fact that their behavior will always end up with them in jail, getting sued, or simply just getting jumped or killed when they fuck with the wrong people, and that they can't lie and fake their way out of it because people are wise to their game, they will usually shape up.

Noda actually debunk this in Ogata’s second apparition and it’s THE DEFINING FEATURE of the trope.

Not only he has Ogata decide they won’t kill Tanigaki in Huci’s house because Huci reminds him of his grandmother, whom he loved and therefore he doesn’t want to kill her (chap 43),

but he also have him to save Nikaido (Chap 45)

eventhough Ogata is sure it’s a trap (Chap 45).

In case people hadn’t gotten the message well Noda remarks his meetingwith Huci left an impression by having him remember her when Tanigaki mentionedher (chap 110)

making him consequently offer to help Tanigaki (yeah the way hewent at it was horrible) and in other small instances (like how although hedoesn’t believe in dreams he tells Asirpa he should write her instead than justsaying he should ignore her for being senile and naïve (chap 113)).

He also remarks that Ogata knew a wounded Nikaido would be a liability byshowing how one of the war techniques Ogata learnt in war was to woundopponents instead than killing them (chap 46)…

and underlines this again in thefight with Vasily, where not only it’s explained again how wounding opponentsis a technique used to damage enemies (Chap 162)...

but Ogata also comments on how Vasilywon’t expose himself for his companions as he evidently would be comfortablehearing their screams of pain through all the night (chap 162)...

which was what Ogata should have done instead than saving Nikaido.

We’ve other instances in which Ogata showed he’s not utterly ruthless,like when he saves Shinpei instead than letting his father kill him and onlyafterward killing the man (chap 59).

We’ve him claiming he doesn’t feel guilt for the people he kills and yethe hallucinates and is clearly haunted by the memory of his brother, whom hekilled (chap 164/165).

More recently instead we’ve the scene in which he comfort Koito (chap199)

...or the fact once he was left alone with Koito he didn’t harm him in retaliation for slamming his head against his nose but just tied him (Chap 200).

Noda likely created those settings exactly to debunk the defining feature of thetrope, so we won’t get the wrong impression about Ogata.

2) Consummate Liar and Manipulator: In the event they are ever targets of suspicion in crime dramas and thrillers, sociopaths are able to fool any Living Lie Detectors in the cast, pass polygraphs effortlessly, and fool even you, the audience, into believing they are genuinely kind and caring people who are victims of a "big misunderstanding" (assuming they are not so smugly confident of their own invincibility that they feel no need to hide their unsavory personality). Moreover, despite their lack of empathy, sociopaths are capable of using their knowledge of others' desires, emotions and insecurities to manipulate them for their own personal gain. Because of this, many of them are Faux Affably Evil. This is related to their lack of empathy and shame - they don't feel the slightest discomfort about lying or exploiting others, so they do so with the same ease in which normal people perform mundane activities. This is why you should always assume that any apparent epiphany from a sociopath is bullshit; as far as they're concerned, it's just another tool to get what they want, and they don't actually believe that they have done anything wrong. Don't let them know that they are full of shit, because it will just force them to become more slick, but do act with the knowledge that they will go right back to their old ways the minute that they think it is safe to do so.

Yeah, Ogata lies in Golden Kamuy. All the cast does, even Asirpa.

But the idea here is he has to be a consummate one, a GOOD one, a masterful one, not just a guy who here and there lies. He has to be so good at lying he can manipulate others though his lies.

And Ogata fails at lying. Noda debunks this as well in Ogata’s second apparition when he tells Tanigaki that he was joking when he said Tanigaki might have killed Tamai and Co and Tanigaki is free to remain in Huci’s house because Ogata will act as if he had never seen Tanigaki (Chap 43).

Tanigaki is so sure Ogata is being sincere he thinks he has to leave AS SOON AS POSSIBLE (Chap 43).

And I’ve spent lot of time discussing how his lie about Sugimoto’s final moments was a complete and utter mess, the clear sign the most Ogata can do are extremely simple lies because as soon as he tries to make up a story that’s as unbelievable as possible.

Ogata can be a good strategist during a battle.

We see it in the Barato arc, also in the sniper duel and, if we want, also in his recent escape. However he’s clearly not good at manipulating people in interactions.

He can’t win over their trust, which is a big requisite to manipulate people as he’s almost universally distrusted, we see it not only with Tanigaki, who simply didn’t buy his lie nor spilled the truth about Sugimoto’s involvement but also with Sugimoto himself, who’ll be more prone to trust Kiro or Hijikata, who’ll both betray him to try to get Asirpa, and even Tsurumi than Ogata even when it’ll be really obvious Ogata is actually right (remember the fake Ainu arc?), with Yuusaku, who won’t spend time with whose women nor kill a man, with Asirpa, who won’t give him the code and honestly, I’m not even sure his attempt at hinting Tsurumi’s involvement in Koito’s kidnapping will be something Koito will understand.

In order to be a manipulator is not enough to attempt to manipulate, you’ve to do so successfully. And Ogata fails at this.

3) Pathological Need for Stimulation: The Sociopath's raison d'etre (i.e.: an overriding goal which serves as one's "reason for existence"). Due to their inability to empathize or even care for those around them, sociopaths largely view their existence as boring or meaningless and therefore feel compelled to engage in "thrill-seeking" activities to alleviate their restlessness. How this manifests depends largely on the sociopath's personality. It can be as relatively benign as binging on video games, compulsively gambling, or leading highly promiscuous lifestyles. Far more dangerous examples are prone to satiate their lust for thrills by partaking in criminal enterprises, becoming serial rapists and/or killers, or (if they are unusually high-functioning) accumulating vast wealth and/or influence for the sole purpose of dominating as many people as they can for their own amusement. Due to their obsession with indulging their insatiable appetites however they want whenever they want, sociopaths have a very low tolerance for inconvenience or irritation which in turn leads them to have a pronounced lack of impulse control. Because of this, many of them are Ax-Crazy, have a Hair-Trigger Temper, and/or are Mood Swingers.

That’s hard to say.

So far Ogata never stated to find existence boring without action. Sure, he’s engaged in a very risky hunt and he’s rather reckless but does he has a pathological need for this or, like the rest of the cast, he’s just thinking this is the price to pay to reach his goal? He’s in this for the fun of it or he has a different purpose? Until we don’t know Ogata’s goal we can speculate as much as we want but we can hardly say for sure.

What we know is Ogata has a very good impulse control, that he’s usually very cold and even in the few circumstances we’ve seen him angry or in a tight spot he hardly lost it.

4) Shallow Affect and Complete Lack of Emotional Reciprocity: A Sociopath is physiologically incapable of experiencing a deep emotional attachment towards others but - being a Consummate Liar - learns early in life how to fake them. This shallow emotional life means that the Sociopath is unable to form sincere long-term relationships with anything or anyone, but will feign feelings of love and affection if they feel it serves their purposes. Most of the true feelings a sociopath harbors towards others, positive or negative, are rooted in an insatiable desire to dominate or control them. While narcissists desire to be loved or at least respected, sociopaths don't care whether others view them positively as long as they don't stand in the way of their own self-centered gratification. In the rare event that a Sociopath actually does form an "attachment" to another person, it rises no further than that between an owner and a possession and/or a valuable resource for advancing their goals. Thus, once such "friends" cease to be useful or entertaining, they will abandon them or, in some cases, even kill them without any hesitation or regret. Any emotional reaction to having committed a heinous act is met indifference at best and glee at worst.

Technically debunked again in Ogata’s second apparition.

As said before not only Ogata declared he had feelings for his grandmother but even went out of his way to spare Huci because it reminded him of her.

But I know this is viewed in a rather controversial manner.

In fact so far we hadn’t seen him developing a deep emotional attachment toward others as he remained a loner.

The fandom though was very impressed by two things.

One is his relationship with Yuusaku. It’s worth to note that Noda made very clear that Ogata wanted to avoid Yuusaku and not have a relationship with him at all (chap 164),

...and it was on Tsurumi’s request he ended up on having to try to deceive him and get them what they wanted. It’s also meaningful how Ogata never played the whole thing on the affection side. The most he did was to point out he and Yuusaku were brothers so they should get to mischief together, but he never tried to use feelings into the play, he insisted in calling Yuusaku ‘Yuusaku-dono’ and he never asked Yuusaku to do something because Ogata loved him or out of the love Yuusaku should feel for him.

Ogata is clearly not faking any affection for Yuusaku, he’s at most giving him some of his time. Yuusaku, who has already decided Ogata has to be delighted to have a little brother even when Ogata clearly hinted the contrary, might not see it but this speaks more of Yuusaku’s obsession to get Ogata to be his big brother than about Ogata’s attempt at faking feelings he didn’t felt.

The other thing the fandom likes to talk about is Ogata’s relationship with Asirpa.

That one is a rather controversial topic.

Asirpa is friendly with Ogata. Nothing over the top, she just deal with him with the same kindness she would deal with everyone else (actually she’s kinder with Tanigaki considering the guy threatened her and tried to use her as human shield and she completely forgave him that and saved his life. Twice).

Ogata’s interactions with her, for most of the story, are not responding to it at all.

He’s not faking affection, he’s just mostly not interacting and keeping on his own.

It takes him months to say ‘citatap’ as she repeatedly asked him and call Asirpa by name. It’ll take him even more to say ‘hinna’.

Asirpa decides to remain friendly with him. That’s Asirpa’s decision, it’s not Ogata’s actions, or more exactly his lack of actions that cause Asirpa to remain friend with him.

And Asirpa is clearly not the type who needs to be rejected to latch to someone as we see she’s just fine with being friend with Sugimoto, Shiraishi, Kiroranke, Tanigaki and others, who aren’t keeping distant, nor she’s so starved for affection just a word would win her over.

Even when he will try to get her to give him the code he won’t try to play it on the ‘if you care for me/trust me give me the code’ or on the ‘I care for you so I’m telling you what would be best for you’.

Really, to assume Ogata was faking affection with her would require accepting he can’t fake it to save his life.

5) Grandiose Sense of Self-Worth: The trait that ties it all together - the one that changes it from moustache-twirling evil into a mental disorder. Sociopaths will go so far as to convince themselves that they have succeeded in their plan, even as failure stares them in the face and snaps on the handcuffs. They genuinely believe it. They don't really care what others truly think on the matter, but they do care about what they say, and like to fill their social circle with people who say what they want to hear. Any others - even former 'friends' - will be dismissed from the sociopath's social circle simply for doubting them. They consider themselves better than anybody else and that they are entitled to special treatment - and they can't stand anybody being considered better than them. However, while the Narcissist is self-conscious of how they measure up to others' standards (and therefore will experience shame or guilt for failing them), a sociopath's grandiosity is all-encompassing to the point they have no concern how their actions reflect upon them UNLESS it threatens their ability to indulge their appetite for further stimulation. They are incapable of acknowledging personal responsibility for failure, and will always blame others, no matter how irrational it is. In fact, it's considerably difficult convincing them that the activity they have partaken in has even failed. This is all part of why a sociopath can't change - since they consider themselves to already be perfect, and refuse to acknowledge failure on their part, and consider the true opinions and feelings of others insignificant, they never try to improve themselves.

Honestly I wouldn’t say Ogata has a grandiose sense of self worth.

Sure, he knows he’s an amazing sniper and he occasionally brags about it.

Everyone does know Ogata is amazing at sniping. This is, after all, a fact that’s accepted by the whole cast and that’s actually proved more than once, after all Ogata fits the trope of improbable aiming skills with his impressive feats of shooting two deer at once or managing to catch three woodcocks with a less suitable rifle, exterminating a reindeer herd on his own or hitting targets with an impossible precision from an amazing distance.

Ushiyama too comments on how he’s Ushiyama, the Undefeated, even if he lost to Gansoku here and there when they only used fists (Chap 143).

Just bragging a little on a real skill isn’t a sign of grandiose sense of self-worth, just of rightful pride for it. Yeah, modesty is an important virtue but you don’t turn into a sociopath if you’re proud of what you can do.

What’s more noteworthy though is he knows he’s a rejected kid, anunwanted one, who wasn’t loved and that feels he lacked something fundamental. He’s aware of how, being an illegitimate, his existence was a source of shame for his father. He comments on how he knew he wouldn’t be able to persuade Asirpa, admitting his failure. He admits his responsibility in his actions.

Therefore I can’t really see him as a guy with a grandiose sense of self worth.

And so with this, we’ve finished with the defining traits for this trope.

Tvtropes also says:

Many of these traits are shared with other disorders, but it's the combination of them all that creates the trueSociopath.

In short you need them all to have a character that fits this TROPE (please, remember, this is a TROPE, the real personality disorder that goes with the same name is not something an ordinary person can find out in real people with this checklist, no, not even if, like me, they studied psychology in high school, this is a list for a TROPE as this is a fictional work).

As a result honestly I can’t see Ogata fitting into them because, for the first 2, Noda actually did his best to remark howthey don’t fit to Ogata from his second apparition, for the 3rd we can’t really say as we lack material, I’ll let the 4th up to debate and honestly, I don’t see him matching with the 5th.

As a trope Ogata fits the cold sniper with improbable aiming skills and an ambiguous disorder (at least for now... who knows, in the future Noda might tell us).

The one of the sociopath isn’t really cut on him.

It doesn’t mean Ogata is a good person, or that he only does good things, it’s clear he does a BIG DEAL OF TERRIBLY WRONG THINGS and we know sociopaths can do this sort of wrong things.

However Noda apparently wasn’t interested in making Ogata a sociopath or otherwise he wouldn’t have written scenes debunking a sociopath’s main characteristics and, believe it or not, in real life you don’t need to be a sociopath to do the sort of wrong things Ogata does so it’s not like Noda is being unrealistic.

Sorry to whoever wanted him to be one, I know each fandom loves to have its own memetic psychopath but as they’re not my cup of tea I fear I won’t partake into the ‘fun’ of turning Ogata into one.

Thank you for your ask!

[blueboxesandtrafficcones]

Queen of Hearts - Chapter 5

Thirty-year-old Rose Tyler’s matchmaking business is doing very well indeed, bringing her clients such as celebrities, athletes, and the now-happily-married son of the mayor.  All of which brings her to her newest client - one whose royal rank is a far cry above her own title as Queen of Hearts.

Ian, King of Gallifrey, calls off his wedding four weeks before the happy day as he realizes he can’t spend another minute of his life with his betrothed.  The catch - he must take a wife before his Coronation, only a month away.  In desperation, his sister and aunt conspire to find him is happy ever after - and it’s going to take a master matchmaker to do it.

-

Based on the Hallmark Movie ‘Royal Matchmaker’.  Chapters will be posted every Sunday.

As always, beta’d by the wonderful @stupidsatsuma​!  @doctorroseprompts

Masterlist  |  AO3

—

Wednesday, April 3rd (continued)

Rose shivered, pulling the blanket tighter around her.  Unable to sleep, she’d decided to watch the sun rise over the Alps.  Give the likely imminent collapse of Bad Wolf Matchmaking she would never have another opportunity, once she crawled home to her mum with her tail between her legs and accepted her fate of beans on toast, never to truly escape the Estate.

It had been sweet while it lasted.

Sniffling, she rested her chin on her knees.  In a fit of self-flagellation, she’d decided the best place to watch would be from the back patio, only a few yards away from where she’d been summarily fired.

The sky flared with color, pinks and oranges streaming from behind the mountains, and her heart clenched.  Must enjoy beautiful sunrises, she couldn’t help but add to her list of requisite qualities in the future queen.  It truly was spectacular, and for only a moment, it brought her peace as she watched the sun rise.  Birds were chirping in the forest surrounding the palace and gardens, the light reflected in the still lake.

This is heaven, she thought wistfully.

When the sun had fully cleared the Alps and the dawn well turned to day, she stood up and dusted herself off.  She’d packed almost everything the night before when she couldn’t sleep, but still had a solid two hours before the first train of the morning would leave.  Mel had been given strict instructions to pack everything, though Rose doubted she had – she seemed to think a miracle would occur and they would stay.

Rose had no such hope or expectation.

Turning to go back into the house, she gasped to find the King standing a few feet behind her, watching with his arms crossed.

“Your Majesty,” she murmured, sinking into a deep curtsey, biting her lip to keep it from trembling as she kept her head bowed.  What, does he want to yell at me some more before I leave? she thought petulantly.

“Miss Tyler.”  He cleared his throat, and she chanced a peek up to see him rubbing at the back of his neck.  The King opened and closed his mouth several times before sighing heavily. “We have a full day, so we might as well get on with it.  Will you join me for breakfast?”

Oh, now he wants to meet with me.  “I’m sorry, I must finish packing.  Thank you though,” she mumbled, not quite managing to mean it.  She didn’t know what kind of game he was trying to play, but she’d have none of it.  After being yelled at as she had, she had no energy left for another verbal beating – she’d get that soon enough from her mother, though Jackie’s would be peppered with I told you so’s, by tone if not words.

“Are you leaving?” he asked innocently, and Rose’s anger congealed, head snapping up to find him smirking slightly.

“What?”

The King shrugged, sticking his hands in his pockets.  “You’re free to go if you want, but I thought you signed a contract.  Doesn’t look very good to duck out early.”

Straightening up, Rose studied him carefully in search of a trap.  At first glance, he didn’t look much like a king; more like a magician, or a uni professor.  An unzipped, black hooded sweatshirt gaped to show a Rolling Stones tee, layered over black and white plaid pants and black boots.  If she’d met him on the street, she might go so far as to wonder if he was homeless.

“I don’t understand.”

He groaned, rocking back on his heels slightly.  “Oh, don’t make me say it,” he whined, before twisting his lips into a grimace.  “Fine.  I’m sorry I yelled.  Will you stay?”  It was said with the air of a naughty preschool boy before forced to apologize to the girl he’d teased, and glancing behind him, Rose found Princess Donna and Sarah Jane peering out from the door.

Well, if he wanted her to stay, she was going to take the chance to set some terms.  “I have conditions.”

“Of course you fucking do.”  He waved his hand impatiently for her to get on with it.

“Full access, and you answer my questions open and honestly,” was her biggest one, and though he pulled a face, he nodded.  “You give me a fair chance to work.”  Another nod, and Rose dithered; those were her main concerns, but she felt she needed something else, something to not just surrender.  He might be King, but he wasn’t going to bully her.  “And, finally – you never speak to me that way again.”

“Deal.”  He held out his hand, and Rose stared blankly at it, unsure of what he wanted.  “Aren’t these sorts of things usually sealed with a handshake?”  His amused tone brought her out of her head, and she shook it firmly.

“Why?”

He seemed to understand what she meant, even if she didn’t.  “Because you were right – I love my country. And my sister.  And, maybe- if you repeat this I’ll deny it and sack you for real- maybe, the idea of a marriage and family like Donna’s got wouldn’t be the end of the world.  Perhaps, with the right woman, I might even find myself moved to embrace the idea.”

“Fair enough.”  A cool breeze blew across the patio and she shivered, pulling her blanket/shawl tighter around her shoulders.  “I have one last condition.”

“Oh, what now?”

“Tea.  Lots of tea.”

-

After a silent breakfast they parted ways, Donna to get her children up, Ian and Rose to prepare for a day of engagements.

As he dressed and Sarah reviewed his schedule, he let his thoughts drift to the young woman.  He’d seen the fire in her eyes when she spotted him this morning, recognized the initial flash of defiance before she capitulated to propriety.

Then, when he deigned to let her keep her job, she had the audacity to lecture him about his tone.  For the sour face he liked to put on, it was refreshing to have someone not so intimidated by the crown he (metaphorically) wore.  Sure, it silenced her tongue, but not her thoughts, which were so clearly written over her face.

It was a quality he hoped the wife she found for him would have, albeit with a more diplomatic bent than River had had.

He met her at the top of the stairs, and they awkwardly walked down to the entryway together, remaining in silence until they climbed into the car, Sarah already waiting there for them.

“Where are we going?” Rose asked, clearly torn between watching them and staring out the window, awe in her expression as they flew down the road.

“There’s a fountain opening, or something,” Ian replied, distracted.  She looked so amazed he wondered what she was seeing, when it all was perfectly normal and boring, the same as every other day of his life.

Sarah sighed, shaking her head fondly.  “The fountain in the main square is being dedicated to your grandmother, Queen Clarisse.”

“Right.”  Ian just shrugged; he barely remembered the woman, except for the time she’d yelled at Donna for getting a dress dirty.

“So, how does this work?” Rose asked, tearing herself away from the window as they went through the gates.  “You show up, give a speech?  Do a jig?”

“Oh, I’d love to see that,” his aunt sniggered, and he shot her a warning look.

“The mayor will give an introduction, I’ll say a few words of a prepared speech, a few pictures, snip the ribbon or whatever, then done.”

He glanced out the window, waving half-heartedly to a little girl who spotted him, though he couldn’t help grin slightly when she tugged enthusiastically on her mother’s sleeve before pointing in their direction.

“The King will usually stay for a few minutes to give his subjects a chance to speak with him,” Sarah consulted her diary as if she didn’t have every second of his day planned and memorized, “then it’s back to the palace for a call with Monaco, though I can’t allow you to sit in on that.  I’ve advised Mrs. Cooper – the cook – that you’ll be taking all meals together, except for any that are official state business.”

Ian stiffened, Rose doing so as well, but they arrived before either could respond.  Graham, his driver, opened the car door, and he decided to leave the subject be for the moment, climbing out and automatically offering his hand to Rose and Sarah.

The young matchmaker hesitated a moment before accepting, hand briefly squeezing his releasing.

All the way to his designated spot, he thought about how natural it had felt to hold her hand.

-

It was a small crowd, and Rose made a mental note to ask why the event was so poorly attended; did the Gallifreyan people not want to take an opportunity to see their king?  At home, hundreds would gather at a hospital or school or similar sort of event just for a chance of a glimpse.  Here, though, it sounded like they could shake the king’s hand or even speak to him for a moment, yet so few were present.  And half of them seemed to be reporters.

Standing at the back, she listened as he was introduced and shook hands with the mayor, before standing at the podium.  Rose was used to the royal family being the picture of poise and decorum, not to the monarch being dressed fairly casually and slouching over the podium, leaning his weight on it as though he were a uni professor giving a lecture.

The King pulled a piece of paper out of his pocket and unfolded it, staring at it for a long moment before shrugging and putting it away.

“Some of you may remember my grandmother, Queen Clarisse,” he started fairly conversationally.  “Though it was my grandfather who was the crowned sovereign, there is no question that she was the one who ruled.”  The audience laughed softly and Rose grinned, tension easing.  “Together they brought us through the Second World War, keeping our country united and safe.  Even after the war was over she continued to fight, leading the charge to ensure that the children of the future, as they were then, or our parents to us today, grew up strong and brave, loyal and kind.  Educated. Principled.  Because of her, we are who we are today.  She was a wonderful queen, and I hope my future wife will do as she did and more.  Thank you.”

He stepped away from the podium, heedless of the titters and whispers that sparked at the word ‘wife’.  Rose watched curiously as he stopped to speak to the mayor again, before realizing that several of the spectators were looking in her direction, the more brazen ones pointing.

Fighting back a smile, she carefully eased her way through the crowd towards the King, and he broke off his conversation as she approached.

“What did you think?” he asked, and Rose was surprised at how close to genuine his tone was, as though he actually cared for her opinion.

“She sounds like a hell of a woman,” she grinned, letting her tongue peek between her teeth.

The King blinked, seeming slightly off kilter, and her smiled slipped away as he stammered, “Er, yes, she was.  Ahem.  Hell, and a hell of a woman.  Not much of a mother or grandmother, but an excellent queen.”

“Well, nobody’s perfect,” Rose teased, relieved when he smiled.

“Except for me,” he shot back, “though I’m not sure my sister would agree.”

“Your Majesty?” the mayor cut in, and they glanced over to see him standing there awkwardly, several little old ladies behind him watching hopefully.  “A few of your subjects who remember the late Her Majesty wish to have their photograph taken with you, if it’s not too much trouble.”

The King sighed but nodded, and was instantly swarmed by half a dozen gray-haired grannies; if they were forty years younger, the casual observer would think him a rock star.

“D’you mind, dearie?” one of the women poked Rose, handing over her mobile with the camera open.

“Of course.”

It took ten minutes to get all the pictures as each lady wanted their own of the group before they started doing individual shots, the King clearly growing uncomfortable with the attention.  Rose wondered briefly as she traded one smartphone for another if she should save him, but Sarah Jane was only a few feet away and watching with a smirk so she figured it was all right, even going so far as to brightly suggest a few more groupings for the pictures.

One of the women was more persistent than the rest, begging for one last one with his arm around her, which he granted – though as soon as Rose snapped the picture he honest to God yelped, practically leaping away from the rest.

“Right, terribly sorry, got to go,” he blurted, before all but running for the car.  She had the passing thought that he looked like a penguin with his ass on fire.

Rose managed to get the mobiles back to all the women and catch up to Sarah Jane before they caught each other’s eye, and began to howl with laughter.

Maybe this job won’t be so bad after all, Rose considered, shaking her head with amusement and heading for the Bentley, wishing she’d gotten the moment on camera.  It was something she wouldn’t soon forget, no matter how this turned out.

[ebhenah]

Busy #Fictober18 (Voltron FanFic)

#Fictober18 Day 17

Prompt: "I'll Tell You But You're Not Gonna Like it."

Voltron Fanfiction. S07 spoilers. Angst.

Keith pov, Garrison Days, Post-Adam/Shiro split, Post-Kerberos

Rating: T- some language, discussion of same sex relationship, mentions of foster care, death, illness, broken homes, grief.

Adam was asleep on the couch when he got home. His briefcase was lying on the floor beside his shoes, his coat draped over the counter of the little island that separated the kitchen from the living room. Keith could see in his mind the exact path he'd taken when he'd gotten home. It was a short one. Maybe 15 feet. Door, drop bag, shed shoes, step, shuck coat, step step, drop tie onto coffee table, step, collapse on couch. This was pretty much par for the course now.

As far as the Garrison was concerned, ex-fiance's didn't qualify for bereavement leave. Neither did 'foster kid of ex-fiance'- because technically that's what he was. Shiro had failed the medical assessment to foster or adopt, but Adam had passed. So, on paper, he was Adam's legal responsibility, not Shiro's. So, when the news had come in about the mission being lost- leaving a smoking crater in the center of their lives- they'd discovered that they didn't qualify for the supports in place for bereaved families. Adam had quickly exhausted all his sick days, vacation time, and banked personal time. Keith had run out of allowed absences from class even faster.

Once that had happened, it was back to 'normal' life in an abrupt shift that left them both reeling. So now, Adam pushed himself through a full day of teaching class and attending staff meetings and making sure he got his requisite hours of flight time and continuing education, and the second he walked through the door, he pretty much collapsed.

Keith, on the other hand, was more hardened to the SHIT that life liked to throw at him. So, he went to class, did his best to keep his head down, then came home and kept busy. That was easy to do, really. There were still meals to be made, dishes to wash, laundry to do, dust to wipe down, homework to be completed, bills to pay, bathrooms to scrub, and vacuuming to be done, after all. Plus, he had to feed Adam, keep him on task while he did lesson prep and graded papers, keep him AWAY from the wine and photo albums (he wasn't a drunk or anything, but even one glass of wine combined with the photo albums meant the night was lost to the bottomless pit of grief that seemed to reside in every picture of Shiro), and then herd him into his own bed before he crashed on the couch.

Keith didn't mind. Honestly, he didn't. Busy was good. Staying still was his problem. Because if he stopped moving for even a moment… BAD things happened. He never really FORGOT. Shiro's loss was always right there, lurking around the edges of his brain, dimming everything into pale, washed out colors and muffled sounds. But most of the time, he could avoid thinking about what the loss actually MEANT. It was when he stopped moving, stopped doing STUFF, that the meaning crept in and devastated him.

No more hover bike races. The last one they'd been on was it. That was the last time he'd ever hear that laugh on the wind. Hear that proud cheer as Keith overtook him. See that competitive little smirk as he watched Keith pass him and then buckle down to put the 'kid' in his dust. No more quiet, dusty conversations watching the sun set before heading back to base in a much more leisurely and companionable ride. Done. That part of his life was closed away forever now- just like hanging out at the firehouse while his Dad was on shift was done and closed off.

No more stupid sing-alongs while they cleared the dinner table and washed the dishes. No more chasing a laughing Shiro out of the kitchen as he protested that 'it's just toast! Even I can make toast!" because, no. He really could NOT make toast, and no one wanted to fill the house with smoke from burnt bread. No more overhearing weirdly flirty arguments about coffee vs tea, or crosswords vs sudoku that always seemed to end in someone giggling and someone else shushing and then a bedroom door shutting just as Keith cranked his stereo and found something else to think about. No more REAL-but-not-scary arguments about wedding planning and place settings and guest lists. No more threatening Keith with having to give a toast or throw a bachelor party. No more surreptitious thumbs up of encouragement when Iverson cracked down on him at school, or affectionate shoulder grabs when he blew up at fucking Griffon, or quiet hugs when everything seemed to pile onto him all at once and the world seemed huge and hostile.

All that stuff was in his past now, and it was best if he just… put it out of his mind and stayed busy. So, he set his backpack on a chair and started digging through the cupboards for something to put together for dinner. They were almost out of produce, and the pantry supplies were running a little low. There would need to be a grocery trip soon. He hated those, because Adam insisted on coming and when people saw Adam they stopped to offer condolences, to check up on them- which made him remember what it all meant, and sent Adam into a downward spiral again. He wished he could just take the list and do the shopping alone, it would be so much less painful.

Still, for today, there was enough to choose from that he could feed them. Beef, stir-fried with mushrooms, onions, garlic, peppers, and carrots. Soba noodles in some jarred ginger sauce he found way in the back of the cupboard. Tinned peaches for Adam, mandarin oranges in cherry jello for him. Nothing fancy, but hot, and kosher, and more or less healthy. All with enough left over for them to pack up lunches for the next day, too.

"You cooked?" Adam's voice was sleep rough, his glasses askew from having fallen asleep with them on.

"I mean, it's not restaurant quality, but it's edible," Keith answered, dishing up the food.

"You shouldn't have to do that, Keith," Adam sighed, "I'm the adult, here."

"You needed rest. I needed to keep busy. Win, win," he replied, setting one plate in front of Adam and gesturing for him to sit. "Besides, I'll be 18 soon enough, right?"

"Right," he flashed Keith a smile, weak but genuine. "Which reminds me, your worker should be dropping by soon, I got an e-mail the other day." He pulled out his phone, clearly intending to check, and Keith's heart sank.

"You should eat first," he prompted, "before it gets cold."

"This will only take a second- I don't want to forget about it. Just let me… Keith? Why do I have an e-mail from Iverson flagged urgent?"

"Ummm…" he fidgeted, "I mean, I'll tell you, but you're not gonna like it. So, maybe we should wait until after dinner?"

"Mmmhmm… that's not going to happen. You tell me now and I won't read the e-mail until after dinner. How's that sound? Orrrr, I'll read Iverson's version of events FIRST."

"Alright, fine," Keith grumbled sitting at the table across from Adam, "I'm suspended. For fighting. One week."

"Dammit, Keith! What happened?" Keith had thought Adam looked exhausted before, but he'd been wrong, because right before his eyes Adam sort of… withered… like the strength and energy had just been sucked right out of him.

"I don't even really know. We were in the simulators today, and I screwed up. I don't even know HOW, I've aced that particular simulation so many times, but today… I just couldn't get my head in the game. So, I was already in a shit mood, and then fucking Griffon…"

"Language," Adam chided, earning a scowl.

"FREAKING Griffon," Keith corrected, "started crowing about beating my score and got in my face and the next thing I know, we're being hauled off to the office."

Adam sighed, "alright, first things first. Are you hurt? Does your uniform need cleaning or repairs?"

"No, everything is fine. He bloodied my nose, but I bled on him, not myself. I have like, a bruise on one of my knuckles from when I socked him in the jaw, but that's about it."

"Let me see."

"Adam, it's nothing."

"Keith! Let me see your hand," he insisted. Reluctantly, Keith held out his hand. The bruise had spread, covering three of his knuckles now, but it was obviously a minor injury. "We'll put some witch hazel on it after we eat."

"That's it?" Keith asked, more than a little shocked.

"Do you think there is anything I can say to you about getting into fights at school that hasn't already been said?"

"No, probably not."

"Right, and I'm smart enough to know that if Takashi couldn't get through to you about this, I'm sure as hell not going to be able to. So. Suspended for one week. Consider yourself grounded for the same duration… and you will be completing all of the class work that you are missing here at home… AND writing an apology to James Griffon."

"What? But he's an ASS!"

"And YOU have to learn how to deal with assholes without resorting to violence, Keith! I know you are aware of the fact that there are assholes EVERYWHERE, but you are almost 18 and there are going to be very serious consequences for you if you can't get your temper under control. He was an ass, but YOU threw the first punch, so you apologize. Be glad I'm letting you write it instead of giving it face to face."

"I can't believe this," he muttered, pushing food around his plate.

"Listen, kid," Adam said, his voice soft, "I'll fight for you, you know I will… but I'm not Takashi Shirogane." He choked on a sob, but pushed through, "I'm not the darling of the Garrison, the star pilot poster child. My words and opinions don't have the same weight as his do… did… as his did. I can't protect you as well. I need you to work with me."

"Fine," Keith couldn't even look at him. He knew if he lifted his eyes for even a second, he'd see how broken Adam was, and he could not cope with that right now. So, he did the only thing he could, kept himself busy with eating and tried not to think about how things used to be.

[casualarsonist]

Dissociation - The Dillinger Escape Plan review

The Dillinger Escape Plan have always held a rather strange place in my musical upbringing. At the time I started listening to them, they were far and away the most extreme band I had in my catalogue. I’d been listening to Strapping Young Lad for years, for example, but for all the rage in the lyrics and the cacophonous wall-of-sound production, Devin Townsend can’t help but be a funny guy and there’s a core of melody and cohesion that colours all of the band’s music. It took me a long time to discover the melody and cohesion in DEP’s tracks, and I remember clearly the exact time and place in which I first heard the jazzy breakdown in the middle of Miss Machine’s Highway Robbery, and how, after listening to that track and that track alone for many months, I slowly started to unpeel the onion and find the layers that lay behind many of the other songs on the album. 

And if that jazzy breakdown was a pipeline into DEP’s world, their next full-length album, Ire Works, was the floodgates opened wide. It’s still, in my opinion, their most consistent album (quality-wise) by a mile, and not because it explores the melodic possibilities of their music more than any other release - it’s still mental, a record that can barely sit still for more than ten seconds before it pulls an about-face on the listener and races off in a completely different direction. But when it does this, you can always, always see the benefit of it doing so. It’s not about the music being digestible, it’s about the choices making sense for the song, and I understand that if I try to categorise the quality of a ‘mathcore’ release by how sensible it is I’ll be buried under a pile of internet manure, but I think that you can make an excellent mathcore album that is also fun and engaging. DEP did this, more than once, and it’s why they were one of the biggest bands in the genre. The intensity, the melody, the electronic experimentation, it all fit together within Ire Works as one great, unstoppable wave that flowed perfectly from start to finish. Even though it was rarely the same from one moment to the next, the band’s instincts as to when to hold onto an idea and when to let go were impeccable. It was a natural evolution from their previous effort, and a refinement of everything therein, and while the follow-up to Ire Works - Option Paralysis - is also a fantastic album, the band didn’t really manage to capture their own capabilities in such a pure and balanced form again. 

Which brings me to Dissociation - the final record the band will ever release after choosing to quit while they were ahead and avoid jumping the shark. I honestly can’t find the words to praise their decision enough, because it’s a rare occasion in which an incredibly talented group of people look at what they’re doing and what they’ve done, feel happy with their work, and say ‘y’know what? I don’t ever want to release a bad piece of art. We’ve had an excellent run, let’s end it here.’ As a creative, knowing when to stop is a hard thing to do because it’s almost impossible to judge the worth of your work when you’re inside it, and it’s impossible to know whether you’re capable of topping the things you’ve produced until you’ve tried. And it’s so typical of these guys to have the intelligence, dignity, talent, and class to know when to begin and when to end. They’ve not released a single bad song. They’ve released songs I don’t particularly like, but I can’t ever accuse them of releasing a single piece that can’t be accurately described as art. But in reading reviews about Dissociation, I’ve seen it said more than once that the album is a ‘culmination’ of their entire career, and on this point I completely disagree. Dissociation is, in my mind, more of a return to the beginning - the snake latching on to its own tail. With their last couple of releases in mind, their career reads less like an ascending line and more like a bell curve, which is something that I’ll admit disappointed me, but there’s caveats all over the place, so let me start at the start. 

It took me a long time to buy this album. I wasn’t particularly moved by its predecessor, One Of Us Is The Killer, and found myself returning only every to listen to the title song - a modern classic, to be sure - and I found the relentless, unfocused aggression to be something I struggled to connect with; the band’s abrasive anger has always been something I’ve had to fight to enjoy for the same reason that I don’t listen to a lot of hardcore punk, for example. But it was clear after OOUITK that there was a change in the air as they shed a lot of the musical influences that Mike Patton introduced to them way back when they were in-between singers after their first album, and recorded a fantastic and bizarre EP with him. They were returning, at least in my mind, to the place from whence they came - to the complex and brutal hardcore punk roots that had defined their debut studio album Calculating Infinity back in 1999. The difference between Calculating Infinity and Dissocation, however, is that Calculating Infinity had a sense of humour. Dissocation is a dark album. It’s a reeling, unrelenting, blast of white noise. The few experimental electronic touches that remain create an aura of despair, like the sound of a stalker following you down a subterranean tunnel. Melody has all but been wiped out, and the hooks that offered us plebs a peek through the door of the secret club have been more-or-less tossed away here - those few that remain just aren’t that great. Even the now-requisite last-track ‘melodic’ song is an alienating experience - a mournful dirge left right at the very end of the album, through a forest of dark rage that one must traverse in order to find the light, and it rings like a funeral hymn to mark the band’s end. 

This doesn’t make the album bad. But it does set it as far apart from the rest of their work as the gestational ideas of Calculating Infinity do. In other words, if you come to Dissociation looking for the DEP album to end all DEP albums, you’re not likely to find what you’re expecting. Instead, you’re going to find a conscious choice to make an album that stands apart as something other than another Ire Works, or OOUITK, and being a choice, there are consequences to accompany it - one of those being that it’s just not that fun to listen to. It takes the furious energy of their debut album, and the finesse and flawless production of their modern releases, and leaves most of the entertainment factor out of the equation. Even if I wanted to do it (which I don’t, because I fucking hate them), a song-by-song appraisal is hard to do here for the simple fact that tracks one-through-nine are, for all intents and purposes, kind of the same. ‘Song begins with raucous, frenetic riffing and screaming’, ‘song ends with raucous, frenetic riffing and screaming four or five minutes later’. You know exactly the type of DEP song I’m talking about, except take away a lot of the nuance, and what you’ve got left it is Dissociation. And I know for a fact that those last few sentences will drive purists up the wall, but I own every piece of music the band has released for commercial sale and I listen to them on a weekly basis, and I simply cannot penetrate Dissociation’s ironclad aural barrier. 

Perhaps, like all their releases, it is as I said - an onion to unpeel. But I’ve always found one of the most intriguing and endearing aspects of Dillinger to be the fact that no matter what they’re doing, no matter how extreme, or mainstream their sound, one can always immediately see the uniqueness and worth from song to song. 'Miss Machine’ has been compared in reviews to the type of music one would use to force a dictator out of his barricaded palace, but it’s actually a really eclectic and dynamic album - every song is clearly distinct from the last. So whether it’s different riffing, or syncopation, or melody, or tempo, there’s always something that defines even their most blistering tracks as an individual piece with individual inspirations behind the music. And while I feel like this waned a bit in recent releases, Dissociation is the first of their albums that I feel lacks that uniqueness for the largest part. And perhaps it’s a matter of changing internal influences - ex-drummer Chris Pennie once described guitarist and songwriter Ben Weinman as his ‘musical soulmate’, and was largely responsible for much of the electronic influence (among other things) up to and including Ire Works. Both he and his replacement, Gil Sharone, left the band to pursue more diverse musical endeavours. And as much as I revere the work of current drummer Billy Rymer, perhaps he simply didn’t have the same kind of say in the creation of the last three albums? Although none of these three albums can rightly be called bad, they each get progressively less memorable than the last, and say what you will about the band’s fluctuating accessibility, but it’s simply not as easy to discern between nine songs that all largely follow the same formula. 

And that’s what Dissociation is. A collection of songs that largely follow the same formula, with one reasonably interesting penultimate track, and then a funeral dirge. Of the band’s work, it is amongst the least inspiring, and it’s a depressing album, not for its lack of Dillinger’s typical idiosyncratic qualities, but for its utter lack of levity. Dissociation is a lasting reminder of the kind of ravenous energy the band had right until the end, but it’s probably not the kind of thing you put down and feel glad you listened to. 

5/10

[herpronuonsarefemslash]

TEASER - Token Hire

What happens if the Avengers are all women, except for Black Widow Nathaniel “Nat” Romanov?  As if that wasn’t bad enough, they’re all alphas and the gym at Avengers Tower smells fucking delicious.

This story is a possible winner of the patron-only poll on my Patreon which can be found here:  https://www.patreon.com/alephthirteen?fan_landing=true

Nate rolls the jackets sleeves down over the Widow's Stingers, curling back a half-turn to expose the launch tubes. He's up two hours before she needs to be to work. It's only three blocks away now that he's rented a newer, fancier, tinier shoebox of an apartment. Thank God and Stalin's asscrack for his raise when he was promoted to front-row work for SHIELD.

"Incoming call," his cell phone chimes. "Provide voiceprint for Caller ID activation."

"Romanov, Nathaniel Alexei. Codename Black Widow."

"Please provide thumbprint scan to determine status and cycle."

At least when SHIELD HR does this, it's not to be an asshat.

He puts his thumb on the metallic pad on the back of his phone.

"Scanning. Stand by. Psychological type, omega. Gender presentation, male with he/him. Genital type, phallic. Reproductive type, sending/receiving. Sexual orien-"

"That's enough!" he snaps.

"Muting remaining playback. Call begins in three, two, one..."

The projector hooked up to his laptop clicks on. Nikki Fury's face is filling his entire apartment wall and knowing her, she's doing it to be a shit. Make Nick come over and fix the confusing tech for his poor, helpless wife with her eighteen confirmed kills, fuck knows how many ops, and lockers full of clandestine medals.

Maybe half a dozen people know Nick Fury is actually a husband-wife team with a shared nickname, using a shared alias. He tells anyone and they'll kill him and take him off the Secret Santa list, which would really suck.

"Morning, Nat. Just wanted to check in."

He slides the clip into his faithful Tokarev and holsters it on his left thigh. Sure, there are higher tech pistols, manufactured since the late 1970s and based on designs newer than 1947.  Petra and Katja are his oldest friends (for a long time his only friends), the first girls he crushed on, and losing his virginity is a hollow memory compared to the his first kill in the field, looking down these sights.

Besides, one afternoon showing Antonia Stark a good time and she'd probably build a ray gun out of them. The New York omega grape vine says her best qualities are her cock, her cunt, and her get-the-fuck-out gifts after one night stands. Unless Pepper has gone exclusive (betas! so insecure!) Nat probably doesn't need to file a requisition between now and retirement.

"If you thought I wasn't going to show for my first day of work, I assure you I will."

Nikki shakes her head.

"Nat, I'm not in the least bit worried about you. We're putting you on a publicly facing team because we trust you to represent what a SHIELD operative can be, make us cloak and dagger types look good standing next to literal goddesses, tech geniuses, corseted teenage whizkids and whatever you want to call that shapeshifting, wall-ignoring sexbot. I..."

She scrubs her hands over her forehead, then blows out a long, steadying breath.

"Let me preface this by saying you are our absolute best. What I am about to say is in no way a reflec-"

"Director," Nat cuts in. "I'm not some drooling virgin. I can handle an alpha or two on the team. I watch my cycles to the half-hour, I meditate, I have a little black book of people who can heat-buddy me on three hours notice. Soviet-era formulations of suppressant drugs can do damn near anything. I'll keep Toni Stark in her pants. You know that Clarissa and I are more like brother and sister."

"Never let stuffed her quiver, huh?" Nikki teases.

"Once...way before she met her wife."

"Goddamn, is that what happened in Budapest? Oh my god, it is! You're blushing!"

"I was raised on torture, hypothermia drills, and desensitization exercises. I do not blush, Director."

"Uh-huh. Anyway, calling ahead to warn you that we managed to get a full survey of the team, finally. They're all alphas, Nat. Every single one. Thor, for obvious reasons, is hard to get to a hospital. Banner's a pussycat, that's easy. But you can imagine, I'm sure, how much fun our teams had getting a sample from the Hulk to confirm their phenotype. Vision seems to have simply decided 'when in Rome' and fabricated alpha-mimic pheromone glands for herself."

Nat's fingers stop halfway to the second-to-last button on his greatcoat.

"And Wanda is...Wanda. Even if she weren't, with her telepathy...wow."

"Preliminary estimates--and some needling of Magneto--suggest that the Scarlet Witch is so powerful she could re-status every human being on the planet. Poof! Everybody's an alpha. We've asked her not to, pretty please. Just like I asked her to please unfuck the members of the Senate Subcommittee on LGBTQ+ affairs. They're getting sick of having two heads."

"Any word on the X-Men outreach?"

Fury nods.

"Storm's a maybe. The White Queen texted me 'hell yes' but I think Emma just misses nightclubs. No raves down on that spooky magical island of hers. Polaris is a 'maybe' too once she decides if her daddy issues with Magneto are better solved closer or father away. Mystique? Fuck only knows with them. Rogue sorted out some kind of selective inhibitor so she's single and ready to get all that raw play she couldn't before."

"Captain Marvel has a chair pulled out, but for the purposes of this conversation, that's no big deal. She's alpha, sure. But she's over the moon for a pilot she used to serve with. Doing the newlywed bit now that they can ask and tell."

Nat does some quick math.

"So as it stands, five alphas, plus me. Depending on if you count Brit Banner turning into Hulk as five and a half."

"Exactly. Add in the X-Men and it's nine-two. Add Marvel, ten-two. With only two being in exclusive relationships as far as we know. Three, if Toni pulls her head out of her ass about Pepper."

"Two of them cycling a week, most likely. Three if you get your dream team."

"Exactly, Nat."

"Well...fuck."

"I called to warn you that and to say that as long as you don't gun down a bunch of schoolkids? Far as I'm concerned, you're the right man for the job. Do what you gotta do. Fury, out."

[letsprayitwritesitself]

groundhog dave part 11

Davey sat on the side of the bed, like he had done so many times before, and stared at the carpet.

He was tired. That was the worst thing.

Because one thing he knew now was that he had to resist the urge to lay in bed. He had to figure this out, because what happened with Jack the night before was worth breaking out of this thing for, even if it meant he had to think outside the box and refocus his concentration elsewhere. As much as he wanted the answer to this thing to be getting together with Jack, the fact that he’d woken up again on this fucking day told him that there was something else. He knew that he could show Jack that he was deeper than he thought, and he could keep that knowledge in the back of his head. There was clearly something else he needed to do.

The punchline was that as each day passed he felt worse, more tired, in a way less able to inflict whatever change he knew he had to. Even as he stood up, shoving the duvet off the bed, striding over to the window, he thought, not for the first time, that he could just live, just give up and accept this was his existence until - well, he couldn’t live forever, could he? But it was the memory of the night before and the glimmer of hope that the days beyond this one would be so extraordinarily different that forced him to brainstorm, forehead resting against cool window pane, eyes darting over the street between the crowds, what else he could try. 

Because even if he indulged and tried his last version of the day again, telling Jack, contriving a day together, part of the excitement had come from the novelty of it. Not that he would say no to kissing Jack again, but he couldn’t bear the thought it those circumstances becoming routine - what was the point, if it wasn’t leading to anything? Apart from the obvious reason that kissing Jack was fucking awesome, but then would trying it again and again dull the flame, the best thing he’d felt in so long?

Maybe this thing wasn’t about Jack at all. God, he wished it was, but that would be way too kind of the universe. He’d already learned a lesson, that he shouldn’t judge people before knowing them whatever whatever, and he knew that there was an insane reward for achieving this in the form of Jack Kelly actually liking him back - but then, he’d be the first to admit that he could have had more than one lesson to learn. Damn it. 

Plus there was so god damn much to remember. It was like studying for his college finals all over again, but instead of getting an F he got relegated back to 6am February 2nd. Would he remember every single thing he’d said to Jack the day before? He remembered exactly what Jack had said to him, that sweet, sweet I’m yours but they’d spent all day together. It was getting so hard to try to replicate his days exactly, that trying something new almost seemed to him like a relief. But what?

He watched people stream down the street in front of him and with a jolt spotted Jack and Crutchie amongst them, Crutchie’s distinctive blue and orange bobble hat a beacon, and he noticed their journey was considerably slowed by a slew of puffa-clad well-wishers stopping to grab Crutchie for a hug.

Crutchie didn’t dread coming here. He didn’t wait for Groundhog Day to pass, or write it off as a boring work task, he engaged with Punx and the poor bastards who lived here. He got to know people. He did what Davey had been focusing on doing with Jack, but on a huge scale. God, the thought of all that effort made Davey’s fatigued bones ache even more, but he had already sort of come to terms with the fact that fixing this thing wouldn’t be easy. Even if it was a slog, he reasoned with himself, it wasn’t inherently a chore. He was a television producer, talking to new people was his job.

He straightened up, taking a deep breath in. He was going to see Crutchie’s Punxsutawney.

//

‘Join me? Sure! That would be great, Davey.’ Crutchie grinned, because he was a nice guy, but his furrowed brow betrayed his understandable confusion.

'Thanks. I just, y'know. I feel bad that we've come here so much and I don't know anyone.'

'Hey, it's easily done. I'd love to just take an hour or something before driving back to Philly, if you're not in a rush?'

Davey blinked, struggling with the fact that he knew they'd be trapped here by snow, and they had no idea. 'Yeah. Right, of course. We can play it by ear.' 

'What changed?' 

He'd been trying to avoid looking at Jack for as long as he could because he knew that when he did he'd be overcome by memories of the night before, and probably start drooling or crying or worse - but seeing as Jack was about to do a broadcast literally in front of him, that avoidance couldn't last long. He turned to him to reply to his question, breath catching in his throat as he saw how Jack was eyeing him like he knew something was wrong. 

'I was just. Thinking about it. After you guys went out last night - you'd never been here before and you still, y'know, participated. It's nice.'

'Are you... okay?' Jack squinted at him.

'I'm fine.'

'You look kinda tired.'

'I... Didn't sleep great.' I was up late making out with you. Oh God. The way Jack's gaze had dropped to his mouth the night before, how he could literally feel his breath on his lips and then the warmth of his skin under his shirt, all smooth muscle and firm chest, the way he threw his whole self into kissing Davey from the obvious hard open press of his mouth to the way he maneuvered himself into Davey's lap, straddling his thigh, cupping Davey's face and stroking a thumb along his cheek and then his parted lips after they broke apart to catch their breath. And the way he had overwhelmed Davey's senses in a way that he'd almost forgotten how to comprehend, how to imagine - this was all Davey could think about in the cold light of a new February 2nd, Jack standing opposite him, completely oblivious that he was consuming his producer's entire being.

'Nervous about the broadcast? I was a little, about being out of the studio, you know?'

'Yeah. Maybe it's that.' 

Fanfare started. Jack did the presentation perfectly, reciting the words in the same chipper, confident intonation Davey had heard so many times and had kind of grown to like. The broadcast's familiarity was at this point comforting, way nicer than the alarm clock he heard every day - if he had to experience the same thing over and over again, at least it was a beautiful weatherman grinning into the camera. 

As the snow started to fall after the ceremony, Davey spoke up, indulging the exhaustion he felt while trying to make this day into something. 'I really don't feel like trying to fight through a blizzard to get back. I think we should hibernate in the diner and drink ten cups of coffee, what do you guys think?'

'I think you're on to something,' Crutchie grinned as he slung his camera bag over his shoulder. Davey felt like Jack was looking at him but didn't want to check in case he was and eye contact happened. This day was not. About. Jack. And he didn't need memories of the night before affecting his ability to form sentences. 

They headed out of the square with the rest of the crowd and obviously after about a second someone requisitioned Crutchie for a hello, so Jack and Davey walked along, shoulders brushing due to the crowds of people around them. 

'Woulda thought you'd be starting the car soon as the groundhog went home,' Jack chanced, pulling the brim of his woolly hat down.

'I don't know. Me too, I guess.'

'It's nice. I mean. I know I already asked, and you don't have to say - but, are you okay?'

'I'm fine! I’m fine - I kind of had this... realisation, maybe, that Punx is, you know... A place, rather than a burden.'

'Shit, since last night? Bit of a one-eighty, right?'

'Yeah. Weird, I know.'

They ambled along in silence, eyes squinted against the snow, Davey trying to think of where he and Jack actually were at this point - the only things he could think of to say alluded to everything they'd been through - to Davey, everything, but to Jack just a car ride. 

'I just learned the, um -' Jack won, coming up with a conversation topic first. 'The dance for today. These people are really something else.'

'Yeah?' And now Davey could see that this was Jack acting on the part of himself that wanted people to be comfortable, involved, and how incredible that quality in him was. 'How does it go?'

'I mean, I'm not very good at it, yet. But.' He raised his arms over his head, palms flat and facing upwards, and jigged a little, grin spreading across his face. 'Sexy, right?'

'I don't know if that's... the first word I'd use.'

'First word would be sensual, I know.'

'Um...'

'Seductive?'

'Sure. Of course.' You think I'm hot. You said so. Shut up, Davey, are we really thinking about this now?

'Guys!' Crutchie called them over as they reached the entrance to the square. 'This is Race.' The guy standing by him, dark haired, bright-eyed, gave them a quick grin. 'He just moved here. This is Jack and Davey, we're just passing through.'

'What's up, guys.' Race shook their hands, and Davey marvelled at how Crutchie had just met him. Just like that. 

'How long have you been here?' 

'Two days,' He answered Jack's question with a nod. 'Yeah, I start my new gig on Monday.'

'I didn't realise people moved here.' That slipped out before Davey could stop it, but luckily the rest of them laughed. 

'I know. I know - or you have to be like, retiring here, right?'

'Exactly!' 

Race joined them at the diner, where Davey directed them towards the counter rather than the booth table he'd always shared with Jack. Sitting next to Race, he found that was about to start work in the Punxsutawney Spirit's marketing department, and had come from New York for the pleasure. This stumped him.

'From New... You moved from New York to - Really?' He was trying to be more understanding, to try and see why people stayed in Punx, but - New York?

'Yeah, I know. I still can't really believe it, but like - like who says that's the centre of the universe, you know?'

'I mean... Everyone.'

'Right. Okay, sure. Does that mean everyone's gotta live there?' 

'No. You're right - but why Punx?'

'Just, I guess I wanted to see, maybe. I don't know, I think I still kind of know that I can duck away if it doesn't work out, slip back into New York and no-one will have noticed I was gone.'

'The way you said that made it seem like a bad thing.'

'It probably is! Ask me again in a week, I might have... over romanticised this whole thing. I don't know.'

'I kind of see what you mean. Like I don't get it but.'

'They say everyone does it, right? Leaves the city.'

'Yeah. Yeah, maybe.'

He stared over the counter at the the toaster. Crutchie not dreading coming here - that was one thing. But Race had moved here. By choice. No-one had forced him, or paid him. That was a whole new thing. That was something else. 

'Crutchie.' He spoke across Race, ideas floating in his head. 'Do you think there's a feature in that?'

'In what?'

'In, like... People like Race, who move to places like Punx. Maybe even just people who live here.'

'What angle?'

'My angle. The one that always thought small towns were heinous. A feature to like... Show everyone, myself included probably, how there's - beauty in ordinary things.'

Jack stared at him. Crutchie stirred his milkshake thoughtfully. 

'Yeah.' He nodded slowly.

'Yeah?'

'Yeah. I think that's a thing.'

'Jack, would you be part of it?'

'Yeah man, of course.'

'And Crutchie, can you introduce me to people?' Davey pulled a notebook out of his satchel. 'Race, we need your story. Someone who chose Punx - and then, I know the bartender - I know of him, he was born here, his parents came. People like that. Who they are, what they want - can you think of anyone like that?'

'I can think of a bunch!’ 

'Great. This is going to be great.'

//

Davey flopped backwards onto his bed. His head was bursting with information and he felt like he was running on fumes but underneath all that was a distinct, new kind of optimism - like he could see the end in sight. Kissing Jack, or helping those people, he had humoured himself by letting himself think that those might have been the keys to breaking the cycle, but he could see that was self-indulgence. But now - if he could succeed in turning this whole thing into a positive, if he could stop wishing it away? 

He needed one more tomorrow. 

He rolled over on to his stomach and pulled out his notebook, full of scribblings of notes of people that he'd met, why they were worth a segment in the feature he was building in his head. On the next blank page he started to sketch out a plan - he knew that in the morning everything he'd written would have disappeared, but he needed it in front of him.

Writing out instructions for himself to utilise every second of the next day put this whole thing in perspective - if he showed this list to the Davey that drove up, he'd get laughed at. He wrote Jack's name down and paused, pen hanging over paper. 

The Jack situation had been elbowed into the backseat that day as he focused on the Punx situation. They were colleagues, after all, and maybe that was one thing that could wait until they were back in Philly. Damn it.

For the first time he crawled under the covers hoping that he'd wake up on February 2nd, because he was really fucking on to something. 

[nofomoartworld]

Hyperallergic: Critical Distance: Car Seat Headrest, Solange, Danny Brown, Christine and the Queens

As most adolescents across the nation sit in their bedrooms and agonize over the eternal question, what do boys/girls like, some of us have more unfortunate and inconsequential concerns: what do critics like? Immersive soundworlds are one answer, albums with distinct and possibly arbitrary aesthetics ready for induction into alternative canons. Distancing strategies are another, albums that avoid the obvious through either attenuation or throwing a firecracker over the listener’s shoulder and yelling “Look over there!” The four touchstones reviewed below earn their acclaim by participating in the above tendencies. The latter two earn my adoration.

Car Seat Headrest: Teens of Denial (Matador)

Every indie-rock sadboy has his own method of coping with existential depression, and Will Toledo’s involves scale — if marshalled guitar riffs, inspirational choruses, and rather long songs can fill an arena, surely they can crush all those residual negative feelings that drive one to music in the first place. This album is his attempt at epic, infused with the requisite pathos, jangle, and willingness to look silly while making big, serious gestures.

Theoretically the record is animated by the disparity between emotional hugeness and lo-fi sound. Toledo’s melodies are strong, grand, soaring, sincere, as they invite fist-pumping and radiate major-key triumphalism. When he revs his mumble into a yell and slams down with thin, crunchy shards of guitar static splintering every which way, the band rouses, especially on “Vincent,” whose echoey single-string intro sets up an increasingly frantic and jubilant song, and the latter half of “Drunk Drivers/Killer Whales,” when he goes overboard, pleasingly, with the moaning. Elsewhere the anthems fall flat; a roomful of sympathetic young people chanting along with “We are just, we are just, we are just teens of style” in a tune as nostalgically celebratory as this one, or for that matter, the ballad about the unforgiving world but she’s not an unforgiving girl, constitutes a ritual of resigned sentimentality that inadvertently self-congratulates. Corny songs remain so even when played on harsh electric instruments. Toledo’s voice is another problem, even in a genre where lead singers scorn technique — although it clears up when he yells (again, see “Killer Whales”), otherwise there’s a lumpy toad plopped in his throat or perhaps perched in his sinuses. It prevents him from projecting as the guitars deserve.

One could imagine Toledo cleaning/beefing up his sound if given enough label money, but that would corrupt his vision: creaky production, always threatening to crumble apart, is the doomed loser’s hallmark. A second option would be for the guitars to get spikier and angrier as snarl replaces soar. Don’t gulp, now—screeeeeeeeam!

Solange: A Seat at the Table (Saint/Columbia)

On her first release in four years and her first full-length album in eight, Solange Knowles strings a set of hushed neosoul exercises around nine spoken-word interludes. As befits her reputation as the subtle sibling, the resulting music is calm and unexciting, shot through with brief moments of intermittent beauty and prolonged moments of spacey drift.

Don’t think hers is a pop stance: texturally and especially vocally, Solange’s music follows a decade of atmospheric experimentation in R&B. Midtempo percussive clicks, jazzy piano chords, and assorted layers of synth burble produce a constantly percolating dreamscape as magical keyboard swirl flits through the mix and leaves sparkly traces. Her coos and sighs, plus whispery backup from many famous guest singers weaving the collective breathy tapestry, balloon to fill the music’s blank spaces, turning an airy vocal style into airy polyphony.

Individual songs are exquisite: “Where Do We Go” combines piano plodding and melodic swell to fraught effect, and the ostinato violin in the lead single “Cranes in the Sky” cuts through the smoothness and vocal flutter. As a whole the album floats aimlessly. One could speculate about her sister Beyoncé’s long shadow instilling in her a taste for quietude, for avoiding popstar exuberance with diffidence and a shrug. More likely the album’s slightness is calculated as a means to soulfulness. Only music this passively rapt could back the high soars and swoops of her singing, which evokes a free, dreamy, restless spirit in tune with nature while presenting beauty as an abstraction. A firmer set of hooks might present beauty as a concrete attribute.

Faint, sleepy, subtle to the point of indistinction, the album never materializes. Perhaps that’s the appeal; it’s forever receding into an imaginary horizon. Reticence can be its own fixation.

Danny Brown: Atrocity Exhibition (Warp)

Danny Brown’s childish yap and scrunchy, skronky beats have charmed before, but never so charmingly. Perhaps inspired/alarmed by his title’s dystopian resonance, the infamously silly Detroit rapper presents his most consistently thrilling album, rampaging through an imagined hedonistic-fantastical landscape with suitably hyperactive desperation.

Brown’s most delightful quality is transparently insincere remorse. Rappers who depict themselves drinking, fucking, etc., frequently provide disclaimers, likely intended to distinguish them from hordes of mere braggarts: these choices are dangerous, don’t be like me, and so on. Sure enough, in addition to the album title, the lead track announces he’s on a “downward spiral,” and throughout the album he continues making similarly gratuitous remarks about the excesses of his lifestyle. Naturally, he doesn’t mean a word, as the beats and his vocal mood indicate unsullied joy. Brown’s no braggart: where other rappers use hedonistic detail to assert superiority, he enjoys inventing scenarios whose details he finds amusing. “Lines and lines of coke” and the like become infinitely droller when delivered in his shrill cartoon bark, the voice of someone happy to dramatize, and for the record’s duration impersonate, one particular extreme mode of being. Ditto when recited over the twangy riffs, industrial crackles, ominous guitars, skewed piano echoes, percussive bells and looped clicks, obsessive basslines and random squeaks, jittery drum klatches and comic dissonances that drive the record, courtesy of producer Paul White, unified less by any coherent sonic signature than by a muscular spareness of method that elevates Brown’s music from shtick to vision.

Whoever said rappers had to take themselves seriously? Sometimes a giggle does the trick. Giggles can also substitute for middle fingers. Brown knows their adaptability well.

Christine and the Queens: Chaleur Humaine (RAK/123/Smokehouse)

Synthpop–what an excellent simulation of softcore erotica. Released two and a half years ago in France, the tweaked 2016 UK reissue of Christine aka Héloïse Letissier’s debut showcases the potential subtleties in popstar stance and an allegedly simplistic genre.

Whenever pop aesthetes assemble spritzy drum machines under chintzy keyboard hooks plus comforting softer washes of electronic texture to blur the edges and evoke light, one might ask whether the resulting music represents commercialism or eroticism. It’s a misleading question: one is rarely possible without the other. Shiny surfaces, upbeat in mood and extroverted in how they signal product, reveal private feelings and desires whose long shadows are thrown into massive relief by the spotlight’s dazzle. Christine eschews the cheer typically associated with perky electronic music for a caution that feels European partially because her flighty, assured, accented vocals switch off between French and English, partially because she’s committed to ironic modes that don’t negate feeling. Downtempo and fixated on slow, steady burn, her musical euphoria appears when she savors snaky lines of melody, when keyboard textures thwock and ping against your ear’s expectations, when rays of electronic light crisscross and leave the drum machine faintly shaded, when sonic contrast creates a hushed, fragile, hesitant mood. The highlight is “Paradis perdus,” which steals the chorus to Kanye West’s “Heartless” and makes it sound creepier, somehow, performed by a sincere, breathing, flesh-and-blood being over West’s Auto-Tuned original.

Time calls her “the voice of a different generation.” I’ll call her the bearer of a detached but not therefore otherized sensibility. She’s crafted a synthpop record whose obvious pleasures don’t obscure the attenuated ones.

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