#and the television was the most accessible source of information for him

[astralhope]

Astral learning things about the Earth and its culture thanks to television is both hilarious and cute to me.

One of the headcanon that lives in my head rent-free is that, when Astral watches the TV all the night, he remembers everything he saw, and then tell Yuma what he learned, and most of the time those are the most random facts that you can imagine (and while Yuma has to remind him that not everything that is on TV is real, some times he too learns something new).

[realm-sweet-realm]

What do you think the villains like to read?

Giovanni: Giovanni doesn’t have much time to read for leisure, or to keep up with what’s popular that he might like. If he has the time for it, he’ll read whatever is suggested to him by whoever’s around to suggest something. He generally prefers television since his brain gets enough of a workout running his criminal empire, but if he had time off and weren’t getting that, he’d use books to make up the difference.

Maxie: Maxie is well-read. Very well-read. Unfortunately he’s also very set in his ways and prone to interpreting what he reads in a way that confirms his worldview. So yes, he’s read a ton on geology, and yes, he could hold his own with Steven Stone in a debate about rocks, but none of that will convince him that throwing rocket fuel in a volcano is a bad idea. He doesn’t have a ton of time for fiction, but he does like it, especially alternate histories.

Archie: Archie may not be as loud about his intellect as Maxie is, but he’s as well-read on ocean life and ecosystems as Maxie is on geology and land development, and he’s very passionate about it. He’s not as blinded by bias as Maxie (still pretty bad though), but Maxie has a bit more breadth to his knowledge. Archie likes action novels as well, especially post-apocalypse-related ones.

Cyrus: Cyrus researches both for work and for leisure. He’s read a lot about myth and engineering, as well as any information he could access on how other evil teams were run. He’s the type of person to read everything there is to read about very niche aspects of his interests just out of curiosity.

N: it’s a good thing N likes physics, because any fiction he read had to be vetted first so they wouldn’t give him any wrong ideas. He read a lot of math, physics and Pokémon care stuff as a kid while his fiction was being vetted for him. As a young adult, he seems like he has a childlike taste in fiction (lots of middle school adventure books and whatnot), but really he’s just making up for lost time.

Ghetsis: Ghetsis enjoys reading history, in particular anything to do with war or dictatorships. He loves imagining himself as powerful and violent historical figures and thinking about how he could have played their cards differently. He’s also a fan of theatre and likes reading playwrights. Not a fan of very unrealistic genres like fantasy and horror, but so long as it’s realistic, historical fiction is good, too- the more violent the better.

Colress: reads cutting edge scientific journals with his morning coffee. For fiction, science fiction is nice, but he will nit pick all the unscientific parts and try to think of ways he could make it work in reality. To him it’s part of the fun. This makes him either extremely interesting or extremely obnoxious to talk to about it.

Lysandre: Lysandre likes consuming media, including books, and he has very discerning tastes. While his favourites are old classics, he keeps his eye on what are considered to be the best books published that year. Poor-quality or mediocre media, especially if it’s popular, is just another sign that most people aren’t cut out to preserve the world’s beauty.

Guzma: Guzma doesn’t read very much- he’s not bad at it, he just learns better from the internet or practical experience. He has watched a lot of videos on bug Pokémon biology, though- enough that he could carry a conversation about it with a entomologist. Videos or other internet sources are his go-to when he needs to figure out a skill to maintain Po Town, and he has had to learn a lot of things as problems arise. He’s not dumb by any means.

Lusamine: Lusamine is pretty big into escapism. She likes reading fantasy, historical fiction and romance novels and cries over them easily. She also likes magazines about fashion, beauty, interior design and the like. Why can’t the real world be that beautiful?

Rose: speculative fiction. Unfortunately he’s rich and stupid enough that he he thinks he can make some of the ideas in these fiction novels into reality. If it hadn’t been Eternatus, it would have been something else. He’s well-read when it comes to finance, too.

Piers: Piers is self-taught when it comes to both his passions, and as such has read a lot about music and battle strategy. He liked fiction when he was younger, but nowadays, between his obligations as a gym leader, a musician, a leader is Spikemuth and up until recently Marnie’s caretaker, he doesn’t have time to read.

Penny: Manga, and lots of it. Also an avid AO3 user. She’s especially a fan of yuri.

[atopvisenyashill]

Going through your asks, what happens if Littlefinger wins the duel, Brandon slips in the mud or a bird randomly craps in his eyes?

Catelyn is not going to marry him but I am wondering what the fallout would be?

H U H.

Okay so kind of returning to The Themes Here, I'm thinking specifically of this comment from George about feudal structures:

And then there are some things that are just don’t square with history. In some sense I’m trying to respond to that. [For example] the arranged marriage, which you see constantly in the historical fiction and television show, almost always when there’s an arranged marriage, the girl doesn’t want it and rejects it and she runs off with the stable boy instead. This never fucking happened. It just didn’t. There were thousands, tens of thousand, perhaps hundreds of thousands of arranged marriages in the nobility through the thousand years of Middle Ages and people went through with them. That’s how you did it. It wasn’t questioned. Yeah, occasionally you would want someone else, but you wouldn’t run off with the stable boy. And that’s another of my pet peeves about fantasies. The bad authors adopt the class structures of the Middle Ages; where you had the royalty and then you had the nobility and you had the merchant class and then you have the peasants and so forth. But they don’t seem to realize what it actually meant. They have scenes where the spunky peasant girl tells off the pretty prince. The pretty prince would have raped the spunky peasant girl. He would have put her in the stocks and then had garbage thrown at her. You know. I mean, the class structures in places like this had teeth. They had consequences. And people were brought up from their childhood to know their place and to know that duties of their class and the privileges of their class. It was always a source of friction when someone got outside of that thing. And I tried to reflect that.

I think Catelyn is an excellent example of a woman who knows her place BUT is able to navigate within her role incredibly well so she retains access to power and privilege in a way that most women can't in Westeros (and also just, OODLES of good luck, from being acting Lady of Riverrun to hitting the Westerosi jackpot of husbands and good hips) while Petyr is very much someone who doesn't know his place at that point in his life. Oh yes, Petyr is very aware of his place after this fight but that's largely because Brandon shows him what his place is through extreme violence. At this point in time, when he's just an idealistic teenager who sees himself as an equal to the Tullys and Starks despite being like, glorified merchant class? He has no idea the violence that awaits him for pulling this stunt but by the gods is he about to learn.

SO THE PETYR OF IT ALL - I don't think Hoster would straight up murder a teenage boy the way, say, the Lannisters push for Micah, Lady, Nymeria, and even Arya to be harmed but I do think that if he's not in terrible shape after the fight, Hoster has him lashed and put on a boat back to the Fingers post haste. Petyr goes home incredibly injured, sick from the sea and being unable to rest from his physical ordeals, maybe even some formal/informal exiling from the Riverlands or Westeros at large. Hoster is likely aware that having a teenager whipped and put on a boat is dangerous but the thing is the Northerners are on the way and Petyr just humiliated Brandon and the entirety of the North with this little romantic stunt of his; again, not saying Rickard or Brandon would demand Petyr's head, but I think Hoster's fondness for Lord Baelish would make him want this dealt with before the Northern faction shows up for the almost wedding to be like "hey what in the FUCK did your ward just do you shit ass??" Given that Petyr's general life philosophy is "piss me off once, get ready to die during my insane xanatos gambit 10-17 years down the line" I don't think this has a major effect on his personality besides pissing him off a bit more. He'll have to be smarter about building his wealth but no way he earns himself a permanent exile for something this stupid, and once the chaos of the war starts up, I'm sure the Iron Throne is willing to overlook some youthful follies.

THE BRANDON STARK OF IT ALL - This one is a bit more complicated.

Southron Ambitions is hashtag real and Brandon getting his ass handed to him looks so fucking bad for Rickard and also puts a huge dent in the idea of "everyone outside the crownlands intermarries so if Aerys overreaches we have each other's backs" because now Brandon looks like a wuss and Hoster looks like he can't control his vassals.

They can't just throw Catelyn at Ned yet because Hoster seems to be picky as fuck about the marriages of his kids and Ned is second born and functionally useless. Not good enough for Hoster's favorite child (yet).

Brandon himself probably feels humiliated by this whole thing and maybe even wants to put the blame for the loss on Cat or Hoster. I mean we are talking he loses because he like, trips in the mud and Petyr gets the drop on him. Humiliating, unlucky, bitch made behavior lmaooo that just doesn't look good for a man like Brandon.

The Northern faction is, I say again, literally on the way to Riverrun.

I think what happens here is that Brandon runs back to the approaching Northern faction licking his wounds and pride with a note from Hoster that essentially just says "maybe we should renegotiate a little bit" but before they can get to Riverrun, Lyanna disappears. Brandon is already a hothead so with his pride wounded, absolutely he marches straight up to the Red Keep and tells Rhaegar to come out and die and all of that goes more or less the same - maybe if Aerys had heard about Brandon losing the fight, there's some humiliation going on there in addition to the torture of the deaths.

AND FOR THE NEDCAT MARRIAGE OF IT ALL - I think Ned feels a lot more pressure to prove himself here. Which doesn't mean he makes any mistakes - Ned shows himself to have a good head for battle tactics even under pressure - but I do think it puts him politically in a weirder position but perhaps emotionally in a better one. For one thing, Ned escapes the Vale by sneaking through the Fingers where Petyr is from - that might be a problem here. From there, it ripples out when he joins for the Battle of the Bells; perhaps he's a bit more ferocious, takes a few bigger risks in battle in an attempt to make up for Brandon's failure and impress Hoster.

I think it's likely that the war still forces a Cat-Ned marriage but I think the way these two approach the marriage is going to be different than how it goes in canon. For one thing, I think Cat's reputation takes a hit - she'd come across perhaps as a bit ~unruly because her lil boyfriend defeated her fiance (who cares that she asked Petyr not to do it, who cares that she gave Brandon her favor, Petyr humiliated Brandon so now it's Cat's fault) and I also think Catelyn would feel. Idk, not duty bound to be loyal to Petyr after defeating Brandon, but certainly would be feeling something very complicated that Petyr pushed through her no's and then won. Then there's the conflict of not wanting to piss off her new husband. Meanwhile, Ned is probably thinking about how another man won her hand fair and square and how he's essentially stepping on someone else's toes. I think in this situation, Ned's feelings of not being "enough" get split between Brandon - who proves that he wasn't "enough" either - and Petyr, the feudal middle class upstart who proved he IS enough. I think it would be likely that Catelyn and Ned have a more tense relationship for much longer. Possibly Ned doesn't even name Bran after Brandon because he's worried it might seem a lil tacky.

BUT. I DO KIND OF THINK. THERE IS ANOTHER PATH HERE.

I think it's just as likely that to get around this whole awkward issue, Hoster decides that Ned should marry Lysa and that Jon Arryn should marry Cat. That changes everything radically. I don't think Ned would like Lysa's clinginess nor would Lysa appreciate the stern ways of the North. I do not think those two would ever have a happy marriage and I think Lysa still attempts to start something with Petyr. The problem there is that the affair would be conducted compeltely through letters because Ned is not sticking around KL the way Jon Arryn does nor imo would Ned just completely miss the fact that his wife is having an emotional affair with the man who beat his older brother's ass. If Ned finds out, I think it's going to swing him into a PTSD driven, flashback addled depression spiral and remind him way too much of Lyanna/Rhaegar. I'm not totally sure how he'd react to this; Lysa isn't physically having an affair but Ned knows damn well that emotions can turn into actions real quick.

Then we've got Catelyn-Jon Arryn. Now...the subject of children is kinda weird here. I think Lysa's issues with children are partially caused by the forced abortion + Jon's age. It's possible that Cat has an easier time conceiving BUT all this means is she has three or four children with disabilities instead of just one. I think we would see a Cat that has also sunk deeper into her own depression, blaming herself for the Brandon-Petyr debacle, thinking about how she could have married a man born in the same decade as her instead of one older than her father, etc. Maybe it's Catelyn that winds up having an affair with Petyr - though again, it would be harder to carry it out because if Jon is at the capital, I can't see Petyr being able to land Master of Coin or be put in charge of the gold cloaks. I think it becomes difficult for Petyr to gain any foothold at all in fact which means he has to be smarter once again - but we know Petyr is perfectly capable of that.

Keeping in mind all the dozens of ways this ripples through the plot, the biggest change here is that Petyr has to handle the Jon Arryn situation way differently with Cat married to him instead. I think there's a not unlikely chance that Petyr manuevers himself to off Jon Arryn sooner so Cat isn't wasting her fertile years on Jon but keeping them with Petyr because Cat no longer has a healthy, beautiful daughter for Petyr to get fixated on, if she manages to have a daughter at all. I think if he can throw suspicion onto someone else, no one will find it odd that he and Cat remarry, even if they do it in a really tacky way - it's just Been Known that he's holding a torch for her, Jon Arryn is old and ugly, Cat is sexy as fuck, and she's already had a true born heir by Jon Arryn, so really, who cares if she remarries someone beneath her. What that affects is a) when Ned comes South b) How Petyr handles Ned and c) whether Jon and Stannis find out about the incest or not.

Anyways point being if Petyr wins I think this is kind of a hell scenario for the Tully girls. Lysa will either still be miserable with Jon or be miserable with Ned. Catelyn has to carry around the fact that Petyr humiliated her betrothed and caused this huge scandal. Petyr is probably forced to get real creative much sooner if he wants to marry Catelyn.

Although now I'm thinking about Cat still rejecting Petyr for humiliating her, Jon Arryn still getting offed by Petyr, but then Ned comes South and now he's dealing with newly widowed and free Catelyn Tully Arryn and her sickly little kids. It's like a fucked up romance novel omg, give me a second chance romance where Ned and Cat fall in love while he's investigating what killed her husband!!!!!!!!!

[dramitnagpal]

Why Management Professors Should Consider Becoming Independent Directors.

We are concentrating on the benefits of professors and how they possess the necessary skill sets in Part 1. Part 2 will concentrate on benefits for businesses. Benefits for Academics: Real-World Experience: Independent directorships give academics real-world exposure to the business sector, enhancing both their research and teaching while supplementing their theoretical expertise. Professional Development: By providing fresh challenges and educational opportunities, this position can help employees advance their careers and stay up to date on industry standards.

We are concentrating on the benefits of professors and how they possess the necessary skill sets in Part 1. Part 2 will concentrate on benefits for businesses. Benefits for Academics

Real-World Experience: Independent directorships give academics real-world exposure to the business sector, enhancing both their research and teaching while supplementing their theoretical expertise. Professional Development: By providing fresh challenges and educational opportunities, this position can help employees advance their careers and stay up to date on industry standards.

Networking Opportunities: By engaging with leaders in the industry, professors can broaden their professional network and increase their chances of landing joint research projects and better job offers. Institutions can gain access to visiting academics, placements, internships, and other opportunities through the professors’ wider network.

Enhanced Visibility: A professor’s personal brand can be strengthened by serving on a business board, which can increase their profile and draw media attention and speaking engagements. Financial Benefits: Independent directorships frequently include financial benefits, honoring their accomplishments and offering an extra source of income.

Essential Skill Set: Professors hold the majority of the competences required for independent directorship. Research: In order to make well-informed decisions, professors can analyze market data, industry reports, and regulatory developments thanks to their strong research skills. Monitoring: Their experience in academic administration has equipped them with the knowledge and abilities to keep an eye on and evaluate organizational performance, ensuring that the company meets its goals both strategically and operationally. Compliance: Experience with academic ethical standards and regulatory frameworks can help one have a complete understanding of corporate governance and compliance requirements.

Personal Brand: Senior professors at reputable universities frequently have solid professional backgrounds, which helps improve the legitimacy and public perception of the businesses they advise. Strategic Thinking: They are useful in long-term decision-making and strategic planning due to their capacity for information synthesis and trend prediction. Leveraging one’s skills and knowing How to Become an Independent Director can be important measures for anyone hoping to make a big influence in the boardroom. Our educational programs and research projects are designed to give prospective directors the information and abilities they need to govern with moral rectitude and vision. “10 Advantages to Companies by hiring Professors as Independent Directors” is the topic of discussion in Part 2.

Synopsis Dr. Amit Nagpal specializes in brand storytelling, data storytelling, and social media marketing through storytelling. He is a personal branding coach and storytelling coach. His experience in teaching and practicing brand management and media marketing, encompassing television, print, and digital/new media, spans over 25 years. The Amazon bestseller “Personal Branding, Storytelling and Beyond” was co-authored by him. He thinks that tales are the most effective way to create connections and that “Digital is Magical.” His creative methods, which combine conventional wisdom with contemporary research and storytelling trends, make him highly sought after.

[ultra-maha-us]

English Proficiency is an Additional Skill

During the election period only some of the politicians of India raise some issues. For instance, one prime ministerial candidate attracted the voters by talking about the black money. According to him nearly 75 lakh crores of rupees were deposited in foreign banks illegally by some tax evaders. Similarly a former chief minister of India's largest state opined that English and computers be abolished in India. According to him, both English language and computers are responsible for dividing the Indian society into two halves. Most of the citizens are against abolishing English and they were surprised at such a proposal.

In this globalized era, English proficiency has become one of the qualifications for the qualified and CAE enthusiastic people to get a lucrative job. For instance, India is the most important destination for outsourcing contracts for all the developed nations and especially for U.S.A. and the U.K. The out sourcing services like BPO, KPO, LPO, etc earn India a lot of foreign exchange resources. In fact, India is the most preferred destination due to its highly qualified and large English speaking population.

The English language skills are necessary to get a job and settle down abroad. For instance there are many qualified persons who are unhappy with the emoluments in India. In other words, there has been a lot of dissatisfaction among many people in India due to under employment and hence they prefer to work abroad for job satisfaction, which requires good English language skills.

The present day India is different from the ancient days. At present many people have got access to internet, satellite television, etc. Hence many people prefer English language to any other regional language. Day by day the nation is progressing hence many people can easily learn English.

All the developed nations publish the research articles and journals in English. We cannot get access to such latest information if English is abolished in India. Research is essential for the development of any nation in it's scientific and technological fields. The research scholars require a lot of information and data which is available only in English. Thus English language is essential for development of any nation.

English is widely spoken by business people during international trade conferences and trips. English proficiency is even necessary for sportsmen, corporate people, politicians, tourists, etc.

[lethargicsunlight]

'Demon' Chapter 4 : Hosu City Bakugou x Fem!Reader (book 1)

WhEw BOi

First of all, thank you for reading!

I do believe this is the longest chapter yet!

I'm ngl here, this chapter feels kind of choppy to me. If I do a rewrite or go back and do a major edit, I want to learn from this chapter. Let me know if you guys have any opinions on this--I don't want things to be too slow, but I feel like the scenes in this chapter run too fast together. Like a really long-winded run-on sentence.

You can also support my constant need for validation by visiting this fic on my Ao3 account! (Which is here)

Either way, I hope you guys enjoy. (I promise Blasty Bakugou will show up in person soon! <3)

WARNINGS: Feelings of anxiety and panic, mentions of suppressed memories due to trauma, SFW, S

👹🖤⛓🔪💣

In your room, you were sketching the image of the chemical spill escape plan unto some stolen notebook paper.

The plans were found on the back of a janitor's closet door. You came out with a microfiber cloth, to make it look less suspicious--though you were honestly banking on your new reputation with Head Honcho to ensure his lack of interest.

Informing him of Sting's betrayal had both riled him, and impressed him. He had lost an important agent and access to the League of Villains; but considering your success in infiltrating their base and eavesdropping on them, there were other avenues he could take to get what he wanted.

"You're so young.." Head Honcho's voice droned, long and large arm reaching out to graze the top of your hood. "I look forward to seeing your progress Demon. See to your arm, I don't want that injury to affect the results of your mission."

A feeling of violation reaches up and grabs your throat. You choke on it silently, your skin crawling at the closeness of his touch. There's an awful wheezing sound that comes from his lungs, like a machine dying in his chest.

"Yes sir." You bow low, staying until his had recedes.

"Actually.." His silhouette hunches, twisting unnaturally. The screens behind him left only an outline for you to see--and you dared not turn on the low-light enhancers in your mask. It was better to not know. "I'll call off your entourage for this mission. I want to see you do this alone."

You hesitate, digesting the change of plans. The anxiety you felt as your plans go up in smoke is palpable. You can taste the dread like blood on your tongue. "As you wish."

"Ever obedient, my favorite little weapon.."

You hear a crack and it brings you back to the present. You quickly release the pen--you couldn't afford to break it.

If there was one good thing about your presentations with Head Honcho, it was how his sickening presence steeled your resolve. There were times, you loathed to admit, that you enjoyed yourself--making stronger opponents crumble, and the strategic game you played with the other agents as they climb the ladder with you, against you. But there was no mistaking that Head Honcho was a source of evil; stirring chaos and death, cutting short innocent lives on the meagerest of whims. You just wished you knew why.

It had been the longest years of your life to work towards this goal, and despite most of it having been spent somewhere in that base--you felt like you knew so little about him. About what he wanted or why he did anything. He was supposed to be a genius.. You were living a lie and if he knew it, he was just using it.

It would be easier to believe your lies, you realize. To give in, so you wouldn't have to struggle with the anxiety and the reminder of your death swiftly approaching.

But..

"Heroes never give up, you know?" His hand is around yours as you both watch All Might take down villains from outside of a television store. You're clutching your lunch box with your other hand, looking on with big eyes as he reassures you.

"Even when things don't look good, even when things are.. Are bad, like really bad." He keeps on, his hand tightening its grip almost to the point of pain, digits digging into your wrist. You don't say anything.

"That's how I want to be." You drag your eyes from the screen to look at him. It's like he's glowing, his chartreuse hair reflecting sunlight like a beacon of hope. At least in your eyes. "When I become a hero, I'll never give up. Just like him. I'll protect you, and the whole world!"

You're young. But what he says still causes a stirring in your heart, and you're full of admiration for him. You had been, since the day he welcomed you into his perfect life with kindness and unconditional love.

"You're my hero." You whisper, but he doesn't hear it over the cheers of the crowd.

You sigh, allowing the wet droplet to fall from your chin to the floor. Your tear ducts stung from the salt, but you kept them open to dry the tears by force. You were no hero, yet you clung to his beliefs and his wants like you had a future. As if the Hero's Commission would give you a second chance instead of locking you up with Head Honcho's other lackeys. If you survived. Which, you knew you wouldn't.

You really needed to stop living in your head. Maybe then the outside world wouldn't seem so foreign.

Suddenly, there's a voice that dreamily echoes through the wall of your room. Bleeding through the cracks in the concrete, and in from under the door.

It's All Might. He's there to announce the Sports Festival winners, and he's giving a speech. You shouldn't be able to hear it, but it causes you to lurch forward--grabbing the paper and the pen, eagerly stuffing it underneath the mattress then reattaching your mask. You dart out of the door and walk with quick concise steps towards the nearest lounge.

You didn't know why, but you needed to hear it. You needed to see it.

After the one on one matches, you had convinced yourself to leave. The boy, Midoriya, had not won in his last fight--so you thought you'd just, go back to work as usual.

But you wanted to see All Might. And, you wanted to see those other two boys; whose faces had been so determined.  The ones that fought like nothing you'd ever seen. From the door way, you find a pocket of space between the heads and shoulders of dispersing agents where you can see the screen.

There's confetti everywhere as three pedestals rise up in the center of the arena. You can feel your heart throb with unattended affection as the familiar faces become visible. You're proud of them, even though it doesn't make sense to you. You're drawn to the contrasting colors of Todoroki's hair, and he looks as calm and composed as he had the rest of the games. In first place, you see...

Wait, are those... is he chained down? You squint through your mask, even though it won't help you see better. The winner of the festival, Bakugou as you remember--was clearly chained and shackled to a pillar.

He's screaming into All Might's face and you strain to make out the words, but there's no audio being picked up. Probably on purpose.

What would cause him to be so angry? Especially after doing so well?

Something in your gut tells you it was related to his one on one fight with the runner up, Todoroki: son of Endeavor.

...Interesting.

-----

"Please.. Please, I'll do anything--I'll give you everything I've developed, just.."

"Sorry. That's not how this works."

You stand, blades in each hand, confronting a man that didn't look a day over thirty. You could see the picture of his wife and daughter on the fridge behind him. She's wearing the cutest little yellow rainboots.

The room you were in felt uncharacteristically mundane compared to the situation. If you weren't here, time would have moved forward. He would still be working at his desk near the loft's window. You felt ugly, like the monster you were, here to destroy his timeline. His life.

Even if you weren't literally.

"...Fine. Fine," he lifts his hands in full surrender. Not that he'd been holding a weapon before then. There was a security call-in button--but he'd carelessly left it at his desk when he went for another cup of coffee. "Do whatever you have to, just.. just leave them alone."

With the raspy depth of his voice, you didn't have to guess who he was talking about.

"Mm."

His face blanches at the uncertainty of your response. You inwardly cringed, but you had to play this part to perfection.

While Head Honcho had deliberately called off the entourage that was supposed to follow you on this mission--you had no doubt it was a double-edged motive. You could practically feel someone beyond your peripheral, tailing you and watching you complete this mission. It was a test of loyalty; it had to be.

"Lay down your phone and kick it to me." You demand, causing his shoulders to jump. He chokes on a sob before taking the device from his pocket, inserting the code, and laying it on the ground to be kicked in your direction.

You kneel, taking your blade and shoving it through the screen. It shatters, sending bits and pieces sprawling across the tile. Keeping your face turned toward him, your eyes dart to the side to pick through the damage and grab the separated memory and functioning components of the device.

Looking back at him, you can see the despair in his features. No doubt, there were probably thousands of pictures of his life on that memory card. A whole world beyond yours. Birthdays, weddings..

"What now...?" He asks over a lump in his throat. There's a bit of spark left--like he was holding onto the hope he might just survive if he does what you ask.

"Stand still."

He inhales, tightening up his shoulders and becoming rigid in place. Thank goodness, otherwise this would have been much more difficult.

You had moved him into an area of the kitchen where it was blocked off from the windows; but your anxiety had your eyes darting around the environment anyway. Checking the air vent, even though it was far too small for a person. Listening for movement in the rest of the loft. Stilling your body so you could sense the possible vibration of another agent, should they have an enhanced stealth quirk...

But there's nothing you can sense.

----

The plans depicting the layout of Head Honcho's base was attached to the hilt of the blade you had used to incapacitate Fukui Mitsuo in his loft, yet you barely remembered doing it. You were confident your method had been perfect. The left-in blade kept the wound from bleeding out too quickly before the Hero Agency ally would arrive, and he'd barely have a scar to remember it by when he recovered.

It was his pain-filled screams that, perhaps, triggered your mind to suppress the memories as it happened. Stored somewhere far away in your mind, not unlike the years you had spent in the tanks below the base training to become Demon. They were all blotched out; hard to recall even if you meditated on it.

Not that you were in the mood to try it.

Head Honcho had contacted you while en route back to the base. There was a 'disturbance' in Hosu he wanted you to 'check out'. Those were unusual words coming from him, but it raised your spirits--for now, it seemed like you had passed the test.

Though, while you took a minute to rest beneath a bullet train underpass on the outskirts of Musutafu; you heard the distinctive jingle of the News as it was cast on a large advertisement monitor. Before the couple of announcers could even begin their lines, you felt your stomach drop.

In the greenscreen backdrop, there's distinctive imagery--and in the headline:

'Hero Killer Stain, Possible Suspect in Hero Attack on Ingenium in Hosu City.'

You listen to the whole story before getting up to leave. It had happened the day of the Sports Festival, and Ingenium was now in the hospital with injuries he would not completely recover from. It was clear at this point that Head Honcho had been referring to this event, though why he wanted you there was still beyond your comprehension.

There seemed to be some form of interaction between him, the League of Villains, and Stain, that you were simply not privy to.

You suppress a jolt as a vibration erupts from one of your pockets. You pull out the communication device, and written on the screen is a series of digits. Location coordinates. Next to that: stay hidden.

As if he had to tell you that.

---

Another night, another city.

You had never been to Hosu before.

Though, as you traversed the crowded back streets and darker alleys--it looked just like any other city. Between the concrete and brick and windows and advertisements, you could scarcely make out where old construction met new. There was a timelessness to the blocky architecture. Boring, but it was something to witness, to appreciate about a new location. You would probably never see it in the daylight.

Yet as your mind drifted to the moment you knew your life would end, it wasn't the cities that you regretted having not known. More the ocean; or rice fields or lake houses and prairies.

When you begin to close in on the location's coordinates, you think better of going to the spot directly. Instead you parkour your way up along windows and downspouts in order to reach the flattened roof tops--though you stop short, eyes peering in through a pig spout in a brick fascia.

There are figures in the distance.

Two figures. You can't make out any major details, but you can distinctly remember the posture and height of the two you had spied on previously during your visit to the League of Villains bar. And they're facing this direction.

Not good.

You descend quickly back down to the street--if they weren't here, that meant something else was about to be. It sends a streak of panic through your chest; it could be anything. Maybe a bomb.

Maybe you had failed the test, and this was Head Honcho's way of getting rid of you--

As though on cue, there's a loud pop and the sound of squealing metal in the distance. Screams erupt from the street you stayed parallel to as you made your way around, heading in the direction of Shigaraki and his henchman in a full out run. What had been a quiet night suddenly turned thunderous, as the ward descended into chaos.

Making it back up to a roof top, you got a better look at the scene; and it was terrifying.

Nomus. Plural. Attacking everything that moved--appearing in all shapes, sizes, and colors. It causes you to take an involuntary step back... A woman's shrill cry sent ice through your body.

It wasn't the shear terror of seeing the monstrosities that caused you to become frozen in place. It was your own mind--reminding you--that you couldn't do anything about it. You couldn't help. You couldn't. Your mission would be in jeopardy.

You clench your teeth and start moving again. Damn them.. damn them!

"RRRRRAAAGH!"  An unholy screech has you skidding to a halt on the gravel of he roof, sending your butt to the ground. From over the edge, a Nomu hosting reptilian wings spirals up into the air and spots you, lifeless eyes focusing a mere moment before it plunges in your direction.

"Fuck,"  You roll, barely managing to get yourself back up again before a wing is jabbed into the concrete and leaving it damaged in the place your calves had just been.

You leap backwards, pulling out a blade to swipe as the next wing comes at you--but the blade bounces off. "Wha--!" The second wing comes back faster than you can retaliate, knocking directly into your chest and throwing you from the roof top.

There's a well placed awning that breaks your fall. It crushes and flattens beneath you, following you to the asphalt--but it slowed your descent enough that you stayed conscious. You gasp, but the air had been knocked from your lungs so forcefully, they felt unable to extend. The ribbing of the awning tears through the fabric and begins to jab at your back, causing you to move despite the lack of breath.

"GrrRAAGHH!"

Without even daring to look up, you twist back unto the ground and roll close to the building and use a second awning to shield you from the monster's vision. You wait, resisting the need to wheeze--

It's heavy wing beats are loud at first and send your heart into a panic.. but after a few seconds, the sound subsides. It seemed to be going elsewhere.

You sputter into a cough, now wheezing and gasping to regain your breath. You noted the smell of smoke in the air, and looking at the sky, you could see the faint glow of a fire nearby. The distant shouting of someone finally taking action--heroes no doubt--gives you a little bit of hope.

You swallow, rising from the ground with your hand braced against the wall..

What now?

Going after the League of Villains, after that? Not a chance. You would die. You were horribly outmatched, no matter how much they pissed you off. You hadn't forgotten the fight between All Might and the Nomu during the 'USJ Incident', its just that you were naïve enough to think these new ones wouldn't be that strong or resistant. Stupid.

Seeing as how the rooftops are off limits, you begin to tread on foot in the villains' direction again anyway. It was probably the safest place to be, and the only one where you might get useful information to win over Head Honcho again.

Carefully slinking back into shadows, you begin to make haste despite the throbbing in your left side. You could move through the pain; this was nothing. Annoying, but you would take bruised bones and jarred joints over cuts and poison any day.

Above you, there's a flash of.. green?

You stop, watching as a figure zig-zagged through the upper part of the alley; followed by a trail of blue-tinted green lightning. They stop at the corner of an apartment roof, and through the clothes lines you can just see their features..

Midoriya? What was the boy from U.A. doing here?!

[nobodysuspectsthebutterfly]

Hello! If you don't mind me asking, are you planning on watching House of the Dragon? I'm personally unsure about it. I was cautiously optimistic about it since D&D are not involved, but the recent casting news have been ugh disappointing imo. What do you think?

Hey anon! Sorry to say I kind of mind you asking because my inbox is still closed (to everyone except my secret Santas, which is why the ask page is accessible at all), but then I realized it’s possible if you’re on the mobile app only, you haven’t seen said note in my askbox, or my FAQ, or anything of the sort. And with older metas of mine being reblogged recently, it’s possible you may be confused. (I hope you’re on mobile only and not just ignoring my requests.) So I wanted to inform you of that... but also, y’know, I kind of wanted to make a post about the HotD cast anyway? And this ask is as good a prompt as any... so, you’re lucky, but please don’t push your luck. ;)

So, straight up: I currently have no plans to watch House of the Dragon. HBO is not getting any of my goddamn money, I don’t trust like that. And hunting down illegal livestreaming sites is a pain in the ass and I regret ever doing it for GoT, as well as regretting getting drunk every weekend enough to dampen my senses to ever tolerate that show. Yeah it’s different showrunners and writers, I know. It’s still (mostly) the same executives at HBO and even if the pervert producer is gone (or is he?), you know they still just want to sell sex and violence and dragons to an audience that thinks fantasy is for geeks.

Also, considering that Fire & Blood’s story of Dance of the Dragons has very little actual narrative or dialogue, and the historical record is deliberately untrustworthy, that gives them pretty much full rein to do whatever they like with the story and characterization and words without even being slightly obliged to GRRM at all. Furthermore, since the story is wholly political with virtually none of the magical side of ASOIAF (excepting dragons), and honestly does not have much in the way of themes or depth that main ASOIAF or even D&E has, I think it will be very hard for an adaptation to show even those brief sparks of quality that used to make me wistful GoT couldn’t be that good all the time and eventually just made me frustrated and depressed. Note I do like the history and characters of the Dance despite myself, despite its many many many textual issues, but I don’t need to see an adaptation, I have a very visual imagination. I don’t watch a lot of television to begin with, I don’t see why I should start again with this.

However, I’m not going to avoid spoilers or discussion, and I’ll probably follow the show the tumblr way, through gifsets and video clips and people bitching on their blogs etc. If, somehow, by some miracle of good screenwriting and acting, the show manages to transcend its source material, I’m sure I will be informed. And then, if and only if then, I may try watching. (Without, of course, giving HBO any of my goddamn money.) We shall see.

(Though I certainly don’t know why anyone in Targ standom would ever watch a Dance adaptation considering almost every Targaryen and everyone else in the story is terrible except Helaena and the kids, and considering how the story ends, unless y’all are gluttons for punishment? (I do not comprehend hatewatching, sorry.) It’ll probably be fun at first to see the adventures of those “precious silver douchebags” (to borrow a friend’s tag), but eventually rocks fall, everyone dies, including the girlboss you know you’ll hope the story will be changed enough that she succeeds. Just letting you know now, she won’t.)

That said. I’ve been following the casting news and I think the hate/fear/wild screaming is entirely overblown. Yeah, I know, but wait, just listen. On Friday I officially welcomed @naomimakesart to the “favorite character is now played by an actor who looks nothing like most fanart and is mostly known for wildly different roles” club. I still remember that day in September 2009 when my brother texted me “yarp”... and that right there is the thing. Yeah. Rory McCann looks very little like most pre-GoT Sandor fanart... but many fans grew to love him anyway. (There are some who never did, of course. And yeah the character went off the rails by the end, but truly, who didn’t. Having seen his audition, having spoken to him and heard him wistfully talk about book scenes he loved, I’m convinced if Rory had only been given Sandor’s actual scenes and such, he would’ve killed it. Sigh. Deep, deep sigh.)

And Rory isn’t the only one. Neither of the actors for Jaime and Cersei were considered “beautiful” enough at first. I recall very clearly people bitching about Nikolaj Coster-Waldau (about his nose particularly?) because they had wanted Tarzan-era Travis Fimmel to be Jaime. (Seeing people bitch because current-Fimmel isn’t playing Daemon made me laugh out loud for both BEYONCE?! meme -type “why would you ever cast him omg he doesn’t fit my headcanon Daemon at all”, and amazing amounts of fandom flashbacks.) Lena Headey was “too square-jawed”, “too mean-looking” (since at the beginning you should never be able to guess she’s evil), “too dark-complected”, “too mannish”, not at all attractive enough. (Tricia Helfer was the most common “but I wanted” for Cersei, btw.) And of course “they don’t remotely look like twins, ugh!” Note, there’s receipts for all of this, none of it is made up. (Unfortunately.) Those two actors are just the ones whose casting wank I recall most clearly, particularly because oh how the turn tables.

Also. You know, there’s a post with Matt Smith and Mark Simonetti’s TWOIAF Daemon going around with shrieks of horror... and I’m finding it maddening in a “am I crazy? am I  the crazy one???” way, because Matt looks like the painting. Their features are not that dissimilar.

Same deepset eyes. Same cheekbones of doom. Same thin lips. Same protruding chin. Same high forehead. Same invsible eyebrows ffs. Matt has a squarer jaw, and a longer more rectangular face, and a wider nose, but considering that Daemon’s features are not described in the text, and this is the only official ASOIAF artwork that shows Daemon’s face straight on, I can for sure see why he was probably shortlisted to begin with. And that’s not even getting into to his role in The Crown, which I’ve heard is very well played with politics and palace intrigue... and if you doubt Smith can play seductive/roguish and/or evil (depending on how you LARP as a Westeros historian), or look good with long hair... well. I do not want to watch the movie, but this trailer is disturbingly enlightening.

And as for Rhaenyra... y’all know this show is starting at the beginning of the story, right? When she’s a teenager? Not a voluptuous MILF? Yeah, Emma D’Arcy doesn’t look like a Magali Villeneueve painting (though who does, good lord), but you know who she does look remarkably like? Harry Lloyd.

Same jawline. Same nose. Same thin lips. Same sharp cheekbones. Notably, same kind of sharp cheekbones and deep-set eyes as Matt Smith. HBO evidently has a concept of a “Targaryen look” that’s a little bit quirkier than supermodel-Greek statue-gods on earth, yeah, fine. But it’s consistent, and they look like family, and that-- that is good casting.

And yeah, in a few months to a year or so, you’ll see them in costume and wigs and makeup, you’ll see them in motion and speaking lines, and go Oh. That’s different. Never mind. And while people will make fanart of the show depictions of the characters and those will probalby get popular, they’ll also keep doing fanart of their pre-show headcanons, and those too will be popular. (God knows when I draw or visualize book!Sandor, Rory does not come to mind, lol.) Either way, there’s no reason to panic. We’ll live.

(Though will we live well? Got to wait on the writing and showrunning for that, alas.)

[coreastories]

Modern Royals: Meet Tae Eul, the mysterious new Queen of Corea

Jeong Tae Eul, 30, married the King of Corea in July 2020 

The wedding followed Corea’s tradition of privacy for its royal family, with no photos released by the Royal Public Affairs Office 

We await the family photo instead, when the royal court publishes an official photograph showing off the royal heir. This photo is then updated into school textbooks across the country. 

The new queen has since made appearances, accompanying the king to small events in Corea, mostly in the academic field (the King of Corea’s love for math and sciences is well-documented) and for children’s causes  

The engagement shocked the country. Unlike the usual press conferences, the king declared the future queen in one of the capital’s streets, while riding to battle, just before literally cutting down supporters of the country’s most notorious traitor, former Prince Imperial Geum, Lee Lim

Real-life fairy tales still exist. Everyone around the world is charmed by this queen and her unique origin. She is not a celebrity nor a well-known beauty on campus, catwalk, or television who caught a royal’s eye. She’s a former detective, a lieutenant in Jongno. 

Corea’s Royal Public Affairs Office seems to prefer to let the country and the world speculate the rest. How she met the king, how they fell in love-- these are all still shrouded in mystery. 

The engagement was thus “announced” in early April. No further announcements followed until July when Corea rejoiced that their king, 33, was finally getting married. 

Unlike other current royals his age, the king grew up before the country’s eyes as king, not as prince. In tragic circumstances, he became the youngest reigning monarch of the modern world at age 8, until King Oyo of Uganda was crowned in 1995 at age 3. 

Asked about the palace’s traditionally strict reticence on the wedding, Corean citizens just shrug and say they’re happy to see the king and queen at events instead. 

Comments about the new queen are consistent. 

“They look really happy.”   “She seems very kind and warm.”  “We don’t really care about her history. The political parties want to dig it up because they want to know whose side she’d be on.” 

The king traditionally reads to children every month, and the queen has since joined him. Members of the media always try to get the kids to ask about the royal couple’s romance, but the king and queen skillfully deflect the questions with entertaining distractions, like what the king cooked for the queen that day, or the queen slowly filling the king’s dressing room with plants.  

The police of Jongno are also tight-lipped about their former colleague. Not a single source can be found among their ranks. The only comment anyone could get is that they’re unanimous in their love for their new queen. 

Speculation points to the king and queen’s whirlwind romance starting last year in October 2019, when the king repeatedly disappeared "in his study,” a common occurrence whenever the king was absorbed in a mathematical problem. 

In retrospect, it’s now apparent these disappearances might have involved the re-investigation-- and subsequent capture and execution-- of Lee Lim’s followers. Lee Lim, former Prince Imperial Geum, was executed in 1994, the current king’s uncle and half-brother to the previous king, who was murdered in Lee Lim’s attempted coup. 

(In full discretion, all unofficial press coverage of the Royal Court of Corea is requested to keep discussion of the betrayal in the royal family to a minimum. For more information, please visit the Royal Public Affairs Office website).

The queen being a detective at the time, this is the most plausible theory on the start of the royal romance. 

Born on May 27, 1990, the queen is 30 years old. 

In most photos, she doesn’t look a day over 20. Paparazzi and press alike are addicted to capturing that fresh, youthful face, and she looks even younger due to her very casual style. 

In a rare packet released from the Royal Public Affairs Office, we learn that the queen often chooses pieces from Chanel, Isabel Marant, Andersson Bell, Zimmerman, Ralph Lauren, Time and Uniqlo, among a large variety of designers and brands, at various price points. 

Corean citizens believe that this statement from the palace was to challenge the fashion industry to produce more accessible pieces, and to encourage the youth to aspire for comfort rather than luxury. 

It’s worth noting that Corea, with the 4th highest GDP in the world, is a huge market for haute couture. However, if you walk around the wealthiest neighborhoods and look at the high society photos in the papers, you’ll observe more relaxed, understated elegance as the current style. 

Loose or simply done hair, luxury pieces dressed down with more casual items, minimal jewelry. 

That’s the influence of the queen. With other female royals of the world perpetually in dresses, suits and hats, this author finds the queen of Corea even lovelier. 

We breathlessly await whatever crumbs the Royal Public Affairs Office deigns to give us. 

-----------------------------------------

(Yeah, I’m crazy) 

This is supposed to be a Daily Mail article. And yes, this article is from the future when everything’s all happy. Dammit. 

I’m now so scared about the finale so I’m distracting myself with this. 

Clickbaity Daily Mail title. Check. 

Kim Go Eun in her prettiest, “candid” photos. Check. 

No mention of Prince Buyeong’s death, since Gon might have fixed that. 

(Have you noticed Tae-Eul has a lot of plants in her room and in their living room too?) 

There are so many other gorgeous photos, but I picked the ones from events, or ones that look like it’s taken from afar by telephoto lenses haha (like the one where she’s wearing that soft white dress in the second collage). 

When they do a photoshoot, I hope it’s not overly styled. I don’t want the Vogue treatment. I just want them to look royal and happy. In other words, I hope they have photos I can use and say it’s from the Royal Public Affairs Office  hahahahahahahaha. 

[mydearfortune]

Love in a mist

@meroniaevent day 3: spring

Sorry for being this late. I didn't plan to write a whole fic for it but it got out of hand and here we are. Enjoy :3

AO3

Sumary: It's still cold outside, but the buds of spring have begun to sprout.

Near wakes up to the sound of the morning broadcast. Strange feelings of nostagia occupy him. They never need to check the news on the television, L has access to information sources from all over the world. They never need this television in the first place, he has those specialized for his job, this is one of the properties go with this house they bought and Near doesn't bother to remove it. But the sound has something familiar. How long has it been since the last time they heard something playing on the screen? Now after years of living together in this cottage by the lake, previous memories at Wammy House feel so old and rusty.

Little clanking noise can be heard from the kitchen. Near leaves the TV on, and makes way out of the bedroom. Mello is preparing breakfast with chocolate in his mouth. Some sausages have been plated on the table, along side another bar of chocolate, and a fleshly-picked flower placed in a glass bottle.

Near pauses at the flower. Snow has stopped for a few weeks now, but it's cold outside and Near doubts any buds of spring have begun to sprout. Yet the flower is lively vivid before his eyes, spreading its blue petals as it blooms. He sits down and doesn't ask what is it or what it's for, silently observes it while waiting for Mello.

Nigella damascena, common name "love-in-a-mist". Native to southern Europe, north Africa and southwest Asia, can be found on neglected, damp patches of land. Grows to 20–50 cm tall, with pinnately divided, thread-like, alternate leaves. The flowers are most commonly different shades of blue. Mello probably chose it on purpose, the flower called love in a mist means perplexity in flower language. "You puzzle me", it says.

They exchange small touches here and there, none of them speak about the flower and Mello leaves after breakfast. It’s strange how their love work, as strange as how Mello manange to pick a love in a mist when spring has yet to come, Near muses, but then stops himself from thinking further. He has given up on analyzing Mello. Mello doesn't like being analyzed by anyone, he despise those "all-seeing dark eyes", as how Matt described in a conversation Near overheard back then when they were at Wammy's. This is just a flower, Near decides and tries not to overthink. He wants to extinguish the idea of know more about it, or Mello’s purpose. It’s dangerous because he has to do the one thing Mello most hates. And it’s not worth, risking this peaceful life to do so.

__________

It’s late summer, the season of love in a mist. The flower they had in the bottle has long withered and Near threw it down the lake, but its after-image comes back to life inside his head after months of forgotten. He has never taken a step out of his house but he gives it a try and talk to some locals. They don’t help much though, beside confirming him that there’s no love in a mist growing in the area. Near returns home after a walk in the forest, an envelope in their suppose-to-be-emty mail box greets him.

The successor from the first generation sent them a handmade postcard, spilled in red liquid. Half jam half blood, must be some unfortunate animals, he examines while Mello amusingly fliping it backward and forward. How fast of him. The news came five days ago, Beyond has been granted amnesty. Kira had B's face and name but couldn't kill him. Death Note did give him a heart attack, but B recovered. He isn’t a complete human afterall. His status in Wammy House files marks as "Deceased", Watari was neglectful when it came to failed products and L was busy with his new interest. Near wonders if it's worth spending twenty years in prison for someone who died chasing the moon.

Mello goes downtown and they have a drink. Near doesn't join them. They talk to B in different manners, on different subjects, with different points of view. Both of them prefer to avoid clashing their differences, given it ended up with nothing good in the past.

Mello rushes to their bed and is dead asleep the momment he returns. Near assume they have a good time, but B never satisfy with Mello’s side of the story. He knows B would come for him and keeps the kitchen light on, waits for B crawling up one of the windows. They stay up until 2am. B loves the game they played and feeding him with their own old stories so he would shut up and leave them alone is tiresome. Near doesn’t want to remember that time. He made mistakes, terrible mistakes. He underestimated Kira. He thought Mello was dead and therefore didn't want to open the LABB Cases paper they got from Mello's hide-out. He missed out Mello's message hidden in it. By time Near was able to find Mello again, four years had been wasted. For all those mistakes, it's overwhelming that the game ended and they both settled down.

"You know both of you can never settle, Nate."

B laughs and disappears into the dark forest as he leaves, waving hand holding the copy of his case written by Mello. Near turns off the light and returns to where the other is sleeping. He lets himself fall heavily on their bed, not expecting a slightest move from his dearest. Mello’s hand goes for his hair, he is awake. It’s a humid night and their clothes come off easily. Near’s mind wanders in the land of mist as they start kissing. Their love, the flower means it. Love in a mist. He can feel the shapes of it, but he can’t see anything clear. Should he try and see what is there? Near hesitates.

He remembers times when he received such anger and hatred for knowing what Mello would do and what Mello would not. He remembers the cold gun against his head, seconds after he said he valued Mello action. He was genuinely grateful, but Mello has always let words from Near sieve through his inferiority-powered filter, and nothing affectionate remain. Near rarely show any clear emotion in his tone of speaking and that make it worse. Any effort of knowing Mello turns into gloatings about how Near see through him inside Mello’s head, that’s why he chose to stop making effort. But it’s has been a while since then, they are close for long enough, has anything changed? Is it fine trying to understand Mello now? Beause he wants to know.

Near has to be careful. He can't risk throwing this life away. This is what he has ever wanted, to be with Mello. To be able to touch him and hold him. To feel his warmth and breath, to feel Mello alive and feel alive. One wrong decision and everything would be destroyed. How did Mello fall for him shouldn't be so important at this rate, but Near wants to know.

His head fill with numb from where their skin meets. Mello gave him a flower, a signal that it’s the right time, is it? Does Mello want him to know? “You puzzle me.” “You puzzle me too.” Near replies himself. He wants to know.

"How did you find that flower here in February?" Near whispers, as if he afraid Mello would hear it. As if it’s a wrong decision. Mello turns to him with a smile.

“Wait until next year. I’ll show you.”

__________

Near wakes to the sound of morning broadcast. Strange feelings of nostagia occupy him. Mello is standing next to the television, waiting him to get up. It’s was this day last year, wasn’t it? The day Near saw their love in a mist.

Their boat travels across the lake. The fog makes it hard to know the direction, but Mello knows where he’s going. Near shivers when a gust of wind blows by.

“I want to take you to the other side of the lake, where the buds sprout and become flowers. I want you to understand.” Mello looks at him, hand fixing his white hair.

“I want to understand as well. You didn’t let me in the past.”

“It wasn’t the right time in the past. The winter was cold and we built fortress to hide ourselves in. My fortress wasn’t a very hospitable one. And the winter become colder, the sun was gone. I had to built a bigger fortress, supporting my ego from falling apart. No one in, no one out. I didn’t like it when you knocked on my door back then. I wouldn’t like it now, but I’m living in a cottage. The fortress has long gone. I left when the snow stopped, winter wasn’t over and it’s still cold outside, but the buds of spring had begun to sprout. I found them, my love in a mist.”

They arrive at the shore. Bushes of love in a mist blooming before their eyes, lively and vivid, spreading their blue petals like diamond. Mello reaches his hand out to pick one of them.

“I was also cluecless of how I fell for you. It baffled me and I don’t want you to be the first one to find out like you always are. I want to discover it myself and share it with you. Takes years, but it comes out beautiful.”

Near stares the flower. “They don’t grow in this area, they don’t bloom in spring.” He should be satisfied with Mello’s answer, he should have said something nicer, but he wants to fully understand it, to fully understand Mello. He knows the process, but it’s impossible to start it considering the plant’s nature, Mello’s nature.

“I can make the impossible happen. You are a part of how this happened.”

“You mean we can make the impossible happen?”

“You said it yourself before you even have my permission to do so, and now you are asking me?”

Near replies with a smile. Was Mello there hearing when he declared? Toghether we are… together we can… Some memories flash through his mind. Mello pulls him closer and they hug. It’s a cold morning but they are warm in each other arms, their clothes may come off easily. They wouldn’t want to tumble down into the water but everything else shouldn't be so important at this rate. The buds sprouted. Spring is here.

[recentanimenews]

FEATURE: The 6 Best Books On The History Of Manga And Anime

  Say you’re a fan of anime and manga who’s looking to learn more about history or craft. Where do you begin? There’s whatever insight you can glean from the work itself, of course. There’s also a good amount of information available online, from animation blogs to translated manga interviews to personal pieces. But when all else fails, turn to the library. Here are some excellent nonfiction books on the manga and anime industry that I’d recommend to just about anybody. I’ve also read at least sections of every book on this list, so you have my guarantee of their quality!

  Image via Penguin Random House

  Pure Invention: How Japan's Pop Culture Conquered the World reaches beyond manga and anime to encompass Japanese pop culture post World War II. But there are plenty of stories in here that fans of anime and manga might find fascinating: 

  The toy car that inspired top developers at Nintendo

How the karaoke machine led directly to idol culture, as music producers sought to produce music that ordinary people could sing

The manga-obsessed student radicals of the 1960s, many of whom came to work on later anime projects like Mobile Suit Gundam

  Author Matt Alt’s choice of interviewees and attention to detail marks Pure Invention as one of the best of its kind. If you’re a curious reader looking for an accessible (and recent!) popular history, I highly recommend this book.

  Image via Bloomsbury.com

  For fans abroad, the history of anime begins with the airing of Osamu Tezuka’s Astro Boy on Japanese television. But this wasn’t enough for Jonathan Clements, a long-time anime and manga scholar who continues to blog on Schoolgirl Milky Crisis. His academic text Anime: A History begins in the 1910s, 50 years before the airing of Astro Boy, in fact, Astro Boy only appears halfway through the book! Clements is concerned not just with the medium of anime itself, but the cultural traditions, historical events, and individual people that brought it into existence.

  One of the greatest obstacles standing in the way of English-speakers seeking to understand the history of Japanese animation — besides, as Clements notes, the haphazard nature of even those resources available in Japanese — is the language barrier. Online writers at sites such as Sakugablog have done fantastic work in making some of this information accessible, but those same writers would be the first to acknowledge there’s still plenty we don’t know. Anime: A History synthesizes countless Japanese-language source texts and interviews about the history of animation, yet Clements is careful to acknowledge that the testimony of individual actors within the industry must be weighed against both their own agenda and the words of others. While Anime: A History would be a valuable text if it was nothing more than a synthesis, Clements’ ambition to build a coherent history of Japanese animation from a production standpoint that thoroughly examines its subject matter and context from all angles is what makes it essential.

  Image via Stone Bridge Press

  Jonathan Clements collaborated with equally prestigious anime and manga scholar Helen McCarthy to produce The Anime Encyclopedia, whose third edition was published in 2015. It’s an enormous text (over a thousand pages long!) that covers everything from summaries and critical appraisals of popular titles to specific themes and tropes to nuggets of cultural history and influence. If I were to criticize this project, I would say that recent anime writing outside the United States exposes The Anime Encyclopedia’s biases; for instance, the magical girl series Ojamajo Doremi only merits a few paragraphs despite its status as a beloved children's series in Japan. Keeping that in mind, it’s an impressive resource that is great fun to browse (and to disagree with)!

  Image via j-novel club

  Mari Okada is one of the most prolific and influential anime writers of the past decade. She’s worked on adaptations, original projects like Anohana: The Flower We Saw That Day and KIZNAIVER, and even directed her own films. In her memoir, From Truant to Anime Screenwriter, Okada frankly discusses her personal struggles: her fraught relationship with her mother, her years as a young student when she couldn’t bring herself to attend class, and the process by which she gathered her courage to touch upon her personal experiences in her work. There are chapters of this book that wouldn’t be out of place in an Okada-written drama, which I suppose is the point.

  Okada’s memoir is in part a testament to her work ethic and her willingness to tackle any challenge no matter how difficult or annoying it is. But it’s also a rosetta stone for her work: not just in how it overlaps with her personal life, but in its emphasis on the importance of communication despite how difficult it can be to voice even simple feelings. Whether you’re a fan of Okada or not, I found this to be a great resource for writers nervous of the fraught boundary between fiction and personal experience or for readers who want to know what makes Okada’s work so distinct.

  Image via Stone Bridge Press

  Frederik Schodt is one of manga criticism’s greatest elder statesmen. His book Manga! Manga! put him on the map, not only for its editorial content but also for its translated excerpts of Japanese comics — including what would be, for years, the only available English chapter of Rose of Versailles! Yet that book was published in 1983 and sections can’t help but read as dated now. So I’m recommending the sequel here, 1996’s Dreamland Japan. 

  Like its predecessor, much of Dreamland Japan is devoted to detailing Schodt’s theories as to what manga is and how it works. But the sections of the book I personally find most valuable are the profiles where Schodt writes at length about specific manga artists he either personally enjoys or believes to embody a specific genre unique to manga. The freakish kitsch of Suehiro Maruo; Ryoko Yamagishi’s historical epic Hi Izuru Tokoro no Tenshi (Emperor of the Land of the Rising Sun); and alternative artists like Kazuichi Hanawa and Shungicu Uchida. These chapters stand as a stark reminder that despite the recent popularity of manga in the United States, many fantastic comics remain completely unknown to most English-speaking audiences.

  Image via ComiPress

  Finally, there’s Udagawa Takeo’s Manga Zombie! Translated into English by John Gallagher, it’s an eccentric and rewarding text that profiles several avant-garde manga artists from the ‘60s and ‘70s. Udagawa strongly dislikes the market-driven manga hits that would go on to rule the world from the pages of Shonen Jump and fights instead for the careers of authors whose work was published in the pages of pornographic magazines as often as they were in Jump or the alternative magazine Garo. Most of these authors have never been published in English, whether officially or through illicit means like scanlations. If not for the translation of Manga Zombie — or for Udagawa’s further works of manga scholarship — the artists he writes about might vanish into history without leaving a trace.

  The comics detailed in Manga Zombie can be grotesque, ranging from the “fleshbomb style” of artists like Masaru Sakaki to prescient weirdos like George Takiyama. Some might be repelled by the content here; personally, I’m disappointed by the lack of female comics artists featured, although Udagawa (who mentions the girls comic pioneers the 49ers in the foreword to his book) is certainly aware of them. But I love reading folks talking about their favorite work that I’ve never heard about, and Udagawa makes for an idiosyncratic tour guide to some truly unique material. For those willing to brave the world of Japanese exploitation comics, Manga Zombie is a hidden gem.

  What’s your favorite text about manga or anime? Is there an interview you consider especially interesting? Let us know in the comments!

      Adam W is a Features Writer at Crunchyroll. When he isn't reading weird fantasy novels and horror fiction, he sporadically contributes with a loose coalition of friends to a blog called Isn't it Electrifying? You can find him on Twitter at: @wendeego

  Do you love writing? Do you love anime? If you have an idea for a feature, pitch it to Crunchyroll Features!

By: Adam Wescott

[sourbat]

General, 9 for butter knife? 🥺

“Are they Dead?” 

Summary: Charles surprises Magnus with dinner and a show. Guest starring Trindle and Melmord. 

Warning: imprisonment; implied Stockholm Syndrome 

It was late in the evening when, after another day filled with repetitious meandering in his cell, two hoods surprised Magnus with their unannounced presence. They gave no clues as to where they were taking Magnus, only wheeled him through the unseen, narrow corridors, and warned him when they were about to turn so he could bring his legs close. There was little point in asking any questions; the gears never shared what was in store for Magnus, and it wasn’t like he could flee once unstrapped from the wheelchair if they bothered to provide any unsavory news.

They wheeled him into what he assumed was a security room of some kind. It was the interior of a dark, massive shaft (perhaps the neck?) that stretched several levels high. Magnus rode up the elevator, gears at his side, trying to make some meaning of the red, eerie flashes caught between the levels: brief glimpses of klokateers heavily armed, others in front of computer monitors, a couple carting massive loads of what hopefully wasn’t bodies.

Charles greeted him at the topmost level, offering a silent nod the moment the sliding doors parted. One look around the large, blood-red dome had Magnus screaming “central hub.” The room was lined with screens, cameras and flashing lights, and klokateers attentively typing and clicking away at whatever task assigned to them. Magnus desired nothing more than to comment on Charles’ profuse megalomania, but as he was carted forward, caught the smell of something heavenly in the air that had his mouth filling with saliva.

Charles approached, passing Magnus’ left and briefly vanishing from existence, save for the sounds of his heels hitting the floor. “I hope he wasn’t any trouble. Take him to the table, then lock the wheels. I’ll take it from there.”

“Of course, Master Offdensen.”

The source of the delicious scents took the form of a small, clothed table set in front of a gigantic monitor. Adorning it was a set of finely polished silverware, napkins and crystal wine glasses. Magnus allowed his stare to linger on the knife resting beside a fork. A klokateer set Magnus on the side opposite to a single, empty chair. While the first gear locked his wheels into place, the second lifted a silver cover, unveiling a plate of the nicest looking steak Magnus had ever laid eyes on, with butter still melting and oozing all over the steaming center.

“What’s the occasion?”

“A celebration,” Charles answered plainly, taking his seat and giving the second gear permission to remove the cover to his meal. He returned, brows lifting slightly when met with Magnus’ befuddlement. “You don’t know?” 

Magnus wasn’t sure if he wanted to know. Charles, his only source of information, the well of knowledge from which he refused to drink from. Not that it mattered. Thirsty or not, Charles would eventually supply him with a drop of the bucket, even if it meant forcing it down Magnus’ unwilling throat. Toki’s lapse in therapy, Miss Remeltindtdrinc’s continued success, news of Magnus’ past altercations with annoying hoods, a physician’s request for a change of prescription, or a paltry report detailing unveiled portions of an unfair prophecy.

He stared nervously at the delectable meal resting before him. The decadent smell of garlic mashed potatoes covered in scallions, and the pop of a klokateer freeing the cork from a bottle of dark red wine, alerted him that the information to be revealed could be drastic, potentially life-ending.

He grinned. “Refresh me.”

Charles took a napkin, placing it over his leg. “I’ve checked this month’s reports,” he said, grabbing a knife and fork. “You’ve been taking your vitamins. You, ah, also gained seven pounds.”

Magnus rolled his eyes. “Wonderful. Weight I cannot easily shave off.” 

“You’re still under by twelve, but with some work, will be at a healthy weight.” Charles cut into the steak. It bled and oily, reddish bubbly broth that stewed near the roasted vegetables.

Magnus’s hand drifted over his silverware, unsure to take the knife. “And this warrants a steak?”

Since being locked in Mordhaus, the daily meals sent to his room, while a far cry from the fast food he used to sustain himself with, wasn’t nearly as rich in smell and appearance as the meal before him. Magnus picked up the knife. Charles continued to cut his, sawing a small piece of meat which he jabbed and picked up with his fork. Hesitantly, Magnus did the same. As far as he could tell, no gears had their weapons aimed at him, but he still gingerly brought the blade down in case someone trigger-happy hood mistook his hunger as a desperate try for revenge against Charles.

Charles swallowed. “No, your compliance.” 

Magnus had made it as far as cutting himself a tasty morsel when the word smacked him across the face.  

“It’s been several long, grueling months.” Charles shoveled a lump of creamy, golden mashed potatoes with his fork.

Grueling didn’t accurately cover the anguish Magnus endured since falling victim to Charles’ whims. Being locked in a tiny room, deprived of fresh air sunlight unless he behaved, performed simple tasks upon being handed the instruction, or forced to tolerate Charles’ presence and spend his days alongside him, working together and transcribing old English to unveil more hints of the incoming apocalypse. If he snapped at too many klokateers, refused a meal, medication, vitamins or Charles, then he was ignored, left without any means of entertainment other than the memories that persisted to haunt and fill Magnus’ nights with dread. He spent days alone with no books to read, puzzles to complete, pen or paper to bide through the long, endless hours. Not a person to acknowledge him, nor clock on the wall or light switch to help give a sense of time, no matter how false. 

A few rounds of absolute, agonizing silence were all it took for Magnus to determine fighting Charles simply wasn’t worth the trouble. Magnus could handle manipulation, a fist to the face and a threat to his life, but Charles was hitting him where it hurt most, and Magnus couldn’t bear another reminder of his nonexistence, and not from the man he once loved so dearly. A man who, despite the cruelty, still cared for him. As difficult as it was to comprehend, Charles never laid a finger on Magnus, physically harmed or dared to take advantage of his current physical limitations, restricting all forms of punishment to just mental and emotional. And when the punishment finally ended, Charles always reintroduced Magnus to his bookshelves, television and access to the yard. He apologized when giving a punishment, explained his line of reasoning, and was quick to provide condolences when it was over, hands always reaching, hovering or ghosting over Magnus’ gaunt form, but never making contact unless given explicit permission. True, it could be just as well that Charles was enacting his own divine punishment, proving to Magnus that he didn’t need to harm him to make him bend, but since living within the harsh, deprecating confines of Mordhaus, Magnus wanted to believe this wasn’t the case.

Surely, the man serving him medium rare steak and French champagne was doing this as an act of tolerance, friendship even?

Charles continued: “You’ve been far from agreeable…but now.” 

The words gripped Magnus by the throat, rendering him silent. Utensils lowered, their stares met one another’s. Magnus expected a snicker, eyes confidently framed into slits to better make out his discontent. Instead, Magnus couldn’t tell if it was just him, or the combination of bubbly alcohol and a candlelit dinner, but Charles stared at him with a smile he hadn’t seen in years. There were round, lifted cheeks, and that all-too straight grin that almost crossed the line from being endearing, to becoming a tad awkward.

“I feel like I can rely on you,” Charles said, “Like, ah…like we used to, when we were young.” 

Charm aside, it was a difficult pill to swallow. Magnus dropped his stare, to his once decadent meal. It was hard to keep an appetite upon learning the meal was a celebration for his submission.

A hand settled over Magnus’ right. His eyes returned to Charles, and upon the second glance, made out those small features he spent hours admiring during long nights spent waiting for the bus, in line, or just from sharing the same space. Sharp tip of the nose that always glowed under the smallest of lights. Perfectly shaped eyebrows. The very subtle way the glasses hung down the bridge when he lowered his head to meet him. 

Magnus stabbed at his roasted parsnips, finding it equally difficult to be mad at the man who continued to offer help during bathing, purchased whatever form of literature he demanded, when he was acting in accordance. He picked at his meal, taking small bites and savoring the rich taste of butter, fluffy texture of potatoes and steak that melted in his mouth. The few glances he made at Charles, no matter how brief, were always met with positivity.

Something about it frightened him.

“I have something I want to show you.” 

Upon completion of their meal, Charles called a klokateer from the red depths of the room, and then offered Magnus two thick files. Magnus opened the first, revealing the photo of a young woman dressed entirely in high-end gothic fashion, staring wildly at him. The first thing he noticed about her was that she was a stranger, an unknown he’d never engaged with in his entire life. Yet, he knew there was a connection, something that Charles connected with him.

Magnus rolled a thumb over the faded blur of her nose piercing, eyes briefly engaging with the uniqueness of her name, then closed the folder. “What’s this?”

Charles snapped a finger. “Special cases.”

Klokateer approached with a tray. While they replaced Magnus’ wine glass with smaller, round cups, he picked up the second file, and like before, met another smile, this time from a man. Unlike the goth, the man in the photo appeared lax, if not in a slight, distant daze. The blond highlights in his hair made Magnus want to connect the man with the goth-woman; the goatee and length of his hair made Magnus hesitant to try and tie the stranger with him.

After locating the name, and finding it equally as alien as the woman’s, Magnus sighed. On the other side of the table, Charles was waiting, patiently.

Magnus lowered the second file. “Are they dead?”

The candles’ embers flickered. A devious smile manifested across Charles’ ivory face. Another snap from his long fingers, and the gigantic monitor resting before them turned on, sending Magnus into a state of shock. His wheelchair jolted as he tried backing away from the now active screen, locked wheels keeping him in place while he gathered himself. Displaying on the screen were two people in a small room. A rec room, with a few old arcade games, display cased lines with boxes, an old couch, and a long, rectangular table. Magnus squinted his eyes, making out the dark blur of a shapely figure standing at one end of the table, picking up a paddle and ball. Magnus recognized her as the same woman from the file. He turned to the second figure standing on the opposite side, a tall man with a broad frame, shoulder-length hair, and carrying a lazy grin.

They were playing ping-pong.

A ball bounced from one side to the next as the two jumped, stretched, and did what they could to earn a point. If Magnus didn’t know any better, he’d assume this was just a friendly game between acquaintances, but the files on the table, and the curious glint in Charles’ eyes, told Magnus there was something far more ominous at hand.

Just as Magnus turned from the screen, caught something hanging in the corner of the cluttered room. A calendar, and when Magnus set his eyes upon it, turned sickly pale at the discovery of the month.  

“They’re like you,” Charles suddenly began, his voice a faint echo while Magnus slowly drew away from the calendar, back to the two unknowns playing ping-pong. “Dead to the world, but–” 

“A never-ending source of entertainment for you,” Magnus harshly bit back. A hand hit the edge of the table, pulling some of the cloth down. Charles remained seated, but his chair had groaned, dragging from the unannounced outburst. Magnus heard it, and he took and rolled with it, hoping it would serve and supply him strength against Charles. 

“I always knew you were a control freak, but this…” Magnus gestured morosely at the screen. “I must say, the voyeurism is taking me by surprise.”

“It’s necessary to monitor prisoners.” Charles appeared calm, but his hands were clasped tightly together, wrinkles deepening from the lowered brow and frown, and patience nearing its untimely end. Still the answer was quick, short and to the bloody point. It was, like everything else that came from Charles, practical to the point of being insufferable.

Magnus humored the idea of their being cameras in his room, and Charles, his once beloved, using the very same excuse to watch him struggle each time he transitioned from chair to bed, chair to toilet, chair to floor. 

Frustrated, he heaved a dry laugh. “And you’re quite sure you never read the works of Harlan Ellison?”

Charles didn’t answer. Magnus hit the table again, sending one of the candles to topple on its side. The flame died on its way down, but the effect was immediate. Weapons were drawn, and Magnus could see fine red dots pin-pointed all over his arm, and when he fell back into the wheelchair, saw a dozen more spread across his chest.

Unaffected, Charles waited until Magnus sank into the wheelchair, momentarily defeated. 

“Would you like to meet them?” 

“Is that a threat?” Magnus asked, arms crossed, the only act of defiance he could get away with.

“An invitation,” Charles insisted, as though it changed a damn thing.

For whatever reason, Charles outstretched his arm, hand hoping to return and rest upon Magnus like it had minutes ago. When it crossed the halfway mark, Magnus withdrew, going as far back into his seat as he could without having to drag his lower half with him. 

Charles sighed, dejected. “I know it must be lonely, what with you, ah–”

Magnus opened his mouth, ready to lash at Charles for even trying. He saw the calendar. Whether he’d been handed a live recording, or something saved from days, even weeks before, nothing could change the terrifying knowledge he had picked up on when his eye set on the estimated date. 

A year. He’d been locked in Mordhaus for a year, and never noticed! Time had blended, blurred and stagnated into a concrete wall that he couldn’t pass nor break. He was getting along better with Charles, tolerating him and almost…a year. Charles had been training him for an entire year, and now, after months of arguing, spitting out his meds, saying nasty words and refusing to wheel himself around, Charles was celebrating a year of them together, and of the slow, but now blatantly apparent improvement of his condition from having broken Magnus at some point. 

“I figured, after you and I finished with the scriptures, you might be willing to offer a helping hand with these two.”

And he had broken him, to some extent. Otherwise, why the candles, the steak and that smile? Why let him use a knife tonight, when so many other nights he’d been handed only the plastic spork, later the spoon and fork, but only when in the company of gears?  The comment about his weight, about the future hard work to come; it all amounted to Magnus surrendering, complying with Charles and doing whatever it took to remain noticed, acknowledged, alive. 

“Well?” Charles’ voice broke through the fury building inside Magnus. “What do you think?”

His nails dug into the tablecloth. “And why would I ever consider aiding you in training additional human pets?” Magnus snapped. His entire chair lurched alongside him, dragging forward and colliding his lower abdomen against the table. Magnus barely noticed, too fixated on Charles’ calm, unmoving demeanor. The smug bastard. Magnus threw another fist at the table, sending his cappuccino to teeter near the end, threatening to fall and shatter. “Really Charles, you know how jealous I can get. Me, sharing another man with you? And a woman? Ha!”

He had done an excellent job refraining from bringing up their old flame, a mere pile of ashy white cinders long since carried off by the cruel, cold winds of fate. Charles had no problem hinting at it, calling forth old memories in a futile attempt to sway Magnus towards his favor, but until now Magnus’ pride had forbidden him to going so low as to attack Charles with stories of walks across the park, going to concerts to sight out potential competition and talent, or nights spent smoking and dreaming aloud.

Not anymore. Magnus undid the harness keeping his legs in place. He pressed his left arm on top of the table, elbow held firm under his weight. With this right, he dragged himself up, using the table for support as he tried to create some height over Charles. 

“Let me guess? They’re exes of yours as well?” Magnus heaved a little as he lifted himself, lame legs adrift in a senseless void. Charles’ eyes finally gave to emotion, widening as Magnus carried himself using rage alone. “They piss you off, too? Didn’t like your prudish attitude? Your compulsive behavior? Tell me, Allied Mastercomputer, other than the fact that you own me body and soul, why the hell should I help you, huh?”

The words spat out, flicking and landing across Charles’ spectacles. He flinched, head and neck reacting to the meager onslaught, then returned to their usual placements. Magnus watched, arms shaking under his weight, while Charles picked up his napkin and removed his glasses to clean the lens. As he did, Magnus’ right elbow locked, and he slipped back. Though he couldn’t feel it, he knew his legs tripped over themselves, and were it not for a klokateers hastily grabbing him by the arms and guiding him back to his chair, Magnus knew he’d have likely fallen to the floor and be made a fool in front of Charles.

He wasn’t sure if this was any better.

No. He was still the fool in this scenario.

“I’ll grant you your legs back.”

Magnus slumped, eyes blank at the promise.

Charles lifted his glasses up the light, nose wrinkling slightly at the smudges that remained, and nothing more. “What’s more, I’ll grant you some privileges, allow you to traverse the hidden pathways on your own.”

Cruel words hardly had any meaning, anymore. And what was the point of trying to give the illusion of height, when both very well knew Magnus couldn’t so much as stand without the use of a wall, pole or beam? Was it even standing, or just support? Was it even support if he constantly leaned, dragged down by his broken body’s weight, bodily dysphoria that mapped out an incomplete form?

“What do you say, Magnus?” Charles asked calmly. There wasn’t the smallest hint that he was angry. Quite the contrary, he appeared as hopeful as ever, like he had been when asking Magnus out on their very first date. That Charles had also been calm, smile favoring his chances, the starlight above casting a light that brought out the rosiness of his cheeks, the pink of his smile when affirmed the upcoming date.

Magnus blinked. The red hue of the room really did bring out the sharp contours of his high cheekbones, the shallow hood of his eyelids.

Magnus shook his head, and when he dropped down to witness the awkward positioning of his legs, felt Charles’ hand return to him.

There it goes, again. “Would you be willing to try?” 

Magnus glanced at the thick files, no doubt filled with all the information he needed to manipulate and convince these unknown factors in his obstructively miniscule world to follow his every word. He’d done it before, had ticked greater men with less information to work with. 

And to walk again…?

Magnus returned to facing the left, at the overcast monitor now displaying just the man sitting on a couch, legs and arms spread as he stared peevishly at the swaying camera observing him. The goth girl was gone. After an inhale from what looked like a cigarette, possibly a vape pen, the man waved at the security camera, and Magnus tore away, ashamed for even considering putting another person through a similar hell as his.

Charles was waiting for him at the table. “Well?”

He swallowed a lump. “What’s for dessert?”

Unmoving, Charles responded: “One of your favorites.”

The circular dome lifted, revealing a small, thin slice of dark chocolate cake, interior thick and layered with a darkening shade of increasing bitter chocolate. Surrounding it were several, plump little raspberries, and just as Magnus was handed a new spoon, a klokateer poured a bright, vibrant pink syrup over the slice. Like dinner, few words were shared between the two. His appetite long gone, Magnus struggled to make due and distracted himself with small bites that tasted less sweet each time his eyes caught the man in the monitor switching between the various forms of entertainment, and looking up to ponder over the unknown taking delight in his situation.

Magnus licked his lips, tasting the tart syrup spread across his upper, and wasn’t surprised when he saw Charles watching him, eyes soft and overflowing with nostalgia. Remembering the date on the calendar, Magnus dared and tested the dark waters. 

He picked up a raspberry. “Happy anniversary, Charles.”

Lowering his cappuccino, Charles replied with a hum. “Happy anniversary, Magnus.”

[ingek73]

BBC flooded with complaints over Prince Philip coverage

Corporation opened dedicated complaints form on its website to deal with deluge of negative comments

Jim Waterson Media editor

Published: 11:29 Saturday, 10 April 2021

Follow Jim Waterson

Within six hours of Prince Philip’s death being announced the BBC had received so many complaints about its wall-to-wall coverage of the news that it opened a dedicated complaints form on its website.

The BBC curtailed dozens of broadcasts on Friday, taking the nation’s most popular television and radio channels off air and reduced dozens of other broadcasts on stations across the country, in order to provide uninterrupted coverage of tributes to the Queen’s husband.

BBC One played a series of pre-recorded shows, including Philip’s children paying tribute to him, while BBC Two scrapped its schedule and simulcast the same shows as its sister channel. Friday night staples such as EastEnders, Gardeners’ World, and the final episode of MasterChef were taken off air to make way for more tributes, a pattern followed by ITV and Channel 5.

Although the corporation is used to finding itself in the middle of Britain’s culture wars, its handling of Philip’s death points to a deeper question over the ability of a national broadcaster to force the country together to mourn a single individual in an era where audiences are fragmented and less deferential.

When Princess Diana died in a car crash in 1997 the majority of the UK population had only just gained access to a fifth television channel. If the BBC wanted to enforce a mood of national mourning they had the power to cut off other forms of entertainment and keep dissenting voices at bay through the sheer enormity of their reach.

Nowadays, although the BBC’s reach among the UK population remains enormous, the growth of Netflix and YouTube means audiences have somewhere else to turn.

Executives – and royal courtiers – will be nervously studying the release of television viewing figures and seeing if the decision to replace Friday night’s episode of EastEnders with tributes to Philip will expose the fact that the British public’s appetite for such material is limited.

Individuals working in BBC News suggested the long-planned scale of the coverage is because the corporation still bore the scars from the death of the Queen Mother in 2002, when its output was deemed insufficiently deferential by rightwing newspapers.

Among other issues the media infamously fixated on BBC newsreader Peter Sissons failing to wear a black tie as announced her death. He later claimed he had been left in the lurch by BBC bosses, who the previous year had floated proposals to tone down the extent of the coverage of the Queen Mother’s death. Sissons claimed that as he entered the studio to announce her death he was told by the editor: “Don’t go overboard, she’s a very old woman who had to go some time.”

There is also the ongoing battle between the government and the BBC over the corporation’s future funding. With the new director general, Tim Davie, already battling Conservative MPs who accuse the corporation of not being sufficiently patriotic, the BBC will have been aware of the political risks of not being perceived to have struck the right tone.

In the end almost the entire range of BBC services was affected in some way by the announcement of Philip’s death, sometimes with mildly farcical results.

For instance, as a mark of respect to the Queen’s husband, BBC Four’s scheduled programme was taken off-air and replaced with notice urging viewers to switch to BBC One for a tribute to the deceased royal.

The channel had been due to show the England women’s football team play France in an international friendly, leading to questions about whether a men’s match would be kicked off television schedules in an equivalent situation. The game was still shown in full on the BBC’s iPlayer service and BBC Sport website, apparently in the belief that showing women’s sport on a digital service during a period of royal mourning is more respectful than allowing it on linear television channels.

Children watching cartoons on CBBC were greeted with a banner encouraging them to watch the news for a major story. Adverts were taken off BBC-owned commercial channels such as Dave, Yesterday, and Gold out of respect for the deceased royal.

The BBC’s national radio stations initially replaced their output with a pre-recorded tribute, with some later returning to special sombre playlists, with the likes of Radio 1 stuck playing downbeat music with the occasional news bulletin update. Specialist music programmes were taken off air, while presenters kept chat to a minimum.

Some BBC radio cricket commentary were left continuing to provide coverage from grounds across England, unaware that no one was able to hear their output because it had been replaced. Even cricket fans on the BBC website coverage found their source of information cut off, with the corporation’s county championship liveblog shut down immediately after Philip’s death was announced – even as play continued across the country.

One of the few broadcasters to buck the trend was Channel 4, which did air extended tributes to the former royal consort but provided an alternative for viewers by showing Gogglebox and the final of reality TV hit The Circle as planned.

One issue facing the BBC is when to return coverage to normal and how to respond to complaints. In a sign that the corporation is doomed to be criticised by all sides, the rightwing Defund the BBC campaign described it as “disgraceful” that the corporation was making it easier to complain about its coverage, saying: “The anti-British BBC has set up a form to encourage complaints about the volume of coverage of Prince Philip’s death.”

Another issue is how to serve parts of its audience who would like an alternative to the wall-to-wall coverage. By late Friday afternoon there was one death dominating the most-read stories on the BBC website: The demise of rapper DMX.

[felicityzoid]

Technology- A Friend or a Foe?

Dependence on technology has made us forget about some of the traditional skills. Technology is wonderful but the increasing rate of dependency on technology is alarming. For example, the skills of reading maps have been forgotten as now people are using GPS for directions. Nowadays driving is also automatic, the car basically drives itself and after using automatic cars people have forgotten how to operate manual cars. Calculators have also become so popular in school that people can’t operate simple calculations without using a calculator. The dependence on the technology is too much that people are losing their ability to think and even read as people have all the information they need on the internet. Our grammar and spelling mistakes can also be corrected by the computer. We have also stopped producing our own food as production of packaged foods have been mechanized.

For a long time, computers have been all over the place and most households have them. Internet is the common activity on the computers and the internet is used to expand our knowledge, listen to music, play games, chat and watch videos. Most of the population is addicted to internet and spend much of their time on the internet other than spending their time on productive activities.

Technology makes our life simpler and easier but people's dependence on the technology is too much in that they are making people damn lazy as we have become sluggish, obese since our transportation has been mechanized.  The technology has made so lethargic in that we cannot even go to the shops to buy fast foods and all we need is just a phone call and the foods are delivered to us. So, in my opinion too much dependence and addiction to the technology is not good for humans.

There are many advantages that technological advances have brought. Technological dependence is clearly seen when we look around and realize that we are surrounded by technological advances ranging from mobile phones, computers, iPod, and television; that have become part of our common lives causing in us a certain dependence. Technological development has grown at considerable speed and the consequences on society, countries and individuals are enormous. Technological development has a unique course we cannot alter, nor stop; It defines our lives. In the present, technological change is determined by a few large multinational corporations that in turn influence the behaviour of consumers by advertising, so the consumer is directed to where they want. For example, for the people that must be continuously checking their e-mail; cell phones were invented, which already have mobile internet so that they can connect at anytime and anywhere. Another example of how consumerism is relating to new technologies is the company Apple who release every year a new iPhone. It is important to emphasize that the same consumerism perceived by the people today in everyday life; it is the same that induces to the purchase of new and improved artifacts focused more than anything else as a whim and not as a necessity. The gap between consumption and need becomes increasingly close and more difficult to discern.

“At first glance, one might have the tendency to dismiss such aberrant cell phone use as merely youthful nonsense a passing fad. But an emerging body of literature has given increasing credence to cell phone addiction and similar behavioural addictions.” Technology is a means that on one hand brings us many advantages, but in the other hand, we have to establish that the use of artifacts such as the Internet and mobile phones are becoming of excessive use in young people, for Roberts and Pirog it is definite that all these artifacts are becoming a way of life for each one of them, and they say that the same young people are at a stage where they will become addicts to this devices if they do not know how to control themselves. They argue further that technology isolates people because it is now very common to see how many hours devoted young are to be on the network, because humanity is involved in a technological world, that’s where people are starting to talk about the term “technophile” which is becoming more common every day. In addition, several people are starting to consider technology dependency as any unhealthy dependency such as alcoholism or drug addiction. Jane Demerica thinks the opposite to what is set out in the article of Roberts and Pirog she says that these new technologies are extremely beneficial for all and that it is difficult to speak of dependence in these technologies. New technologies in communication are optimal for better knowing people and expand the social circle. “Meeting new friends- Shy kids can make new friends on the internet.” She also claims to have solved the problems of introversion and even ensures that parents feel reassured that their children are talking to friends who already know and are under supervision to help lower the risk. Another point where she is in favour is the mobile phones because she mentions, “Cell phones make it easier for parents to keep track of their children.”

The technologies have a great potential to enhance and change the education system, which can break the prevailing cultural patterns so that technology does not bring so many prejudices and steers away from becoming a dependency. “When schools in different parts of the state, country or world connect, students can “meet” their counterparts through video conferencing without leaving the classroom.” According to him, there is no abuse of technology rather this is the current key of teaching so children and youth should be therefore more exposed to the media. As a source of information, the Internet provides immediate access to almost all knowledge collected by mankind in the history of civilization. In times where knowledge is power, access to the Internet puts a person in complete advantage over those who do not. With the internet a person can read the latest news on different topics, obtain information on employment opportunities, find out the latest fashion trends, and learn from the written responses of millions of people in specialized forums and blogs. The downside is that many people infringe copyright because they are tempted by so much information and end up copying and pasting text and then present them as their own. This promotes laziness and dishonesty. Also, many people take advantage of the vast amount of personal information available on the Internet to blackmail or steal identities. Psychologist Patricia Greenfield indicates that technology is causing the loss of critical thinking in students. She states that because of the incredible boom that technologies have on societies can begin to talk about the concept of dependence on technology, estimates that there are already hundreds of incidents of Internet dependency. Although she is not totally disagreeing with the new technologies, she indicates to use both “As students spend more time with visual media and less time with print, evaluation methods that include visual media will give a better picture of what they actually know.” Addiction is increasing, it is giving following alteration in social and physical habits of young people and identifies these as other addictions, producing anxiety about being in touch with a computer and the need to be using it every minute, so that has made huge gap between use and abuse. Another person who is in favour with the views of Roberts and Pirog about the mobile phones is Josip Ivanovic who says, “Teens’ natural tendency to follow trends may result in an emotional attachment to a cell phone that is out of scale with its actual value.” It can be said that many people, especially young people tend to use this device in a manner disproportionate, making it an addiction. Most people overuse the cell, nowadays users cannot leave it off for minutes, and if so, they tend to turn it on after a short time to check for text messages or voice mails. People who are dependent of cell phones need to feel their devices in their hands, otherwise they will not feel good, and this will generate anxiety, stress or despair. This new addiction attack to hundreds of people, and the worst thing of all is that they do not realize that they are addicted because they see it as something normal. “The overuse of cell phones has become a social problem for tens of thousands of Americans not much different than other harmful addictions.” In addition, cell phone addiction can cause serious damage to the home environment; because it causes alienation when a member moves away to make a call or send a text message this generates a detachment of the family environment.

We live in times where the use of technology is applied in every aspect of the society, which explains the technological dependence in which we live. Nowadays society applies new technology almost anywhere such as scientifically, socially and financially, “But as a foundation for an important economic pillar in our country, I suspect we’re pushing the envelope of sane thinking. There is no such thing as an unhackable computer system. There is no such thing as a 24/7/365 computer system.” For example, if we go to the bank and the system goes down, we cannot do anything because all the information about the clients is stored online; If a person wants to be served in any unit of government health, he has to make an appointment, but if it is rush hour in which all users want to make an appointment, the system will flood, and they won’t be able to handle the appointment. Other problem could be if a system fails “Because hospital systems are so complex, and require the careful integration of disparate, specialized software and hardware systems, single component downtime can greatly interrupt workflow.” New technologies have entirely changed the way of life of young people. In some respects, very much improved. For example, in order to perform the schoolwork children have to use a computer to do some research. In the last few years there has been a considerable advance in the technology, each time improving more what we already have, which is beneficial to our quality of life. The problem is that goes awry and creates addiction among children and adolescents, and presently technology can be considered as a drug.

At first, results from the ease of communications appear valuable because it helps people to communicate with others who are far away, but if this trend persists, people who use this technology often will isolate. “Young adults who use Facebook more frequently show more signs of psychological disorders, including antisocial behaviour, mania and aggressiveness.” An example of this is Facebook where more and more people spend hours attached to this virtual community, and thus ignore their interpersonal relationships in the real world. For young people, I believe that new technologies have become a property of first need that gives them independence with respect to the outside world. Some of the things that stand out are the media such as television, social networks, the consoles such as the video games, mobile phones, the Internet, and photos and videos from digital cameras. This has caused a radical change in the socialization and how they relate. The presence and contact now have become a thing of the past. Friendships are now not visible using technologies. For example, with the use of Facebook many people can meet new friends. The advantages that young people see in the new technologies are many and varied. For example, in social networks allows them to have a continuous communication. They can choose a person to talk or keep hidden until they feel confident most of the time, they use it at home where they feel safe and uninhibited, which causes parents to lose and control of their children. These technologies also have an impact on family relations, creating privacy for the children, which is hardly controllable by the parents, because most of the population now has a computer at home with internet access. The computer is a useful tool in everyday life as it helps us to make academic work and non-academic work. Although it is a very important tool in our daily lives today we have also become very dependent on it because we cannot do anything if we do not have a computer, this mainly happens because our environment demands the use of this tool each day at work or school, and nobody denies that it is a very useful tool for everyday tasks, but when a person rely on something that is what we dread to think what will happen when this technology is not around us. From a computer with internet connection a person can buy anything, from books to a house. There is no need that could not be met with the Internet and a credit card with funds. Someone with Internet connection could live his entire live without having to leave his home. This also means that the Internet offers an endless variety of business opportunities, from basic Web page creation, sales of traditional products, to even sales of stranger things. The negative side of these are of course spam, phishing, and other forms of fraud; through which unscrupulous people look for to get rich quick. Fraud can also come from the buyer’s side, because many thieves of credit cards use the Internet to make purchases under the name of their victims, emptying their bank accounts and ruining their reputation.

In conclusion, technology is a phenomenon that surrounds us all with artifacts and technical devices daily, is an element that is maintained for the length of time, and we remain equally or more wrapped up in a technological world that teaches us a new way of learning, and adaptation. Technological dependence is part of our lives because nowadays no one is free of this phenomenon on the global level. An example of this are the universities which indirectly involve students in this system, the same applies to jobs or simply with the Chat, which is limiting personal relations, replacing them with virtual communication. All this becomes dependence when individuals cannot perform their daily activities without the use of some device, or better said function in society without occupying any technological tool. Historically, technology has been used to meet basic needs such as food, clothing, and housing. But also, for other negative purposes such as, create weapons to persuade and dominate people. Technological activity affects the social and economic progress, but also produced the deterioration of our environment. Technologies can be used to protect the environment and prevent the growing needs cause depletion or degradation of material and energy resources of our planet. Avoiding these negative aspects is the task not only of governments, but of all the people living on the planet. Although technology has several disadvantages, I think the advantages of these are more favourable to mankind. In fact, one could say that without sustainable development of the technology, the humans would not be more than an ordinary living being on this planet. The inventions of man are indicators of the cognitive evolution of the same, and in their eagerness to learn, can overcome evolutionary barriers such as adaptability to certain climates, and defence against diseases. Unfortunately, it is man who decides how to use it. Certain types of men see technology as weapons for war, others as tools that help us improve the quality of life of the species.

[96thdayofrage]

ASSANGE EXTRADITION: Why the Crumbling Computer Conspiracy Case Is So Vital to the US

Since the U.S. is on shaky constitutional ground with the espionage indictment, the computer intrusion charge has served as a hook to try to get Assange, by portraying him not as a journalist, but as a hacker, writes Cathy Vogan.

While most of the talk about the Julian Assange case is about the espionage charges, which are political in nature, the U.S. case hangs by a thread for the second time on the non-political charge: conspiracy to commit computer intrusion.

There is a reason why the computer charge is so vital to the U.S. case. Charging a journalist with espionage for unauthorized possession and dissemination of defense information has been possible since 1917, but it runs the risk of violating the First Amendment.

The tradition has been instead to charge leakers and hackers for breach of an oath, contract or firewall. The legal and public perception of hacking is that it is much like burglary; something generally feared and whose punishment by the state is not subject to political debate or opposing laws; but rather welcomed. The intrusion charge shifts public and legal perception.

Since the U.S. is on shaky constitutional ground with the espionage indictment, the computer intrusion charge has served as a hook to try to get Assange, by portraying him not as a journalist, but as a hacker. Underscoring the difference between the two is fundamental to the U.S. case.

That’s why the U.S. prosecutor, James Lewis QC, on the opening day of Assange’s extradition hearing in February 2020 turned to the press in the courtroom and told them journalism was not the target of the U.S. prosecution. He said Assange was not a journalist and instead had participated in the theft of government documents. In other words: he’s not a journalist like you, but a hacker.

This distinction was spelled out by none other than the current president of the United States when he was vice president in December 2010. He told television interviewer David Gregory:

“If he conspired to get these classified documents, with a member of the U.S. military, that’s fundamentally different than if someone drops on your lap [reaches out to news anchor and slaps table], Here David, you’re a press person. Here is classified material.”

https://youtu.be/nF8WRFw5sHQ

Declined to Indict

Unable to come up with that proof, the Obama-Biden administration declined to indict Assange in 2011. The New York Times had published many of the same WikiLeaks documents that Assange had, so logically, the Times would be just as guilty of violating the Espionage Act.

Indicting Assange and the Times would be a clear conflict with the First Amendment. But if it could be proven he was a hacker, and not just a journalist, that would have opened the way to indicting Assange, Joe Biden said.

Faced with this same dilemma, the U.S. bolstered its Espionage Act indictment of Assange with seperate charges for conspiracy to commit computer intrusion. The indictment was marked SEALED but then “Filed in Open Court” on March, 8, 2018, almost a full year before Assange was arrested, April 11, 2019. On that day the computer intrustion indictment was unveiled to the public.

We have known since 2012 of a grand jury investigation into “conspiracy to communicate or transmit national defense information”. A former lawyer for Assange, the late Michael Ratner, explained the middle section of a code (11-3/ 10GJ3793/ 11-937) marked on a subpoena related to the investigation: “10 is the year it began; GJ is grand jury; 3 is the conspiracy statute in the US and 793 is the espionage statute.” The grand jury was investigating conspiracy in 2010, as Biden had suggested that December, in an effort to portray the Australian journalist as a non-passive recipient of the classified information he published.

https://youtu.be/Yd7qxWma9CQ

The “hacking” indictment that was issued on the day of his arrest argues in strained language that Assange had conspired with his source, Army intelligence analyst Chelsea Manning, to illegally obtain defense information. The indictment, however, admits Manning had security clearances to legally access the material.

The charge of conspiracy with Manning hangs solely on evidence that appeared at Manning’s court marshal, a chat log between Nobody [Manning] and someone with the moniker Nathaniel Frank. That Manning was seeking help with a password hash from Frank has been held up as the evidence of conspiracy.

In the computer intrusion indictment of Assange, the U.S. claims:

“Cracking the password would have allowed Manning to log onto the computers under a usemame [sic] that did not belong to her. Such a measure would have made it more difficult for investigators to identify Manning as the source of disclosures of classified information.”

This argument was seriously undermined on Day 14 of the September extradition hearing when forensic examiner Patrick Eller offered his expert testimony for the defense on the Manning conspiracy theory.

Eller said the U.S. couldn’t prove, nor was he asked to prove, that the moniker Manning was conversing with was Assange. And Manning’s top secret access was only permitted on her login, for which she had the password. Logging in as another “usemame”, meant she would have been locked out.

Nor would logging in as another user have given Manning anonymity, as the government alleges, since the physical IP address of the terminal was recorded, regardless of who was logged in. From the Manning court-marshal, it emerged that the government knew who was on shift at the time. In light of Eller’s testimony, the U.S. scenario of Assange’s conspiracy with Manning was shown to be unfeasible.

The U.S. had heard earlier from the defense in February 2020 that Manning’s purpose was probably to install video games, films and music videos on the lads’ computers, which were forbidden to those on active duty. Eller testified to the same.

According to what Biden said in 2011, it was imperative for the U.S. to keep alive this apparently ‘minor’ computer charge that carries a maximum of five years in prison, compared to 170 years under the espionage charges. But it isn’t minor. It is the hook that enables the charges of espionage, it smears Assange and it drives a wedge between him and support from an increasingly nervous mainstream media.

The Second Superseding Indictment

In June 2020, the Trump Department of Justice, apparently unsure that the computer intrusion charge in relation to Manning was strong enough to portray Assange as a hacker, issued a second superseding indictment that relied on the testimony of a WikiLeaks volunteer and later FBI informant, who said Assange had directed him to conduct hacking operations.

This evidence was apparently obtained by the FBI in 2011 when the witness was one of its informants. But it was not revisited until the Trump DOJ offered the witness immunity sometime in 2019, likely after the April 2019 issuing of the first computer indictment, which did not contain his testimony. It appeared first in the second superseding indictment of June 2020.

That the evidence did not appear in the first indictment might indicate its unreliability, because the key witness has now recanted the testimony in an interview last month with the Icelandic publication Stundin.

Sigurdur Thordarson’s testimony was mentioned 22 times without question in the Magistrate’s Jan. 4 ruling against extraditing Assange, which the U.S. is now appealing. The UK court was not made aware of the identity and criminal history of the witness referred to as ‘Teenager’ in the second superseding indictment.

Thordarson’s chat logs not only negate those points of fact; they accord with what the Minister of the Interior of Iceland, Ögmundur Jónasson said, and recently told Consortium News:

“[The FBI] were in Iceland, to try to frame WikiLeaks and Julian Assange in particular. Now these are serious allegations, but I choose my words very, very carefully. Because I knew this from first-hand; from within the Icelandic administration. They were told that the idea was to use Sigurdur Thordarson, an Icelandic citizen, as an entrapment to contact Julian Assange and involve him in a criminal case, to be used later in the United States. This I know for certain, and I have stated this time and again, in February 2014, before 2013. I said before the Icelandic Foreign Affairs Committee and the Icelandic parliament, where this was discussed, and this in fact is not disputed. This is what happened.”

https://youtu.be/0auN8LnQDjQ

The FBI had resorted to working with Thordarson, a diagnosed sociopath and convicted fraudster, thief and pedophile. Stundin pointed out that his chat logs also revealed FBI grooming and conspiracy in the fabrication of false testimony.

Back to Biden

During Assange’s hearing last September, after numerous defense witnesses piled on evidence that indeed Assange was engaging in journalistic activity, prosecutor Lewis changed course and ultimately admitted to the court, that yes, he may have been practicing journalism, but the Espionage Act doesn’t make a distinction for journalists. Assange had unauthorized possession and disseminated defense information, and that was that.

With the recanting of Thordarson’s testimony, and the weakness of the conspiracy allegation with Manning, the U.S. is back to what Biden said when was vice president: that Assange is a journalist who was merely doing his job by receiving state secrets, pretty much in his lap.

If Assange is extradited to stand trial in the U.S., what would happen if the computer intrusion charge collapses? It would leave the U.S. with only the political charges and Assange in the same legal state as other publishers of the same material, protected by the First Amendment.

[modestlyabsurd]

Reversed (Loki x Reader)

In a world, where gAHDAMMOTHAFUKIN INFINITYWARANDENDGAMENEVERHAPPENED

...

ahem, excuse me.

In a world where the genocide of 2018 was reversed and humanity was restored in full, there fought a team against all forces of adversarial motives. A broadened team; a team of heroes.

~

Including foes turned heroes.

Such was what Loki Odinson thought on a daily basis, especially at this moment.

The gifts bestowed upon him from his mother - a keen hindsight, superior knowledge, and even a bit of witchery - have allowed him a new perception of things. Well, and not to mention the time travelling thing that The Avengers finally figured out with their human technology. That contributed to his outlook as well. Otherwise he'd be dead - or worse.

Nowadays it's hard to imagine how life was then. The duties of being a true Avenger are more than enough to keep his mind busy. But from time to time it drifts off to that place. Like now. He supposes it always will.

He thinks of what state the universe was in, and albeit narcissistic, how it was his fault. How he tried to fix it in the only way he knew possible. And now knowing that his sacrifice those years ago would've inevitably been for naught, if hadn't been for them.

But in the same thought it fills him with an eternal sense of awe and gratitude that this team of somewhat gifted humans were able to successfully reverse it. That he, among half of humanity, lived to see another day. Another five years.

It is nothing short of a miracle.

He'd proven his gratitude by asking to be recruited in their team of good intentions. Make no mistake, it took swallowing every ounce of his pride to do so, which was no easy task. But alas, he's done it.

Echoes ... nothing but these strange echoes ...

Back and forth Loki's mind goes. Locked in place, imprisoned indefinitely, what more can it do? The weight of reality tends to sit heaviest at the most inconvenient of times.

The bitter truth is that half of humanity was eradicated in spite of him; his attempt at redemption, at reversing what he'd done. And it took the will of others to stop the madness. The helplessness; that's what still lingers.

Along with the pain.

It's all he can sense. It's all he can feel. He can't see, he doesn't have energy enough to decipher what he's hearing, and he cannot speak. Just his thoughts, and the pain. This evil, immobilizing pain.

How did I get here? he thinks, somehow conscious of the circumstance despite his current state.

It was some time ago. How long ago is inconceivable at the moment. But he does concentrate, and accesses the last memory in his mind.

"All units in position?" said Stark through their communication line.

"Copy that."

The exchange between Stark and Rogers brought Loki to high alert. He sits on the rooftop of a building half the height of the skyscrapers surrounding it. Exactly how he liked. High enough to see below, low enough to see above, and ideal for taking cover.

The wind blows through his ears, and for a moment he sees some amount of beauty in the setting New York sun. But only for a split second.

And only because you'd always spoke of it.

"Uh, hello - that was a question to all units. I need everyone to copy if you don't mind," Stark persists.

"Sorry! I copy," the Spiderling chirps.

"So do I," the Black Widow murmurs.

"Roger that," says the Winter Soldier, turned Avenger.

A second passes before Stark asks, "Clint?"

"Copy," he says.

"Alright - who am I missing? Uh ... oh! Y/N, do you copy?"

"Ten-four," your voice comes through, and Loki releases the breath held in his chest. "I still don't know why you're making me do this, I hate being the bait."

"Good, you can be the bait from now on." When there's silence in return, Stark softens his tone and says free of sarcasm, "Look, you're gonna be fine. All you have to do is put the moves on this guy, bring him to the car and lead him to us. If things get too serious, you know the code."

"Remind me of it again?"

"Dizzy. Just somehow in some context say the word dizzy and we'll be there before you know it."

Loki's shoulders tighten at the idea of things "getting too serious". It seems completely unfair to have someone without the same training to handle such a high caliber of criminals as the lure. Especially without him there - or, someone there, to assist.

But he doesn't make the rules, of course. To add insult to injury, he's charged with following the rules as well.

"I expect a bonus for this," you grumbled. "And you're still forgetting someone."

"You sure? I could've sworn that was everyone - " Stark pauses, clearly for dramatic effect, "Ohhhh, right. Silly me. Thor?"

Loki smirks. Yet another of Stark's frequent, petty jabs at him. The entire team was aware that Thor was currently in New Asgard organizing a new and proper government with the Valkyrie, Brunnhilde. (Which will of course require some fine tuning on Loki's part due to the brute irrationality that both of them act upon solely, but to worry over another day.)

He could practically hear you rolling your eyes through the line. "Loki? Are you in position?" you ask exasperatedly.

"As always, love."

"Ugh," someone groaned.

He smiles outwardly, where no one else could see. Yes, indeed, Loki was in love.

It was certainly one of the most beautiful things he'd ever experienced, yet the most painful. Never more so than in times as these, when you're put in danger.

Stark sighs dreadfully, "Alright, Agent Y/L/N. Whenever you're ready."

Loki watched from his aerial view as the luxury black vehicle begun to move through traffic. It was you, driving the car that Stark cared the least for.

That could be destroyed if necessary. He swallows.

At that moment Loki's memory cuts out.

... ugh! Echoes, but of what, exactly? These sounds are so foreign ...

Frustrated that pieces of the story are missing, but unable to do anything about it. All he is aware of are these faint, mechanical noises, and this undetermined amount of consciousness; and the pain.

Blackness. He suddenly becomes aware of the blackness surrounding him. He even tries to use his Seidr to possibly help, to no avail.

He thinks hard. Something happened, he somehow knows. Something happened to someone.

Slowly ... Another piece. A sound.

A voice.

Laced with fear and feigned sighs of passion.

"I'm feeling a little dizzy ... "

"Go!"

And after that, he remembers the feelings. the blur of adrenaline, the invincibility, the angst.

The feeling of his heart sinking and sinking until he finally found you, until he saved you from harm. The red anger upon seeing the source of harm and the second wave of unfiltered adrenaline as he sought to eliminate it; and then, nothing.

Nothing. He felt nothing, in an instant.

... The echoes are getting louder, clearer. A steady repetitive sound, grounding him to whatever piece of reality he had in his grasp. He now can hear the distant sound of voices - familiar voices, at least - but cannot make out what they're saying.

What in Odin's name is that noise?

He begins to hear it more and more and the smallest amount of light slowly pours through a tunnel, growing bigger and bigger and brighter; so bright it's nearly blinding - until it does indeed blind him.

No, Loki realizes, he is not blinded. But rather, he can see.

... beep ... beep ... beep ... beep ... beep ...

Oh, Norns. He'd rather be back dead. Or whatever he was just seconds ago. Back to a place where such a nuisance was light years away.

And Gods, this light ...

He can't see. But he can see. It hurts to look. In fact, everything hurts.

His eyes flutter before blinking the last bits of unconsciousness. The first thing he sees is a white ceiling, and he quickly he notices that he cannot move his head.

Both hands fly up to his head before a second thought passes by and the alarming sounds of whatever machinery he's surrounded by startle him even more, making him thrash his legs and head when a stinging pain spreads from his shoulder and a person leans over his body.

"Good to see you're awake," says Bruce Banner - who sounds like he's under water - holding a syringe as Loki relaxes into a chemical drowse. "You've been out of it for almost two days."

After relaxing his jaws, Banner hands him a cup with a straw sticking out of it. "That also means you haven't spoken in almost two days. This should cure that, and then after we can talk. In the meantime, I need to update Tony on your progress."

"Where - " Loki tries, but falls into a violent coughing fit as searing hot pain encases his neck and throat.

"What'd I tell you? Look, we'll explain everything later, I promise. But for now, don't talk - drink."

As Banner pulls out his phone, Loki hesitantly takes a sip from the cup. Lacking the capacity to argue anything further due to whatever Bruce injected in him, he finds the water to be quite soothing to the sore dryness in his throat. He feels it cooling him, from his mouth all the way down before it sloshes in his empty stomach.

"He's awake. ... Vitals are stable but I had to give him an inhuman amount of midazolam since he freaked out a little bit when he came to. ... Nothing adverse. ... Movement's properly restricted. ... Too soon to tell. I think he knows something, but I don't know what or how much. ... She doesn't know yet, she just left earlier to go home and shower. ... I know Tony, but she's gonna wanna know."

Loki cloudedly wonders who Bruce is talking about. He wished to be informed fully of what's happening, but the water is helping more than answers ever could at the moment. Somewhere distant, he notices some kind of contraption is wrapped around his neck and he feels it every time he swallows.

Oh well. It appears he's finished his cup anyway.

~

The Avengers have been so kind as to give Loki a hospital room with a television in it, complete with hundreds of channels on which all are speaking about the same thing - New York's New Hero. And apparently they have been for days.

Midgardians cling to the most ridiculous things. Anyone who goes into a tavern in a fit of love-driven madness to rescue their significant other and bring a band of terroristic criminals to the surface is deemed a hero.

Even if "anyone" is Loki Odinson.

More alert as the sedatives have begun to subside, he chews an ice cube and watches boredly as reporters speak of the events. News hasn't yet been released that he's awakened from his injuries but it's only a matter of time. He shudders to think of how the public will react to that. Like moths to a flame, he dreads.

Loki shakes the cup of ice to get another piece as Banner knocks and enters the room. "How you feeling?" he asks while washing his hands in the nearby sink.

He honestly wasn't sure how he felt. Ill? Tired? Slightly confused? Dead? Unable to articulate himself and frankly without energy enough to try, he shrugs.

Bruce pulls something out of the complimentary miniature refrigerator before asking, "Feeling good enough for pudding?"

Loki's brows knit together with suspect. Ready to interrogate Bruce, he tries yet again to speak but nothing more than a pitiful cough comes out. Bruce takes his ice cup and explains, "Y/N said that's what you'd likely eat first. She said you love pudding."

Y/N ... Y/N!

"Whe - "

Suddenly, three loud knocks come from the door before it bursts open and a frantic heaving figure emerges from the outside. Damp hair, disheveled clothing, duffel bag sloppily thrown over the shoulder.

"Y/N," Loki croaks.

You smile a huge, breathless smile.

"Hey," you finally breathe, dropping your bags and easing over to the hospital bed. Holding back tears as you see those bright green eyes open and alive, albeit drugged.

You instinctively take one of Loki's hands into both of yours, beaming. He's overjoyed as well, eyes smiling with what could only be love. A satisfied little grin. As handsome as ever, even in a hospital gown with dirty hair and a big, bulky neck brace.

"How're you doing?" you whisper.

Loki sighs, "Much better now."

Bruce respectfully gave the two of you a moment of privacy. As soon as the door shut, Loki squeezed your hand. "I missed you," he murmurs.

"Yeah," you laugh, "I missed you too." You really did, more than words can say. "I was so worried," you choke out, as the horror you've kept bottled inside from two days ago washes over you unexpectedly.

Loki slowly whispers, "What happened, dear? I haven't quite put it all together yet."

"What do you remember?"

"Most of everything leading up to ... how I ended up here."

That's good. You wouldn't have to go over the entire flop of a mission then. It wasn't actually a flop since the dudes lost, but considering the outcome you're left with here, pretty much a flop in your eyes.

"Well, you singlehandedly got me out of there, away from that creep of a criminal. You all got the rest, too - killed some, apprehended some - then as we were headed back to the quinjet, you fell forward on the ground and couldn't stand back up. You said you couldn't feel your limbs," tears do spill when you have to relive that moment.

Loki, absorbing the recollection, closes his eyes in devastation. Not out of self-pity, but out of heartbreak that you went through all of this. His lip quivers as he remembers.

"After they examined you in the quinjet, and then here, they found that you somehow reinjured the fractures in your neck from ... "

... No ...

"B-but, but that was reversed - "

"That's what I said too. But apparently, they couldn't undo the injury back then. They could only undo the outcome."

How? And why hadn't he been told before now? Loki's mouth opens and closes but forms no explanation. His eyes dart back and forth to search his brain for an answer, when he feels a warm droplet fall onto the back of his hand.

"Oh love, don't cry. I hate it when you cry," he cooes, cupping your wet cheek with one hand. He swipes the tears away with his thumb.

Looking up you meet his encouraging gaze, and can't resist resting your head in his hand. It's amazing how such a small gesture can make you feel so protected and loved.

"I'm sorry," you laugh nervously, pulling yourself together. "But y'know, look at the bright side. Now you're New York's New Hero."

Funny how the tables can turn.

Loki drops his hand and looks past you, "I don't feel like a hero."

"Well, you are one." You make him look you in the eye and whisper, "You're my hero."

In a matter of seconds a million things swim through Loki's eyes. Disbelief at your words, feeling unworthy, undeserving of you, yet gratitude, and adoration. In an even shorter instant he thickly swallows his emotions down against the neck brace.

It is quickly replaced with mischief.

"Come closer," he mumbles. You comply, questioning. "Closer," he says.

You do, and you're less than a foot away.

"Closer," he whispers again with lidded eyes. Now with you only inches away, he says it again. "Closer ... "

You can't help giggling at this point. Your noses touch, and you feel Loki's breath as he says, "I adore you."

Needless to say, you learned very quickly how to kiss him around a neck brace.

~

tag list: @sydneyss-worlddd @afinedilemma @fire-in-her-veinz @belladonnabarnes @drakesfiance @internetgremlin @dragon-chica @triggeredpossum @tarynkauai

[hollywooduniversityalumnus]

7. all filled up with things benign

🎬🎬🎬🎬🎬

Much like any other university, Hollywood University required a metric fuck-ton of paperwork to be submitted for approval of an extended leave of absence from classes. However, unlike most universities, Hollywood U encouraged such leaves, under the condition that they were for career-related endeavours, like a six-week film shoot overseas or back-to-back tapings of a new television show being optioned for one of the many streaming services. Not only would the student receive invaluable “real world” experience, a credit for their resume, and financial compensation, but the university could leverage the experience for positive publicity (and, therefore, receive financial compensation as well).

Though Hollywood U professors stressed the importance of finding work in the industry while studying, most of the students attending the university stuck to using their class projects as resume builders and spent their free time partying and cavorting around California. Those students typically found themselves scrambling to find work once they did graduate, as they had not built enough connections and rapport to be personally contacted for a job. It was sad to see aspiring directors and actors with untapped potential head back home with their heads down and dreams dashed.

Still, Thomas thought, if Hollywood U wanted faculty and students alike to enthusiastically take part in school-sanctioned leaves, they ought to consider making the paperwork less tedious.

He stared down the stack of paperwork that Miss Schuyler had so kindly left for him to deal with. It wasn’t as thick as the stack Priya had once left him – a list of complaints and observations about the students she shared with him, which he promptly recycled, because even he had a limit to his negativity – but it was daunting to look at, especially since he knew that he had to carefully read every word of it to ensure that his student’s participation in Penn Cattrall’s yet-to-be-titled film wasn’t going to end the same way her experience with Clash at Sunset did.

And, of course, to see what he had to do to keep her on track with the rest of her peers. Of all her professors, he had been the obvious choice to administer the work she would need to complete whilst filming, and he was not looking forward to the extra work he would have to do for it.

Knowing there was nothing else to do but dive in, he set down his mug of coffee and situated himself in his seat, taking a moment to adjust the lamp on his desk before pulling down the first of the many stapled stacks.

🎬🎬🎬🎬🎬

Two and a half hours later, Thomas set down his third coffee refill and rubbed between his eyebrows. Behind him, the world beyond the window grew dimmer, and the hallway around his office swallowed up in silence. Certain he was the only one still in that wing of the school, perhaps even on that side of campus, he took a moment to get up and stretch, mind still whirring over everything he had read.

She was due to leave in three days’ time for France. The contracts he read didn’t say anything about the plot of the film she was leading, but he guessed by the extra paperwork regarding health and safety liabilities while filming in the catacombs of Paris that it had something to do with the horrors of being lost in a claustrophobic, labyrinthine setting surrounded by the dead.

Along with the liability clauses, there was a lot said about the safety of the stunt work she’d be performing herself, which he’d flagged with a sticky note. More sticky notes were used to mark certain lines that he needed further elaboration on, and parts of the contracts that seemed impossible to enforce from far away.

It had taken him what felt like eons to get to what was the most relevant part for him: the continuing education contract.

But the words that were so important for him to digest, as he would be the one to hold her to them, swam in front of his eyes as he quickly became lost in thought. Still stuck on the tidbits of information sprinkled within the documents, breadcrumbs that piece together a vague picture of what Miss Schuyler was to be doing during her six-week leave. It bothered him that he was so bothered, but he couldn’t help it.

How was she going to react to being in the depths of the catacombs? She had difficulty just sitting in the dark for too long.

And then: does she even know what she signed up for?

Penn Cattrall should’ve given her a copy of the script. Should’ve given her a head’s up of what was expected (including the stunts that she was apparently doing herself). Should’ve gotten to know her before giving her such a challenging role.

Thomas’s fingers hovered over the keyboard of his laptop before he even realized he’d opened it.

I should warn her, he thought. What if she doesn’t know?

And then that pesky second opinion in his head, another side of himself, countered, She has to know already. After everything that happened with Anders Stone and Richard Sheridan, she would have read everything Penn Cattrall’s people sent over with a fine-toothed comb. She wouldn’t agree to this without knowing.

But what if she did?

Thomas slowly lowered his laptop’s screen and stared at the brand logo on the back. The edges of a small sticker, one from his college days that he’d stumbled upon when sorting his attic, were peeling off, and he pressed his fingers down to try and flatten them. It was a simple rectangular sticker of a quote. A memory of Yvonne purchasing him that sticker at a street fair near their campus bubbled up, but he pressed down with his fingers as if to pop it.

The enemy of art is the absence of limitations.

Though he was remarkably awarded for a fairly new director, Penn Cattrall did not yet have the power behind his name to blow dozens of millions of dollars on a single film. It had taken Thomas two films and just as many Audrey Awards to get there himself. Though the estimated five million dollar budget for the film was nothing to scoff at, Thomas knew that, after taking into account the portion of the funds that would be exchanged for access to the off-limits areas in which they’d be filming, as well as all the equipment that would be used to capture the film and keep the cast and crew safe down below, the true budget of the film was going to be quite tight indeed.

That would be a limitation, a box that would force Penn Cattrall and his crew to think outside of it without breaking the bank or disrupting the production. It could be done; after Spielberg and the Jaws crew sunk so much money into creating the mechanical shark that famously rarely worked, the director’s decision to omit the sighting of the shark until much later in the film became one of the most memorable techniques to build suspense in film. Limitation worked then.

But Margot . . .

Since that night on that gaudy set, he wondered how she coped with the memories of her past. He’d seen her sitting in darkened rooms before – like in the auditorium watching Spencer Yamaguchi’s one-man musical – but there were still light sources, still a feeling of being among a crowd, of safety. But he’d also seen – well, heard - her on that set, crying to herself.

How would she react to long hours of being deep below ground, surrounded by the remains of those who passed long ago? Penn Cattrall wouldn’t be so cruel as to make her film in complete darkness, but the catacombs definitely weren’t known for making people feel safe. Nor, Thomas guessed, would the characters be in the catacombs with perfectly working light sources, if this was a horror film like all his others. Sure, there had to be breaks where they came up for air, food, and sunlight. But what of those hours of filming in near darkness, amongst death and decay?

Was her past her limitation?

More importantly, would – could – she work with it?

🎬🎬🎬🎬🎬

“Miss Schuyler. Thank you for arriving on time for once.”

Displeased with being called into his office on a Friday morning, Margot lazily fell into the chair opposite his desk, her hands already tapping mindlessly on her thighs. Immediately diverting his gaze from her thighs – and the skirt she somehow considered appropriate enough to wear for such a meeting – Thomas cleared his throat.

“I’ve read through the paperwork for your extended leave,” he began. “Most of it is in order. I’ve already forwarded the very little I have issue with to be further reviewed by Penn Cattrall and Hollywood U’s lawyers.”

“Great,” Margot said, her voice flat and tired. “Is that all?”

He narrowed his eyes at her. “I do hope you don’t show this kind of attitude to Penn Cattrall, or you’ll be fired and blacklisted in this industry faster than Megan Fox in her Transformers days. This is a tremendous opportunity for any actor, and even more so for a newcomer.”

In the silence that followed his words, her head lowered. Her lower lip trembled. And his stomach twisted.

Where was the confident, cocky young actress determined to take Hollywood by storm? It was almost as if they were back on that damn set, drinking Snapple and letting their guards down little by little. This time, he could see her face, and he knew that the issue was not what he had just said to her, but something else. Something had been bothering her before she’d even come into the room.

His voice softened. “What happened?”

Margot immediately shook her head. “Nothing.”

“I know you,” he said before he could stop himself. “This ‘nothing’ is a ‘something.’ What is it?”

And when she finally looked up at him again, he stood at the sight of the tears spilling from her eyes. He moved quickly, taking the box of tissues he had set upon a shelf and maneuvering around his desk until he was standing by her side. Handing her a tissue, he leaned against the desk and took in her body language, noticing with grim certainty that she had been feeling off long before he’d even thought to discuss the paperwork with her.

She blew her nose. Then, with another tissue, she dabbed at her eyes and swept under the lower lashes, the tissue picking up some makeup on its way.

“Take your time,” he said.

Take your time? a part of him repeated. Since when did you get so soft?

Margot let out a deep, shuddering breath. Then, focusing more on the steadily growing pile of tissues she accumulated in one hand, she spoke.

“Up until a week ago, Penn Cattrall was sure that we were going to be filming entirely on a sound stage.” Her voice trembled, and she took a deep breath. “I – I was fine with that. A sound stage means that the lights come up, you step outside for some light, you know, no problem at all. But then . . . I don’t know how he got permission, but . . .”

She promptly pulled another tissue from the box and blew her nose into it. Thomas crossed his arms over his stomach, holding in his impatience.

Don’t rush her; let her find the words.

“I don’t think I can do it,” she admitted, and then it was a rush of words like a flood headed downhill. “I’ve been trying – I mean, I’ve been practicing, rehearsing in my room in the dark, just a headlamp and a flashlight, all by myself but – I can’t do it, I can’t do it in my own bedroom, let alone the fucking Parisian catacombs with the bones and the tunnels and – what if I get scared and then lost? What if – he said we’d be safe, but no one’s ever been permitted to film in the off-limits areas till now, and I – I’m terrified.” She buried her head in her hands. “How can I call myself an actress if I can’t get over this?”

He looked over her in silence.

“I’m going to ruin my career, and it’s just begun.”

Her words fell on deaf ears. Thomas began breathing slowly, deeply, and, while it clearly annoyed Margot, she caught on to what he was doing and matched his breaths. Inhale, hold, exhale, hold, repeat. Inhale, hold, exhale, hold, repeat.

When it seemed like she’d finally calmed, Thomas sighed. “The pressure you’re putting on yourself is not helping you. You will gain nothing from considering yourself a failure from the start. Your performance will be impacted by your thoughts. You will lose your starring role if you let this go on.”

“How do I stop it?” Margot cried. “You’re my teacher. Teach me.”

Thomas grimaced at the reminder.

“How do I get over this?” she asked.

“You don’t,” he said bluntly. “You simply learn to roll with it, as many other actors and artists before you have.”

Margot rolled her eyes. “Oh, great, another anecdote from your days on Battlefield Earth. I would’ve thought you’d told them all in class by now.”

“Mar- Miss Schuyler.” Thomas blinked a few times, reminding himself of decorum, of the rules he had to adhere to as a faculty member speaking to his student. “You’re not the first, and certainly not the last, actor working with their traumas and fears to complete a production. A simple Google search will tell you that a multitude of actors admit to feeling emotionally and mentally drained from the work they do that involves at least some aspect of their fears. For some, it is claustrophobia when filming in confined spaces for the majority of a film. For others, it is continual exposure to creatures or things that they may associate with terrible memories or have faced before and nearly lost. Fear of heights in an action film. Fear of large bodies of water and drowning after seeing such a thing happen in their childhood. And yes, fear of the dark and the unknown shrouded within it.”

She dabbed at her eyes with another tissue.

“You are not alone in your feelings. More to the point, you are not – and will not be – alone. You will never be alone like that again.”

She nodded.

And Thomas, quickly turning back to his desk, procured some papers from his desk and changed the topic.

“So, about your homework . . .”

🎬🎬🎬🎬🎬

Production Progress Journal Entry 1:

Within the Parisian catacombs, there is a sign that says (according to Penn Cattrall, who translated it for me): “Stop! This is the Empire of the Dead.”

They are not wrong.

To say that I am far beyond my comfort zone is an understatement. More accurately, I’m far beneath it (twenty metres or so, in fact; thanks, tour guide Jack/Jacques).

Penn had arranged a special tour for the cast and crew, which was done in staggered batches of ten with a guide in front and a guide at the rear to keep everyone together. Honestly, they didn’t need to arrange it like that; I doubt that anyone, when within the Empire of the Dead, would branch away from the group when surrounded by dust and bones and stale air. The tour was apparently the same as any regular tour, though the “special” part of it came into play once we had reached a certain point within the catacombs, when the guides took us through a clearly marked off-limits area to show us one of the many places we’ll be working in under the direct supervision of several officials and safety officers.

You think, once you’ve walked around in a cavern made of cadavers for forty or so minutes, you’d be relatively numb to the sight of another area stacked high with bones.

I just . . . didn’t expect the first shots we’ll be filming to take place within such a microscopic tunnel.

🎬🎬🎬🎬🎬

Thomas Hunt’s comments on Production Progress Journal Entry 1:

I am not surprised to hear of the extensive security and safety detail.

I am surprised that you didn’t expect to film in areas that may trigger claustrophobia.

Have you done anything at all to help mentally and physically prepare for the shoot?

🎬🎬🎬🎬🎬

Production Progress Journal Entry 2:

On the plane ride to France, I’d started listening to the podcast “How to Find Peace Within Yourself: A Guided Meditation to Alleviate the Darkness and Manifest the Light.” Once settled in my temporary hotel home for the next six or so weeks, I made space on the floor and did partake in some of their suggested activities, including mindfully making a cup of tea and waking up at ungodly hours to sit in front of the window and focus on how the light of the sunrise felt creeping up my body.

At about seven in the morning today, we made our first descent of many for this film into the catacombs.

Approximately nineteen minutes later, a safety officer had guided me out, where I’d narrowly managed to reach a trash bin before I’d vomited up my breakfast.

Manifesting the light through mindful tea making is bullshit.

Thank fuck it was only a rehearsal.

🎬🎬🎬🎬🎬

Production Progress Journal Entry 2.5:

Just got out of a last-minute meeting/admonishment talk with Penn. From what memory serves, he told me that he was worried we’d both bitten off more than we can chew with this ambitious project. I know he’s trying to soften the blow of the underlying warning of his words.

He is unimpressed. He has every right to be.

Whatever he saw in me when he chose me is not present now, and I don’t know how to come back from this.

I am not the only cast member who has to take frequent breaks from below; my co-star, Oliver Abel, is extremely claustrophobic. He has a scene planned for filming tomorrow that involves him squeezing through the aforementioned tunnel, and I honestly don’t know how he’ll pull it off.

I hope he can do it.

I hope we all can do it.

I don’t want to lose this opportunity.

🎬🎬🎬🎬🎬

Production Progress Journal Entry 3:

I don’t know if I can do what Oliver did.

He’s managed to use his fear to power his performance, sobbing desperately and clawing at the tunnel walls. First take, best take, and while I’m proud, I’m also nervous.

The past few days, Penn has allowed me to focus mainly on above-ground scenes while the crew gets more comfortable with working underground. But we’re running out of filler scenes to film. Soon, it will be my turn to wiggle atop a pile of bones (supplied by Penn’s affiliated prop company, and not the real bones of dead citizens) and plea for mercy.

I don’t know how I’m going to do it.

Especially if my headlamps malfunction, plunging me into darkness, as mentioned in the final draft of the screenplay I got a few hours ago.

Help.

🎬🎬🎬🎬🎬

Thomas Hunt’s comments on Production Progress Journal Entry 3:

You are too busy worrying about yourself that you are not learning from those around you.

🎬🎬🎬🎬🎬

The phone call came just before eight p.m.

Thomas had reclined in his favourite armchair, beat after a day of marking subpar assignments. His red pen had run out of ink halfway through an essay that was more a waste of paper and ink than an acceptable analysis on auteurist theory, and he’d had to switch from coffee to scotch after ripping apart Lance Sergio’s paper on Sophie’s Choice.

Really, how is that boy still enrolled?

The floor lamp positioned by his armchair went dark, and Thomas turned his head to look at it. He’d have to buy a new bulb for it. Been meaning to for a while now. Another thing to add to his ever-growing list of responsibilities and errands.

He blinked slowly at the shrill noise that broke the comfortable silence, realizing seconds later that it was his cell phone ringing. A number he didn’t recognize, with an area code he couldn’t place off the top of his head.

Still, he answered.

“Who is this?” he asked simply, leaning back into his chair.

Her hushed voice had him jolting straight up again.

“I can’t do this. Help me.”

Though he felt as though his blood has run cold, he kept his voice even as he asked, “How did you get this number, Miss Schuyler?”

“I have my ways.” She sounded on the verge of tears. “I’m scared. I don’t – I don’t think I can do this.”

And Thomas, being the level-headed, critical, highly regarded and rewarded director, actor, professor, and screenwriter that he was, sucked in a deep breath before replying.

“Yes, you can.”

“I can’t, I-”

Thomas’s voice was stern. “Margot. Did I not stand for you during your hearing? Do you think I said any of those things falsely? You have shown tremendous growth in such a short time. You led and assisted in multiple school projects. You have acting and producing credits for films that have been nominated – and won – awards.”

“I never had to do any of those things underground,” she argued, her teary voice giving way to a spark of anger. “I’m fine in front of a camera and behind it. I’m happy to be in the spotlight. But I can’t cope with this. Have you ever been to the catacombs? How lonely and suffocating it is to be so far below, hidden away from the world? I close my eyes for too long and it’s like I’m right back in that fucking shed my mother pretended was a house.” Her voice broke on the last few words, and Thomas’s chest tightened.

Her words were met with silence until he had gathered his thoughts on how to assure her.

“The camera crew is there. Mr. Cattrall will be there. You will not be alone. At the first sign of distress, they will halt filming so you can regain composure.” His voice hardened. “You cannot quit now. You have just begun to soar.”

“I’m going to plummet face-first into bones and debris.”

Thomas huffed. “Perhaps. But you will get up again.”

She sniffled.

“Have you considered a therapist?”

“It’s a little late for that.”

“It’s never too late to take care of yourself,” Thomas admonished. “A podcast and meditation are good starts, but the way you react to things that remind you of your trauma is rather unhealthy and will stunt the growth – both personal and craft-wise – that you have already made.”

She said nothing.

He cleared his throat. “Does Mr. Cattrall know?”

She snorted. “All he knows is I’m a failure. I can practically hear him calling for my replacement as we speak.”

Thomas checked his watch, then strained to remember the time difference. Eight p.m. here was . . .

“Are you calling me right before your shoot starts?”

He heard her take a sip of something. “I could barely sleep. I’ve felt sick to my stomach all night.”

“Margot, you are not making this easy for yourself.”

She snorted again. “It’s not going to be easy, period.”

Thomas sighed, running his fingers over one of the arms on his chair. “You need to tell Mr. Cattrall. A good director knows their performers. I’m sure he’ll be more lenient on you if he knew.”

“And be called a crybaby?” Margot snapped. “No, thanks.”

Thomas let out a huff of annoyance. “Margot, why are you even calling if you don’t want any of my advice?”

“Because . . . I don’t know anyone else who would care.”

Silence.

“Margot-”

“Miss Peaches is gone, and I can’t remember the breathing technique she taught me.” Her voice grew higher, hysterical. “I sleep with a lamp on because I can’t handle the feeling of being abandoned again. The few things I’ve filmed in darkness were done surrounded by dozens of crew members on sound stages where everything is predictable and there’s no threat of cave-ins or collapses.”

“Margot, listen-”

“You heard me that night on the set. You know how it makes me feel.”

“I do. I did hear you. I know what you’ve been through.” Thomas’s voice, once again, became strangely soft, soothing. “Margot, you cannot let this hold you back forever. You will face it again and again. It’s not something one simply ‘gets over.’ You have to learn with work with it, and make it work to your advantage.”

She sobbed, and his throat went dry. “How?”

Thomas closed his eyes. His fingers pressed firmly against the arm of his chair, as if smoothing down the edges of a peeling sticker.

“‘The enemy of art is the absence of limitations.’”

He hadn’t realized he’d said it out loud until Margot spoke again, her voice shaky but still understandable.

“Orson Welles.”

He hummed. “He was my father’s favourite filmmaker. My parents rarely let me stay up to watch movies, but when a Welles was on, well . . . he made the popcorn, I sliced the jalapenos, and we sat together under his spell. It was one of the few times we actually got along.”

“You put jalapeno slices in your popcorn?”

Thomas smiled. “Don’t knock it till you try it.”

“I’ll stick with Reese’s Pieces, thanks.” She sounded a bit more upbeat, which he found encouraging.

So, while it wasn’t something he normally advertised, he admitted, “My father named me after him, actually.”

The sound of Margot’s laugh was like a burst of sunlight on his skin, warming and comforting. “Really? How so?”

“Orson is my middle name.” Thomas failed to keep the smile out of his voice. “I understand why he did it, given Welles’s impact on cinema, but it was tough just learning how to spell it when I was a boy.”

“I’m trying to imagine you as a child. All I see is a scowling little boy in a suit.”

“You wouldn’t be very far off.”

“So you’ve always worn suits?”

“My mother dressed me to impress. And to get made fun of.”

Every time she laughed, the weight on his chest lifted a little more. And he found that he couldn’t hold back his own laughter, even as he shook away the memories of playground bullies kicking dirt at him and scribbling on his sleeves with markers.

“Thomas?” Her laughter had died down, and her voice was timid.

“Yes?”

Margot sighed. “Thank you. I feel a little better now. I’ll try to remember what you said, about taking care of myself and getting up again.”

He nodded, as if she could see it. “Don’t forget the quote.”

“Right.”

There was a pause.

“Could you . . . elaborate further on that?”

Thomas rolled his eyes good-naturedly. “Limitations breed creativity. They foster growth beyond its restrictions. Take your co-star for example. Claustrophobic, yet he filmed his scene well. You wrote that his fear powered his performance, made it stronger. You feel limited by your trauma. But could you work with it and use it to add verisimilitude to your character’s journey?”

Margot, wherever in Paris she was, took a deep breath that sounded like a gust of wind into his ear. “I – I’m not sure.”

“You’ve fuelled your performances before with your pain.” Thomas thought back to the first acting project she’d helmed since Clash at Sunset’s premiere, when Anders Stone tricked her out of millions of dollars. She’d played a fiery sidekick to her classmate Erik’s cliché cowboy, effectively stealing the show with how genuine her actions seemed to be. “You’ve used anger to your advantage. Pain is part of that realm. You do not have to be sure. You only have to try.”

In the background of her side of the call, he could hear someone talking to her. Then, Margot’s voice came back on the phone, apologetic.

“I have to go. It’s time.” She paused, then added, “Thank you. Really. I’ll try to make you proud.”

Thomas smiled to himself and said, “Don’t forget to do your progress report.”

🎬🎬🎬🎬🎬

Long after she’d hung up, he stared at his phone in silence.

I’ll try to make you proud, she’d said.

You already have, he wanted to reply.

🎬🎬🎬🎬🎬

He poured three more fingers of scotch into his glass and carefully selected two perfect ice cubes from the steel container on his drink cart. Flicking on a random channel, he attempted to absorb the film that was already midway through. Instead, it was a flashy, action-packed thing for his eyes to watch while his mind whirred behind them.

He wished he could stop replaying their phone call in his head. The way he’d told her his middle name, admitted he’d been bullied for being different, and encouraged her to use her vulnerabilities to her advantage.

The sound of a gun firing temporarily shook him from his thoughts. Shaking his head to clear his mind, he raised his glass to his lips.

🎬🎬🎬🎬🎬

There had been a time when, if Thomas strained his ears enough, he could hear the echoes of Yvonne’s laughter, her voice crooning for him to join her on an impromptu adventure as an attempt to make him socialize more. He rarely willingly tortured himself with the memories, but on a night like this, with too much scotch in his system and the living room’s burnt-out lamp bulb shrouding him in partial darkness, he settled into his seat and closed his eyes, expecting his mind to conjure up the image of the woman he had once loved and chose to lose.

He saw his fingers running through her long dark locks that stretched far beneath her shoulders, framing her face in gentle, inky waves that shone impossibly beneath the night sky.

Her eyes, framed by dark lashes, dark brown irises shockingly bright and intent on his face.

Her cheek pressing into his palm, eyes fluttering closed as she leaned into it further, as if his touch soothed.

A silver-blue gown’s skirt twirling around her legs as they danced.

A different ethereal silver-blue gown rendered diaphanous by the rainfall.

Her angular face, flushed from breathless kisses, illuminated by the bright colours of the fireworks display.

Her voice was a whisper that reverberated within his skull, words overlapping with different emotions.

“Hunt?”

“Please, Thomas . . .”

“My feelings for you are not fake.”

His eyes shot open.

No.

No, no, no.

What did Yvonne look like?

What did she sound like?

What was her last name again?

Does it matter anymore?

🎬🎬🎬🎬🎬

Production Progress Journal Entry 4:

A wise man once told me that another wise man said, “The enemy of art is the absence of limitations.”

(Orson Welles, in case I have to give credit. This is a school thing, right? Do I need to put this in MLA/APA/whatever?)

The things I associate with darkness, particularly being along in darkness, are my limitations. They make me feel sick to my stomach, bring tears that burn in my eyes until they fall, and make me want to avoid any and all scenarios in which I’d have to face them.

I’ve fueled performances with my emotions before. I’ve used heartbreak to write a best-selling song and anger to light up a performance about a vengeance-seeking cowgirl. Certainly, I could do it again with this emotion, this sadness and pain.

And I did.

The pile of bones scene was terrifying, especially with the headlamp flickering on and off. But I knew I wasn’t alone, that despite the setting we were filming in, I was safe and seen. I was still scared, but I knew my character would be, too. I’d spoken to Penn Cattrall before filming the scene, and he’d told me that the pain I felt, if translated as well as Oliver’s claustrophobia was to his performance, made the struggles of my character real. He’s rewritten Oliver’s character to be claustrophobic, and he’s going to work on mine so that I can work through my fears.

In half an hour (I’m on break with Oliver right now; enjoying a panini from a nearby café) I’ll be filming a scene with Oliver in another area of the catacombs, a microscopic chamber with a hole in the wall. We’re both terrified. And we’re both excited to try.

🎬🎬🎬🎬🎬🎬🎬🎬🎬🎬

Author’s Note:

Hi, friends. It’s been a while, I know. “Real life” got a lot busier than I expected.

But anyway, just wondering if it’s worth it to keep posting the chapters of this story on Tumblr. I’m already posting it on AO3 as it is, and to be quite frank, there’s really no engagement here so I’m not sure if I’m just clogging the tags.

Please let me know what you think :)