#anyway the story didn’t fully adhere (to itself) as I intended

[apparitionism]

Bonus 4

First, a PSA: If you are eligible to vote in next week’s US election, please VOTE FOR HARRIS as well as every other Democratic candidate on the ballot, and do what you can to persuade as many other people as you can to do the same. I assume anyone who bothers to read my writing is smart enough to understand why that’s necessary—and why engaging in any sort of protest-vote or sit-this-one-out charade is counter to the interests of most living breathing people at this point in history.

Anyway. Here I offer the final part of last year’s Christmas story... again and as usual, where were we? I recommend the intro to part 1 for where we are, canon-wise (S4, essentially, but diverging); beyond that, Myka has just returned to the Warehouse after a holiday retrieval in Cleveland (Pete, in town visiting his family, was tangentially involved), where Helena, whom Myka hadn’t seen since the Warehouse didn’t explode, served as her backup—a situation facilitated by Claudia as something of a Christmas bonus. Post-retrieval, Helena and Myka shared a meal at a restaurant; this was a new experience that went quite well until, alas, Helena was instructed (by powers higher than Claudia) to leave. Thus Myka returned home, both buoyed and bereft... and here the tale resumes. I mentioned part 1, but for the full scraping of Myka’s soul, see part 2 and part 3 as well.

Bonus 4

Late on Christmas Day, Myka is heading to the kitchen for a warm and, preferably, spiked beverage, intending to curl up with that and a book—well, maybe a book; a restless scanning of her shelves had left her drained and decisionless, hence the need for a resetting, and settling, beverage—and to convince herself to appreciate the peace of these waning Christmas hours. She peeks into the living room, just to assess the wider situation, and regards a sofa-draped Pete. He returned from Ohio barely an hour ago, which Myka knows because she had heard Claudia exclaim over his arrival. Then things had gone quiet.

Now, he appears to be napping.

Myka tries to slink away.

“Claud mentioned about your backup,” he says as soon as her back is turned, startling her and proving she’s a terrible slinker. Small favors, though: at least she hadn’t already had her beverage in hand and so isn’t wearing it now. “That had to be weird,” he goes on, sitting up.

She’s been wondering whether the topic would come up, whenever they happened to get beyond how-was-your-trip pleasantries... she entertains herself for a moment with the idea of referring to Helena, specifically with Pete, as “the topic.” So she tries it: “‘Weird’ does not begin to describe the topic.” It is entertaining, as a little secret-layers-of-meaning sneak. But there’s yet more entertainment in the offing, with its own secret layers: “Incidentally, speaking of weird—which I’m sure was also mentioned—I met your cousin. Thanks for giving her an artifact. Very Christmas of you.”

He rounds his spine into the sofa like he’s trying to back his way through the upholstery and escape. “Don’t be mad. I didn’t mean to. I didn’t know it was an artifact.”

Myka is tempted to keep him guessing about her feelings, but she doesn’t really have the energy; she gives up on entertainment and tells the truth: “I’m not mad. I’m serious: thank you.”

“I think you’re trying to trick me,” he skeptics. “Soften me up for something. But if that’s for real, then you should thank my mom more than me.”

Pete’s mother. The extent of Jane Lattimer’s role in Myka’s life is... surprising. Then again the extent of her role in Pete’s life has turned out to be surprising too, and that’s probably a bigger deal, all things considered.

Pete goes on, “Because I was gonna blame her, but should I give her props instead? It was her idea to give the little feather guy to Nancy, because of how after I got it I saw that it’d probably PTSD you.”

“I appreciate the seeing, but... wait. After you got it. How’d you get it in the first place?”

“I was in this antique store,” Pete says.

As if that explains everything—when in fact it explains nothing. In further fact, it unexplains. “Why were you in an antique store? According to you, you hated those even before the Warehouse turned them into artifact arcades.”

“Mom was picking something up there, and this guy showed it to me.”

“Your mom, this guy...” Myka is now beyond suspicious. “What did this guy look like?” A pointless question. As if knowing that could help her... as if anything could really help her. This is madness. “Fine. It doesn’t matter what he looked like, because I’m stopping here. I can’t keep doing this. For my sanity, I can’t.”

“Keep doing what?”

“Tracing it back. You win. You all win.”

“Do we? Doesn’t feel like it. And that doesn’t seem like a reason you’d be thanking me.”

“No. That isn’t. But as of now I’m trying to keep myself from focusing on... let’s call it the causal chain.”

“I’d rather focus on the popcorn chain.” He points to the strands that loop the Christmas tree.

They are the tree’s only adornment. Every prior holiday season of Myka’s Warehouse association, Leena has decorated the B&B unto a traditional-Christmas Platonic ideal; this year, in her absence, Myka, Steve, and Claudia, trying to replicate that, had purchased a tree. And transported it home. And situated it near to plumb in the tree stand, which was an exhausting exercise in what they earnestly assured each other was complicated physics but was really just physical incompetence.

They had then settled in to do the actual decorating, starting with popcorn strings... but once they’d finished those, they were indeed finished, pathetically drained of holiday effort. And they’d succeeded in that initial (and sadly final) project only because, as they’d all agreed once they’d strung the popcorn, Pete hadn’t been there to shovel the bulk of their also-pathetic popping efforts into his mouth.

“Take them down, slurp them up like spaghetti if you want,” Myka says now. “Christmas is pretty much over.” The statement—its truth—makes her stew. At Pete? But the situation isn’t ultimately his fault, no matter what part he played. And why is she so set on assigning, or marinating in, this vague blame anyway? She got something she wanted: time with Helena. It didn’t work out as perfectly as she’d wished it would, but she got it.

She tries to resettle: her heart to remembrance, her brain to appreciation.

The doorbell rings, its old-fashioned rounded bing-bong resounding from foyer to living room and beyond, bouncing heavily against every surface. Myka lets the vibrations push her toward the kitchen; she’s had enough of interaction for now. Her beverage and book, whichever one will provide some right refuge, await. As do remembrance and appreciation.

She hears Pete sigh and the sofa creak; he must have shoved himself from it in order to lurch to the foyer. A minute later, he yells, “Guess what! Christmas might not be over!”

Still kitchen-focused, Myka yells back, “If that’s not Santa himself, you’re wrong!”

“Never heard of that being one of her things!” Pete shouts, even louder.

“Quit shouting!” Myka bellows, so loud that she drowns out her own initial registering of what he’s said, which then starts to resonate in her head, a stimulating hum that resolves into meaning... her things? Her things... Myka’s torso initiates a turn; her body knows what’s happening, even if her brain—

“Hey, H.G.,” Pete says, and now every part of Myka knows.

Except her eyes, but once she moves to the foyer to stand behind Pete, they know too: There Helena is. Her body. Embodied. The illumination of her, in the foyer semi-dark... her bright eyes catching Myka’s, warming to the catch... oh, this.

Seeing the sight—greeting, once again, her perfect match—she is struck dumb.

There’s movement behind her, though, and she turns to see Steve and Claudia poking their heads into the space like meerkats—well, no, in South Dakota she should think prairie dogs... but they’re both built more like meerkats than prairie dogs, so she should probably keep thinking meerkats out of... respect? Whatever: they’re animal-alert, heads aswivel, faces alight. It surely signifies something.

Turning back to Helena, trying to get a voice in her mouth, she coughs out, “You’re back? Now? I mean, already? How did you—”

“To quote myself: ‘when I can, I will,’” Helena says, as matter-of-factly as anyone could possibly speak while maintaining intense eye contact with one person, and Myka thanks all gods and firefighters above that she is herself that person. “Now, not forty-eight hours later, I could. Thus I did. I should note that I’m unsure as to why I could, but perhaps it’s a gift horse?” Her focus on Myka does not waver. Pete and the meerkats might as well not exist, and Myka in turn is mesmerized.

“Maybe that’s the horse you rode in on,” Claudia says. Is she trying to break the spell? Myka wishes she wouldn’t... she ideates shushing her, even as Claudia goes on, “But better late than never, Christmas-wise, right?”

“Did you enjoy your additional portion of squash?” Helena asks Myka, ignoring Claudia’s interjection. Her tone is formal, presenting public, but her question is for Myka alone.

“It was very good for my heart,” Myka says. She doesn’t add, though she could, And so was that question.

Helena smiles like she heard both good-fors—like she’s grateful for both—and Myka thinks, for the first time out loud in her head, She feels the same way I do.

It’s... new. Different. Perfect? Not yet, the out-loud-in-her-head voice instructs.

But she can make a move in that direction. “Please put your suitcase in my room,” she says. Out loud, outside her head. Realing it.

“I will,” Helena says. She takes up her case and moves toward the stairs, presumably to real that too.

It renders Myka once again enraptured. She is taking her suitcase to my room. My room. She is.

The first stair-creaks that Helena’s ascent occasions sound, to Myka’s eagerly interpretive ears, approving.

Claudia and Steve don’t even blink. Pete does—well, more the opposite; he widens his eyes in the cartoony way.

But then he turns on his heel, Marine-brusque and not at all cartoony, and exits the space. Myka doesn’t know what to make of that. She’ll most likely have to address the topic—in fact, “the topic”—with him later. Fortunately, later isn’t now.

She does know, however, what to make of Steve and Claudia’s aspect: “I’m sensing some ‘aren’t we clever’ preening,” she accuses.

“We are clever,” Claudia says, dusting off her shoulder. “More Fred. Don’t sweat it.”

Exasperating. “Don’t sweat it? As I understood the situation, Fred was a retrieval and an insanely expensive dinner. Are we doing that again, or is she back for good?”

“She’s back for nice,” Claudia says.

Steve jumps in with, “To answer your question: we’re not a hundred percent sure.”

“See, we made a deal,” Claudia says.

“With whom?” Myka asks.

“Santa?” Claudia says, but without commitment. Myka’s response of an oh-come-on face causes her to huff, “Fine. Pete’s mom and company. And Mrs. F. And even Artie, in absentia.”

“What kind of deal?” Myka asks, because while she can’t dispute the indisputably positive fact that Helena is here, she mistrusts any deal involving Regents. Pete’s mom aside. Or Pete’s mom included: She can’t stop her brain from stirring, stirring once again to life those causal-chain questions: What’s being put in motion this time?

“A kind of deal about which things they’re willing to let us—well, technically Steve—say are nice,” Claudia pronounces, as if that explains everything.

Myka is very tired of proffered explanations that actually unexplain.

Steve says, “Claudia finally found the file on the pen. Seems that Santa’s list, once made, is kind of ridiculously powerful. And it turns out you can put a situation on the list.”

“For example,” Claudia supplies, “H.G. and you. Getting to be in each other’s... proximity.”

Steve adds, “And yours isn’t the only one I put there. That was part of the deal.”

“So you’re letting the pen reward nice situations with... existing,” Myka says. “And are you storing it on some new ‘Don’t Neutralize’ shelf? So nobody accidentally bags the existence out of them?”

Claudia says, “Kinda. At least for a while.”

This all seems deceptively, not to mention dangerously, easy. “But: personal gain, not for,” Myka points out.

“Right,” Steve says. “So here’s a question: what does ‘personal gain’ actually mean? The manual doesn’t have a glossary. So we’re trying to work it out. Let’s say Claud uses an artifact and then makes this utterance: ‘My use of this artifact was not for personal gain.’ And let’s say I assess that utterance as not a lie. The question remains, are the Warehouse and Claud and I agreeing on the definition of ‘personal gain’?”

“The question remains,” Myka echoes, fretting. “And the answer?”

“We’ll see,” Steve says.

It’s destabilizing, but that’s the Warehouse’s fault, not Steve’s. “I just hope the artifact won’t downside you for any disagreement. Because you’re remarkably nonjudgmental, and—”

“With a Liam exception,” Steve notes. “Or several. Ideally, though, the Warehouse and I can work through these things like adults. Unlike me and Liam.”

Myka respects his honesty. And yet: “I’m having a seriously hard time ideating the Warehouse as an adult.”

“We’re working through that too,” Steve concedes.

“You clearly have the patience of a saint.”

Steve chuckles. “Pete’s your partner, right? And in another sense, H.G. might be too?” Myka waves her hands, no-no-too-soon, because suitcases notwithstanding, she has certainly in the past thought she was making a safe all-in bet, only to lose every last copper-coated-zinc penny of her metaphorical money. “No matter what we call anybody,” he continues, “I think you get a lot more patience practice than I do. I’m just dealing with one little Warehouse and its feelings.”

“Aren’t its feelings... unassimilable?” she asks. “Or at least, shouldn’t they be?” It’s a building. Whatever its feelings, they should be talking about it like it’s an alien, not somebody who’s in therapy. Or somebody who should be in therapy.

“Maybe,” Steve says. “Or maybe not. That was part of the deal too, that I would test out how it feels. About personal gain specifically here, eventually maybe more. But if it has a meltdown...”

“Ah. We cancel the test, neutralize the pen, and face the consequences.”

Steve nods. “But ideally, if that happens, we will have leapfrogged whatever the looming Artie-and-Leena crises are. The two of them coming back here safely are the other situations we niced, as part of the deal.”

Claudia adds, “My big fingers-crossed leapfrog is over their stupid administrative ‘keep H.G. away from Myka and everybody else who loves her’ dealy-thingy. We’re hoping they’ll just forget about whatever their dumbass reasons for that were when they see how great it is for her to be back.”

“Dealy-thingy? Have you been talking to Pete?” Myka asks, trying for silly, for light—so as to deflect that “love her” arrow.

“Not about that. But wait, are you saying he loves her too? I mean I figured he was okay with her after the whole Mom-still-alive thing, but his Houdini out of here just now makes me think he’s not quite all the way to—”

“Never mind,” Myka says, as a command.

Claudia squints like she wants to pursue it. Myka crosses her arms against any such idea, in response to which Claudia says, “Fine. Here’s some funsies you’ll like better. Making that list, you’ve gotta have balance. Naughty against the nice.”

“And you think I’ll like that because?”

“I talked to Pete’s cousin, a little pretty-sure-we-don’t-have-to-tesla-you-but-let’s-make-super-sure exit interview. Heard some things about a guy. Bob? Seemed like a good candidate.”

Well. Pete had been right on several levels about Christmas not being over yet. “That’s the best news I’ve had in the past... I don’t know. Five minutes?” Other than the Pete-vs.-“the topic” question, it’s been an absurdly good-news-y several minutes.

Claudia goes on, “Personal gain, what is it? There’s also a warden from that place I don’t like to remember being committed to who’s about to have a Boxing Day that’ll haunt him longer than he’s been haunting me.”

That definitely raises questions—flags, even—about “personal gain” in a definitional sense, but letting all that lie seems the better part of valor, so Myka asks Steve, “Any Liam on there?”

“Too personal to let the Warehouse anywhere near,” he says, but with a smile.

Myka smiles too. “Would that I could say the same about my situation.”

Claudia snickers. “Your situation is Warehouse-dependent. Warehouse-designed. Warehouse-destined.”

“All the more reason said Warehouse shouldn’t object to easing the pressure,” Steve says.

“Are you kidding?” Claudia says. “Its birth certificate reads ‘Ware Stress-Test House.’”

Myka appreciates their positions—Steve’s in particular, even as she internally allows that Claudia’s is probably more accurate—but she would appreciate even more their ceasing to talk about her situation like they’re the ones whose philosophy will determine how, and whether, it succeeds. Or even proceeds.

And she would most appreciate their ceasing to talk about her situation entirely. So that she can go upstairs and be in her situation, because Helena hasn’t come back downstairs, a fact for which Myka’s rapidly overheating libido has provided a similarly overheated reason: she is waiting, up there in the bedroom, for Myka.

Which thought is of course followed by Helena’s preemption of same: she descends the stairs and presents herself in the foyer.

Damn it, Myka’s disappointed libido fumes.

Sacrilege! an overriding executive self chastises, and it isn’t wrong, for again, here Helena is. To fail to appreciate that—ever—is an error of, indeed, biblical, or anti-biblical, proportions.

In any case, now four people are just standing here, awkwardness personified.

Helena flicks her eyes briefly toward Myka—it seems a little offer of “hold on”—then turns to Steve and Claudia. “I didn’t greet either of you directly when I arrived. I apologize. Claudia darling, it warms my heart to see you... and this is of course the famous Steve, whose acquaintance I’m delighted to make at last.”

Striking to witness: Helena has essentially absorbed the awkward into her very body and transmogrified it into formality.

Myka loves her.

“Famous?” Steve echoes, like she’s said “Martian.”

“I’ve heard much of you,” Helena says, with an emphasizing finger-point on “much.”

Steve smiles his I’m-astonished-you’re-not-lying smile, through which he articulates, “Likewise? I mean, likewise, but with more. Obviously.”

Yes, Myka loves her: for her charming self alone, but also for how that charm extends; her sweet attention to Steve has him immediately smitten. Myka’s the one to catch Helena’s gaze now, intending merely to convey gratitude, but to her gratification it stops Helena, causing her to abandon her engagement with Steve.

Maybe she and Myka can stand here and gaze at each other forever. It wouldn’t be everything, but it would be something. Second on second, it is something. It is something.

Claudia interrupts it all, saying to Helena, “Can I hug you?”

Myka doesn’t begrudge the breaking of this spell, particularly not with that; she had been selfish, before, greedy to keep Helena and her eyes all to herself. She also doesn’t begrudge the ease of the hug in which Claudia and Helena engage; getting a hug right is simpler when its purpose is clear. And clearly joyful.

Over Claudia’s shoulder, Myka’s and Helena’s gazes lock yet again, and it’s spectacular.

However: it also seems to introduce a foreign element into the hug, some friction that Claudia must sense, for she disengages and says, “So. I have to go. I just remembered I have an appointment to not be here.”

Steve says, “I feel like I was supposed to remember to meet you there, wasn’t I,” Steve says, and Myka has never been able to predict when he’ll be able to play along instead of blurting “lie” (even if he does often follow such blurts with some version of an apologetic “but I see the social purpose”).

“I don’t think you were,” Claudia says, “because I’m revising the gag; it makes more sense if I just now made an appointment to not be here. So you couldn’t be remembering some nonexistent-before-now appointment.”

“But I still think the appointment ought to be with me, gag-wise and otherwise,” Steve says, doggedly, still playing. “In the first and second place.”

“Is this the first place?” Claudia muses, faux-serious, now rewarding his doggedness. “Is the appointment in the second place?”

They could who’s-in-the-first-place this for days, so Myka intervenes, “In the first place, if this is a gag, it desperately needs workshopping. But in the second place: Scram!”

“You mean to the second place,” Claudia sasses.

Myka scowls, wishing she could growl proficiently.

 Claudia’s eyes widen. “Scramming. Best scrammer,” she says, sans sass, proving the actual growl unnecessary. Interesting.

“Except that’s about to be me with the gold-medal scram,” Steve objects and concurs.

Myka pronounces, “I’ll be the judge of who’s what. Once you actually do it.”

“You’ll award the medals later though, right?” asks Claudia. Her words are jokey, yet her tone is weirdly sincere, as if Myka might forget they had scrammed on her behalf, and that such amnesia would be hurtful.

“Participation trophies,” Myka semi-affirms, “in the form of a healthy breakfast.” She adds, internally, Take the damn hint.

After much winking and nudging, the comedians at last absent themselves, and Myka and Helena are alone.

Unfortunately that doesn’t immediately yield the perfected situation Myka seeks, first and foremost because she doesn’t know what comes next. Take your own damn hint, she tells herself, but... how? They need privacy, and the only reasonable place for that is where Helena’s suitcase rests: upstairs. Myka can’t magic them there, so what incremental movement will be recognizable as an appropriate beginning?

She casts a wish for Helena to ease it all, as she had with Claudia and Steve, but Helena is stock-still, offering no increment. For both of them, upstairs seems to have become a different place... the promised land?

Nothing is promised, she reminds herself. Some things are newly possible, but nothing is promised. Certainly not when the Warehouse is involved.

So maybe the point, probably the point, is that it’s incumbent on Myka and Helena to realize the possibility.

Nevertheless, here they stick.

After a time—most likely shorter than Myka feels it to be—Helena announces, “Pete and I have had a chat.” Her articulation of “chat” shapes it into a synonym for “fight.” “Who won?” Myka asks.

“I believe it was a draw. He opened by saying he ‘didn’t get how far along this thing had got.’” Hearing Pete’s diction in Helena’s mouth is disorienting. “He then said he wants to protect you.”

That’s so Pete. “I don’t need protecting.”

Eyebrow. “I noted that I want to protect you too.”

That thrills Myka. At the same time, she wants to object to it nearly as much as to Pete’s assertion... internal contradictions, what are they? She lands weakly on, “I hope that persuaded him.”

“Pete finds deeds more persuasive than words,” Helena says. “Thus I’m ‘on probation where Myka’s concerned,’ until he determines I won’t damage you.”

That’s so Pete too. But. “That is my determination.”

“I expressed a similar sentiment. He responded, ‘And how’d that go last time?’” Helena’s wince after she says this is awful, and Myka dares to assuage it, stepping toward Helena with open arms, drawing her into an embrace.

This time, their hug—simpler because its purpose is clear—works, bodies soft-querying at the start, then firm, intentional. Not quite catching fire, but this is a palpable first cut into whatever membrane of uncertainty is obstructing their movement.

Slow, slow, they move apart. Yet they stay close, the embrace’s softness lingering as Helena says, “Selfishly, I didn’t concede his point, which is in any case indeed down to your determination. But I did note that circumstances have changed since then. And to be fair I must report that he allowed they have.”

“You’re both right,” Myka says. But: “Was this Cleveland mission contrived to... further change the circumstances?”

“I didn’t contrive it,” Helena says, fast. “I would have, if I could, but I didn’t.”

“I’m not saying you did. I’m saying I always wonder, because I can’t help it, how much, or how little, of what happens just happens.”

“And the rest—or if I’m understanding your implication, the bulk—would be...?”

“Some sort of social engineering.”

“On whose part?” Helena asks.

That’s disingenuous. “Your engineers of choice. Regents. Mrs. Frederic. Mr. Kosan. Ententes thereof.”

Helena runs a hand through her hair—frustration at the thought of those entities? Or just showing off? Then she shrugs, as if to dismiss both possibilities. “I favor any engineering that places me in private proximity to you.”

The words are beyond welcome. And yet. “I’m not objecting to it. I’m just...”

“Objecting to it.”

“No. Questioning its provenance.”

“Why?”

That brings Myka up short. “What?”

“If it produces an outcome you desire, what does the provenance matter? In this case, at the very least.”

It’s a reasonable question, and Myka’s most-honest answer would have something to do with the ethical acceptability of poisonous-tree fruits. For now, though, she goes with, “Because I don’t like being manipulated.”

“Don’t you?” That’s flirty, a near-whisper, compelling Myka to lean even closer. Helena knows—she’s always known—the power she has over Myka. And she’s always known how—and when—to wield that power.

“The manipulator matters,” Myka says, responding to the flirt, accepting the push away from ethics.

“Then would that I could in truth say I contrived that relatively banal retrieval. And sabotaged the elevator, so as to draw our attention to... that to which it was drawn.”

“I can’t say I was displeased with the drawing,” Myka allows. “So if you had...”

Helena moves her lips, a sly hint of curve, and says, “Oh, but perhaps I’ve manipulated you into that sentiment.” Again, an ostentatious flirt.

Myka’s knowing that flirt-show for what it is? That’s Helena-specific. In the past Myka has always had to be told when she was being flirted with: “He was interested in you,” an exasperated friend would explain of an interaction Myka found incomprehensible, and she would cringe internally at her inability to recognize such an apparently basic, obvious display. But with Helena she’s never needed a flirt translator. From the first lock of gaze, unto this night’s myriad connections; from that first brush of finger, unto the way Helena has just allowed their hug to linger; from the first just-for-you conspiratorial grin, unto this very moment’s slip of smile—all the advances, heavy and light, have been legible to Myka.

And based on what she is now reading, she has no ground left. “Fine. I like being manipulated if it means.” She clears her throat. “If it means I get closer to you. You win.”

“Do I?” Here’s the disingenuity again, but now Myka understands its intentional irony. Helena follows up with, “This establishment has no elevator,” Helena says, like it’s nothing more than a structural observation that checks a box on a form, a minor note in an overall architectural assessment.

“No,” Myka agrees.

“How fortunate,” Helena says.

Myka waits for the conclusion, the help... but it’s not forthcoming, probably in a that’s-down-to-your-determination-as-well sense. The next cut is clearly Myka’s responsibility too. So: “It has stairs though,” she offers. “That go. Up. Well, both down and up. Of course. As stairs do.” Stop talking, she tells herself, but her nerves don’t heed the advice. “As they have to? I don’t know; do they? Escher?”

“Ess-sherr,” Helena echoes, clearly uncomprehending. That she lets Myka hear her knowledge gap is a gift. For Christmas?

“He’s an artist. I promise I’ll explain later. Eventually. Anyway the stairs. I think you just used them? Without incident?”

Myka expects a comeback. She gets none, which leaves her in some non-place, absent as it is of Helena-attitude... but what form had she expected such attitude to take? Aggression? Naughtiness? Or “naughtiness”... does the lack of all that mean Helena is offering a self more authentic than the one who charms and flirts? But that doesn’t seem quite right, for the charms and the flirts have always seemed clearly intrinsic Helena-talents. Deployed, yes, but not inauthentic. So if this Helena is deploying fewer such talents, maybe it’s that she’s... less?

Ironically—of course ironically, because all of this is so, so layered like that—a reduced Helena is an even greater bonus.

All of this, which Myka had better figure out, fast, how to appreciate and accommodate. “Of course that’s no guarantee that travel will go well,” she begins. “So we should try not to trip on the stairs... wait, no, that would make it our problem, which I don’t think this ever was. Maybe better: we shouldn’t let the stairs trip us.” She considers. “But no again: what I really mean is, we shouldn’t give the stairs a reason to trip us. Right?”

Helena looks at her and blinks, charmingly blank. “I have no idea. Are you through?”

“I have no idea either,” Myka admits, still directionless without Helena’s attitudinal lead. Is this, like the semi-botched hug of two days ago, a seemingly terrible sign?

“Merely delay.” A little head-shake follows. Signifying disappointment? Making light of Myka’s inability to get through? Then Helena says, “And yet I don’t know how much more delay I can withstand.”

Those raw words are mediated by nothing more than molecules—the nitrogen-oxygen-argon-et-cetera invisibilities conveying waves to Myka’s ossicles—and for the second time, Myka ideates, in full awe, She feels the same way I do.

“Me either,” she says, literally heartfelt, sending the words back, a final push through everything, molecules and otherwise, that has stood between them.

Testing, she offers Helena her hand. Helena takes it.

These hands together: not a first. Not even a second. In the present circumstance, that translates to something very like “comfortingly familiar.”

Under the aegis of that comfort, they ascend the stairs, Myka leading the way, marveling that she can. Against her pulling hand, Helena offers what seems a single erg of resistance, a display, an I-am-letting-you affirmation.

They cross the threshold of Myka’s room, and then. Then, after Myka makes one turn and twist, a closed non-elevator door stands, for once and at last, between them and the rest of the world.

Closed, the door is, but not locked. In the door-closing instant, turning the lock—adding its presumptive click—had struck Myka’s hand as overly brazen: that’s a frustrating flinch her hand will have to work out with whatever part of her brain-body complex was certain enough to start this, start it by saying what she did about the suitcase... the same part that keeps telling her that Helena’s feelings match hers.

As Myka turns her back on the now-closed door, she sees her bed. She sees her bed. Disconcerting, in this new now, how large a percentage of the room’s space this one piece of furniture seems to be occupying...

But she’s self-aware enough to know that she’s overlaying the bed’s current brain space, the desires it signifies, on the physical. Whatever’s going to happen—or not—will happen, she tries to force into that space in her brain, pushing it down... for desire, sometimes indistinguishable from expectation, has devastated her before. But she tries too hard: missing the mark, she slips and falls into some past-obsessed cerebral fold, once again lost, quietly but deeply, in that devastation.

“Here we are,” Helena remarks into the silence. “Or, harking back to engineering: Here we are? I continue to be unsure as to why. I can accept unclear provenance, but I’d prefer more explication regarding my allowable movements.”

That’s help. That’s rescue. But oh: movements. The word nearly derails Myka in a different direction, but she gathers herself, resetting to reply, “It’s explicable, but I honestly don’t have the energy to explicate even my minimal knowledge of the mechanism. The most basic base is, Claudia and Steve worked out a deal to use that pen, and there’s a list that you and I are on. As a ‘nice’ situation. Anyway if you want real details, you probably should sit down with Steve.”

A mind’s-eye image comes to her, of Helena and Steve leaning toward each other, bringing complementary concentration to bear on some topic large or small... and then an incipient sound strikes her: the chime of their voices together, both seriously and lightheartedly, ringing notes she hadn’t before this new instant thought to anticipate. “Actually I think you and Steve sitting down would be really pleasant. Even productive. Given that you’ll be sticking around. I mean, if you’re willing, and if, or at least until, some definitional issues get worked out. As I understand it.” As I devoutly hope, she doesn’t quite utter.

“That addresses... some issues, I suppose. Yet a question remains.”

This is a bonus of a day: Helena turning into the queen of understatement? It’s freeing; Myka laughs and says, “Tons of questions remain. Which one’s on your mind?”

Head-tilt. “You said you didn’t have the energy... to explain the mechanism,” Helena says.

More delay, Myka knee-jerks... but she knows the reflex immediately as wrongheaded, for this is conversation, the value of which she should have learned by now not to discount. “Right. Sorry, I’ll try: so the pen, and honestly speaking of questions and provenance, I still have some questions about provenance, which I’m trying to ignore, but anyway, Claudia found the file, and—”

“That is not the issue I had in mind.”

“Sorry. I’m not getting anything right, am I?” Because of course she isn’t getting anything right.

“We’ll see,” Helena says.

“So what did I jump the gun on?”

“You don’t have the energy to explain.”

This muddles Myka; it will probably require another reset. “I did say that, but I can try to—”

“Myka,” Helena says, and her name in that mouth will never cease to be a singular wonder. “What do you have the energy for?”

Here again is the difference between the attitude that Myka, in her more cynical moments, might have thought Helena would maintain, and the reality she is instead offering: the question is suggestive, but guilelessly, graciously so; its import is genuine, not manipulative. “How do you do that?” Myka asks.

“Do what?” This question, too, is guileless, gracious.

“Stop me.” It’s the best definition Myka can produce of what Helena has in fact done, what she seems consistently able to do.

Helena breathes several breaths, like she’s waiting for the right words to arrive... no, more like they’ve already arrived, but she’s preparing herself, gearing up to deliver them. “I don’t want to stop you,” she eventually says, and Myka should have used that windup to prepare herself: for the admission this is, for how this don’t-want utterance nevertheless is want.

They are the most vulnerable words Myka has ever heard.

New, new, new... the fact is that historically, people have tended to twist and shy from revealing weakness to Myka. Fallout from her tendency to judge, no doubt, but it means that this, too, is new: here is Helena, and maybe in some other world someone else might have made such a mattering move but here in this best one it’s Helena, Helena ignoring that character defect, Helena blowing past it for a chance to change everything.

Everything. “It’s Christmas,” Myka says, because it is. And because now it is.

“So give me this gift,” Helena rejoins.

“You too,” Myka says.

For the space of one breath, they both wait—bracing for whatever fate intends to use to stop them this time.

But this time nothing stops them, for in the ensuing instant, they both give that gift, blowing fast past everything that, slow, might stop them, grasping at this chance to change.

The jolt of their contact reminds Myka of—no: the shock of it strikes her as—artifact activation, that calling of vested power into being, that enabling of such longed-for release. Before the Warehouse taught her to recognize this transubstantiating, she would not have understood this moment’s raw unleashing, its summoning and compelling of stored potential to manifest as what it has lain in wait, in desperate wish, to become.

But also: all the blood in her body knows she has never felt such power released nonartifactually before now, before this.

Before this world-encompassing, world-creating first kiss.

“You’re thinking,” Helena murmurs into the space of a pause for breath. “I can taste it.”

“Sorry, sorry, sorry,” Myka scrambles, kicking herself for not staying in the unprecedented moment, for letting thought intrude, as she always does, and it’s always bad, and Helena is now rightfully offended and disenchanted and—

“It’s delicious,” Helena says, punctuating—proving—by meeting Myka’s lips again, again again again, as if determined to never stop.

Myka would be perfectly happy, oh so perfectly happy, with that forever-continuation, but something in her brain has begun gesturing wildly, demanding her attention... something about her hand... brazen... she rips her lips away and yelps, “Wait! I have to lock the door!”

“The thinking continues,” Helena says, stepping back, freeing Myka, and spreading her arms in a ta-da endorsement. “You’re brilliant.”

A memory: “Bunny, you think too much.” No I don’t, she can now answer. Not for her. In time, given time, she’ll tell Helena how much this matters, but now is not that time. Not when Helena is saying, “However, as we’re behind a locked door, I’ll wager I can make you stop thinking... for at least one consequential moment...”

To Myka’s extremely consequential—and utterly, blissfully unthinking—delight, Helena wins that bet.

****

Later. Lazily, later: “I genuinely cannot believe we were stuck in an elevator,” Myka says. A thing to say, said. “As the prelude to all this.” Which is what she really means.

Against Myka’s neck, newly and blessedly intimate, Helena says, “Your limited capacity for belief is noted. Are you equally incapable of believing that we had the apparently obligatory, if not preordained, chat?”

“Obligatory... preordained...” Myka is still so lazy, she’s practically drawling, and the out-of-character surprise of it pricks at the edge of her ability to stay in such a state. Stay, stay, stay... “Honestly... just clichéd.”

“And yet I was able to add a reference to my Myka-index. Entry: Mirrors, your artifact-related discomfort with.”

Myka’s heart seizes: Helena has a Myka-index. That, plus their proximity now, surely requires her to do better than the little falsehood she’d rested on with regard to the mirror-discomfort. Pushing laziness aside, with something too much like relief, she acknowledges, “I misled you. There was an artifact, but that isn’t what bothers me. The real thing is that mirrors make me observe myself too closely. Too much. Which I do all the time anyway.”

“I wish you’d delegate that observational task to me.” Sweet. Helena sounds so sweet. And not just sounds: Myka can tell (hopes she can tell) Helena means it. Which is even sweeter.

And which in turn entails a need for Myka to think seriously about being observed. Being protected. Being willing—but more important, able—to delegate in the correct spirit, even minimally. “I can try.”

“I can accept that,” Helena says, and the approval is better than sweet: it’s buy-all-the-books-you-want indulgent. “But I must ask: do you honestly think any part of the Cleveland interregnum was the elevator’s doing?”

The true answer references Myka’s entire Warehouse experience, from day one: “Yes and no.”

Helena nods, her hair sliding mink-soft on Myka. “I can accept that as well.”

“And whoever’s at fault, our chat was interrupted,” Myka says.

“As it was poised to progress beyond ‘chat’... but in truth I would rather this happened here than in an elevator. Better environs for still further progress. Don’t you agree?” Helena moves her unclad limbs against Myka’s, in transcendent emphasis.

Of course Myka agrees. Which leads her to a painful realization: “So maybe the elevator wasn’t as judgmental as I... judged it to be.”

Helena bestows a kiss to Myka’s shoulder—small, intimate—bringing Myka’s mind back, sharp, to what those bestowing lips have so recently accomplished, which threatens to render her again overcome. She shudders, which reduces her to embarrassment instead, but Helena is kind enough to feign obliviousness as she says, “You did note your own judgmental nature.”

Myka’s soul twinges in genuine regret, collapsing her lip-recall. She regrets that too. “Do you think I need to go back and apologize? I feel all guilty now.”

“The elevator has most likely moved on,” Helena says, quite dry.

“You’re saying it doesn’t have my memory.”

“I’m saying that even if it does—an open question, though the lack of elevator memoirs argues in the negative—it’s unlikely to care as much as you do about what it does remember.”

“Story of my life,” Myka sighs out. Now she’s really saying it, because memory, and caring too much about it, is that story.

“For the best, I suspect. Your life story and an elevator’s shouldn’t be entirely congruent, should they?” Helena questions, and that makes Myka laugh and want to read an entire library shelf’s worth of elevators’ memoirs. Feigning seriousness, Helena continues, “Although we might revisit so as to investigate whether its conveyance of Bob proceeded properly after our visit. That could be revealing.”

“Speaking of Bob, I feel bad for Nancy. Because of course he’ll blame her.”

“For elevator mischief?”

Ah. Helena doesn’t know. “For naughty.”

“Naughty what?”

“The list. He’s back on it, thanks to Steve and Claudia.”

“Is he.” Her satisfaction is evident, and for a moment she and Myka are one in their schadenfreude. That, too, is delicious. “Better they punish him than we do,” Helena then says.

This sends Myka back to guilt. “It feels like cheating. We didn’t use the artifact, but we get the personal gain.”

Myka’s shoulder now receives an indignant exhale. In its wake, Myka is dwelling on how she would have preferred another kiss, but Helena says, “I was speaking of soul-consequences, not this personal-gain fetish you all seem to embrace. Or perhaps it’s an anti-fetish, but in any case was no hard-and-fast dictum in my day.”

“I’ll reiterate that you should sit down with Steve,” Myka tells her, and Helena accedes with a nestle that erases the exhale.

Are words about such things—ambiguously motivated elevators, deserved punishments, fetishes of undetermined valence—a waste of time? No... for again, they are conversation... the value of which, Myka has lately learned, is even greater when the words it comprises land as soft breath on skin.

In fact Myka has learned a great many things in this locked-door recent while. There is, for one, the gratifying fact that she and Helena are physically compatible, at least as evidenced by this first performance, in terms both of wants and of abilities to satisfy them. But nearly as important, particularly in its physical component but not only that, is her new understanding that while her life has offered her several circumstances with which she’s been reasonably satisfied—that she hasn’t minded—this right-now is orders of magnitude above such contentment. She must have in some soul-stratum known this would prove true, or she would not have been panting in its pursuit so seemingly hopelessly, with such dogged desperation.

She says, with gratitude, “This is what I wanted.”

Getting what she wants: that, too, is new. And very. very nice.

“I would hope so,” Helena says. As if she had some genuine doubt about Myka’s motivation? “No, that’s rhetorical; rather, I did hope so. You’ve realized that hope, and... well. I should be clear: this is more than I dared to want.”

Myka, endeavoring to bring everything together, says, “So what you’re saying, want-wise, is that it’s a bonus. A nice one.”

“I’m saying, want-wise, that my wildest hopes have been exceeded. Surpassed. Transcended.”

It’s something, that reply. Also more than a little over the top, rhetorically, which Helena obviously knows. “Pleonast,” Myka accuses.

Helena laughs. “Not inaccurate. I suppose your ‘nice bonus’ translation is technically correct, if a bit... with apologies, pedestrian?”

“It’s less pedestrian than ‘Fred,’” Myka says. A “hm?” from Helena reminds Myka that she hasn’t yet made that translation evident. “I guess ‘Fred’ counts as esoteric instead, so never mind. You’re right, ‘bonus’ is pedestrian. So is ‘nice.’ But maybe it’s a good idea to call our whatever-it-is something pedestrian. I don’t want to scare it away.”

“And what precisely do you think would ‘scare it away’?”

“Bigness,” Myka offers, weakly. It’s what she means, but—

“‘Bigness?’” Helena says, quotes evident. “From the woman who so recently deployed ‘pleonast’? Should I fear that you’ll regularly revert without warning to Pete-reminiscent locutions?”

Myka chuckles. “Spend enough time with him, it’ll probably happen to you too.” The laziness is back. Earned back?

After a time—or perhaps Myka only after a time processes the sound—Helena says, “God forbid.”

A further lag ensues before Myka manages to respond, with a drowsy “I agree.”

Sleep follows. That is certainly earned.

****

Consciousness resumes for Myka with a banging on her door and a shout from Pete: “It’ s really not Christmas anymore, because Artie’s back!”

“Being Artie about it!” Claudia shouts in addition. “He says get to work!”

“I’m awake,” Myka says as she becomes more fully so. This is a Warehouse morning, and Warehouse alarms ring as they do.

Then: I’m not awake; I’m dreaming, because the back of Helena’s head and her naked shoulders greet Myka’s opening eyes. That’s a bracingly new alarm.

Helena’s voice comes next. “He says get to work,” she quotes, playfully, and Myka would be willing to wake to such an alarm with joy for the rest of her life.

But assuredly, if the content of that alarm is the dictate, then no one is dreaming. There’s really nothing for Myka to say except, “Sorry, but one more time: Story of my life.”

“Now? Our life,” Helena corrects.

That is a literally life-story-altering assertion, and a self-deprecating impulse tempts Myka to scoff it away. Behind that impulse, however, lies a clear-eyed recognition that she must meet what Helena has said. How, how, how...

...and then her mind starts fully working. She begins to formulate a plan. One that will, if possible, manifest her gratitude, but also, display her difference from the Myka she used to be, that one from so few hours ago, who had not yet known the dream-surprise of this awakening’s sight.

“I’m going to tell them I can’t get the door unlocked,” she says. Steve isn’t there. She can get away with it. She sits up, ready to head for the door and tell that story.

Helena touches Myka’s shoulder. “Would it lend credibility for me to suggest out loud that I genuinely can’t believe we’re stuck in your bedroom?” More play, but the touch is becoming a don’t-leave-this-bed grasp.

Myka leans to kiss the restraining hand. “I think that would make them think you planned it. And were being nefarious about it. Shocked incredulity isn’t really your strong suit.”

“It’s true that my capacity for belief outstrips yours.” She pulls down on the sheet, exposing both her body and Myka’s.

Talk about overdetermined. Or is it, in this as-yet-unmapped terrain, underdetermined? To be determined later, if at all... Myka somehow marshals sufficient will to rise from the bed, while telling herself that she is not, conceptually at least, actually leaving it. At the door, she fiddles with the lock, expressing frustration to support her claim, after which Pete and Claudia make noises about toolboxes and battering rams, respectively, and then mercifully depart.

“They’re going to try to get us out,” Myka reports as she returns to bed. “Maybe violently?”

“Let them,” Helena murmurs. “That elevator and its manifestation of mischief... comparatively amateur. You’ve bested it handily.”

That jolts Myka out of a back-of-mind consideration of whether she might be able to jam the bedroom door’s lock with something easily to hand, or perhaps whether her dresser might be pushed across the room to block the door entirely. She then considers, front of mind, the possibility that Helena—her physical presence, her physical provocation—is a bad influence... or at the very least a naughty one... for these thoughts are so, so out of character.

“That, on the other hand, is not the story of my life,” Myka says, and the fact of it does make her more than a little nervous.

“A new chapter,” Helena counters, reading Myka’s mind and setting it right—in three words. Such economy.

****

Myka and Helena are engaged in adding to that new chapter (or at the very least, drafting a steamy interlude of same, even if it isn’t essential to the plot) when a banging on the door interrupts them yet again. As does shouting: “We’re back!” yells Pete, unnecessarily.

“Hey, Myka, what’s going on?” That’s Steve. Far more quiet.

“I brought Steve,” Pete says, also unnecessarily.

“I gathered that from his voice,” Myka notes.

“But!” Pete says, in aha-I-got-you mode, “what if it turns out all I brought was his voice?”

“Then I guess he’d still be here in some sense?” she says; she’s thinking on the Helena-hologram, on what a lack of visual might have meant, on how a more ontologically disembodied voice would have made her believe Helena was there, there but standing on the other side of a door. How she would have wanted to take her own battering ram to that door. The hologram’s present non-presence had stranded her, stranded them, in a strange shared space, offering no barrier Myka could use her body to break violently through.

“But!” Claudia exclaims, jokey, fighting with Myka’s ache of reminiscence, “what if it’s just me, doing my Steve impression?”

“That’d be a different thing,” Myka concedes.

“You do a me impression?” Steve asks Claudia.

Who exhales so dramatically, Myka’s surprised the door doesn’t just blow open. “You have stood next to me while I did it.”

“I have?” Puzzled-Steve is honestly Myka’s favorite Steve.

“Are we not a team?” Claudia demands. “Myka does a Pete. Pete does a Myka. Naturally they both suck, but the point is, why don’t you do a me?”

“Because you’d kill me?”

“Guys,” Pete says, “this isn’t getting Myka and H.G. out of the bedroom.”

Claudia says, “But let me just. Myka, H.G., you guys do impressions of each other, right?”

Helena raises her arms, a gesture of observe-this!—or maybe it’s at-last!—and exclaims, “I feel compelled to express disbelief about this circumstance!”

It takes Myka a second to get it, but once she does, she shouts, “I love blooming onions!”

For quite some time, there’s silence from the other side of the door.

Then Steve says, “Am I the only one who’s extremely confused?”

“Usually, yes,” Claudia says. “Except now, no. I’m with you. Pete?”

“Myka loves blooming onions,” Pete says, slow; he’s the one having trouble now with belief. Myka can picture his gobsmacked face. “There’s my endless wonder for the day. Also, I gotta rethink a whole lot of stuff she said about what she was willing to eat.”

Myka presses an apologetic kiss to Helena’s lips (and how nearly unbelievable it is to feel comfortable with such a touch being swift, to not need to hoard, to believe there will be more), then extricates herself yet again from the sheets, the bed. She heads for the door: to make a show of unlocking it, to send them away temporarily so she and Helena can reassemble themselves to rejoin the world—but. Problem. Big problem. “Guys. I really can’t get the door unlocked now.”

“‘Now’?” Pete echoes.

“You mean you actually could before?” Claudia asks.

Moment of truth. So, fine, truth: “I didn’t actually try before.”

“Ha!” Claudia barks. “Are we still on impressions? That might’ve been a decent one, for real, because the attitude? Way H.G.”

“Thank you so much!” Helena chirps.

“H.G.,” says Claudia, with a whiff of pedantry—and that she feels free to express such an attitude toward Helena is most likely because she’s on the safe side of a closed door—“I was complimenting Myka’s impression.”

“But in it, you recognized my attitude.” Helena’s words are a full preen, and as she speaks, she’s rising from the bed, approaching Myka, slipping arms around her, such that Myka loses her ability to track what’s happening on the other side of the door, even as splinters of sound catch in her ears—“hinges inside,” “lock plate solid,” and finally, “break it down”—whereupon she realizes anew that neither she nor Helena is clothed, and that being caught and seen in that state will constitute a disaster that outstrips a great many of the others in her experience.

“We have to get dressed,” she breathes at Helena.

“Wait,” Helena says. “I suspect a realization is about to occur.”

At times, Helena can be eerily prescient. But what is it this time?

As if in answer, Claudia says, “I have a really depressing theory. Myka, can you get the window open?”, whereupon Myka understands Helena’s deduction: this isn’t mechanical; it’s artifactual. More specifically, list-artifactual.

She cannot open the window.

“Yeah,” Claudia says, a defeated I-knew-it. “I’d be all ‘try to smash it!’, but since I can’t see you try it and, like, bounce off the glass, what’s the point? I mean, go for it if H.G. wants the lulz.”

“I don’t know what that means!” Helena informs her. That too is a chirp, and Myka’s pleased to note it’ll probably head off the slapstick.

“Kind of a shame,” Claudia says, but with a drag, like she’s picturing it, and Myka is less pleased to have to devoutly hope that picturing involves everybody fully clothed. “Anyway I hate to say it, but it’s pretty clear this is on us, the list-makers.”

Pete groans. “You were supposed to check it twice! It’s right there in the song!”

“Listen, we seriously argued about the wording,” Steve says.

“And oh guess what!” Claudia says, defeat apparently tabled for the moment. “Everybody in the world is going on about their day as usual due to the unshocking news that I was right.”

“No, I was right. I was the one who said ‘proximity’ was likely to be too vague,” Steve says.

Myka’s inclined to agree with him.

“Bro, I was,” Claudia says, “because I said it was likely to be not vague enough.”

Well. Now Myka’s inclined to agree with Claudia.

She sees the conundrum. “I appreciate it either way,” she says, and that quiets the combatants.

“Regardless, we obviously need different wording,” Steve diplomats.

“I think our first mistake was thinking an artifact would word like we thought it should. You need to get more into its head than you did before.”

“I was in a hurry before,” Steve says, a little less diplomatically. “Because you were yelling at me.”

“I am so so so so glad,” Pete hosannas, “that none of this is on me.”

Myka cannot let that stand. “Who gave his cousin a thing?”

A pause. Then, “Whoops,” Pete says, very sad-clown.

Later, she’ll thank him again, but for now, she doesn’t mind having wielded this little shiv, inflicting this little nick, so he’ll remember that there is, or should be, always a downside.

“How fortunate they’re not asking for our help,” Helena says, bringing her back to the upside.

“Who’s better with words though? You certainly are,” Myka says.

“You hold your own, Ms. ‘Pleonast.’ But ssssh. Don’t remind them.”

“We’ll fix it, we promise!” Claudia says.

“Don’t feel compelled to hurry!” Helena directs, cheerily.

Steve says, “I think she means ‘Don’t yell at Steve this time.’” His hopefulness is clear.

“He isn’t wrong,” Helena notes into Myka’s ear.

Pete announces, “I think she means bow chicka wow wow.”

“He isn’t either,” Myka notes back. “Even less so?”

Helena answers by kissing her with intent.

Claudia snorts. “I think no matter what she means, Artie’s gonna kill us.”

“Alas, the least wrong of all,” Helena grants with a sigh.

The wrecking crew’s voices fade, and they may still be making non-wrong statements, but for Myka and Helena there is at last, again, peace. And once Myka pulls Helena back to bed—a delectable spin she is now bold enough to put on their dynamic—there is at last again not-peace.

Lazily later—and these lazy laters are vying to be Myka’s favorite at-last—she says, “Not to overinterpret the artifact’s thinking, but this feels very nice. As an in-proximity situation.”

“This particular proximity seems more than a bit naughty, however,” Helena says, incongruously matter-of-fact. She isn’t wrong. “Pete obviously made an inference to that effect. Perhaps if Steve and Claudia can use that as a way of writing us out of the current situation.”

“I’m sure that’s for the best,” Myka says, with no small amount of regret, first attached to her embarrassment at Pete, Steve, and Claudia’s involvement in that inference, but even more due to the sad fact that this beginning must come to an end.

“Are you...” Helena’s words are a smile.

“No. I’d much rather stay here forever with you.” Her practical side then takes over, as even Helena’s body twined around hers can’t prevent. “But if they don’t fix it we’ll die—pretty soon, unless they can figure out how to get food in.”

“Would the artifact allow us to starve? That seem the antithesis of a situation that might be termed ‘nice.’”

“‘Termed’? Isn’t problematic terminology why we’re still here?”

“Granted. But of course we’ll die regardless.”

The casual, literal fatalism trips Myka up. She temporizes, “The artifact might have something to say about that,” placeholding, as she finds her way to a real response: “But artifact aside... will you though?” It’s a question about... well, about whether Helena is, for want of a better word, real. Speaking of terminology. “Die,” she adds, not as a word she must expel, for its terrible taste, but one she feels a need to place. As a marker.

Helena takes a moment. Before, Myka would have read that pause as censure; it would have pushed her overboard into I-have-overstepped agony. But the plates have shifted, and her footing feels—strange but nice (oh, nice!)—sure.

The answer, when it comes: “Here with you, I don’t want to be bronzed again. So yes.”

That leaves Myka warm, yet shaking her head. “I honestly don’t know a lot about romance.”

“Don’t you?” Helena asks, all of her limbs beginning to move again against all of Myka’s.

Which, for the moment, Myka resists: “So I’m not sure if it’s weird that I find it incredibly romantic for you to have said yes to dying.”

Now Helena’s smile is a smile; she rears away, back and up, showing Myka her face’s full measure of delight. “Weird or no, whatever you find romantic, I’m inclined to approve. If that’s acceptable to you.” Helena bows her head, as if to formally request Myka’s benediction.

The very idea of such an ask floods her with happy tenderness. “Is it okay for me to find that romantic too?”

“‘Okay’ seems a sadly weak word to convey the extent of my approval,” Helena says. “Further, I find it romantic for you to ask my permission to find any thing romantic. Unnecessary, yet romantic. Is that ‘okay’ as well?”

“It’s a relief,” Myka understates. “Can I call it a romantic relief?”

“I don’t see why not. However, to what extent is it romantic, or non-, that we seem to be finding—or placing—ourselves in recursive loops of romantic-allowable querying?” Helena accompanies this academically focused, seemingly serious question with yet more limb movement.

Myka is actively in bed with someone who’s questioning the romantic quotient of recursive loops of romantic-allowable querying. It is a level of “nice” that she could never ever have ideated on her own. “I genuinely cannot believe any of this,” she says.

“I can assure you that I will be taking some time—if allowed, and thus perhaps only in an ideal world, some great length of time—to determine whether your incredulity will ever cease to be tedious and elevate itself to ‘romantic.’ Some great length of time,” she repeats, playfully.

Myka knows Helena’s appreciation for time’s length is far greater than any ordinary individual’s... so this smacks of a promise. Myka’s gratitude rises, as does her willingness to pursue any and all romantic activity, despite her apparently romance-dampening incredulity... but then the limbs pause. “However,” Helena says.

“What’s this ‘however’?” Myka asks, now selfishly impatient.

Helena has, obviously and of course, heard and felt the impatience. Myka’s neck receives a press of lips, a curve of smile. “However: fortunately, at this juncture, belief isn’t required. Participation, on the other hand, is. So?” This is something Myka has always suspected was a Helena tactic, but here in intimacy she recognizes as true: challenge not for its own sake, but as an attitude in which to wrap something different, deeper, some authenticity Helena isn’t fully willing, or doesn’t quite yet know how, to express.

Myka moves her own limbs, her limbs that are even longer than, and just as flexible as, Helena’s. She moves them against Helena’s. She cannot believe she is doing so; nevertheless, she is. She is participating.

She places a chock under this particular incredulity, for unlike facts, the quality of emotions can escape her if she doesn’t consciously tie them down. She paints the word “bonus” on the emotion-wheel as she secures it, to ensure she elevates that felt quality too. Then she eases herself back to the full experience of the physical, this smooth beauty—and that is the word for every touch-heat-rise their bodies execute—that she and Helena together are creating... are enjoying.

She sighs soft against Helena’s neck; in return, Helena offers again her lips-on-skin smile.

They are participating. In this. Together. Lips on skin.

“So,” Myka agrees.

END

[illfoandillfie]

.......don’t be shy........ show us the comment 👀👀

lmao i will show you but only because i’ve already responded to it. I don’t want anyone to be mean to the commenter or make their own responses or anything like that. I’ve got no problems with people critiquing my work or offering suggestions on how to improve and she was very polite about it. It’s just that I didn’t agree with some of what she said lmao

okay so this comment was left on the prequel to Interloper (Snapshots From Before)

I usually don’t comment a lot in here (tho i do give lots of kudos) and the first part of this was so awesome that i’ve read it many times! However, this second part felt kinda... sexist? I think you gave this the wrong approach and ended up with the boys being a little mysoginistic, specially Roger telling y/n “if you are that hungry for dick you can ride me” (i’m not actually quoting the exact line but it was like that). I would’ve love to see at least one scene where you show some after care and the boys actually caring about y/n so we could see that their relationship is a healthy one. Without this, it just seems like she’s bassically a human sex toy. I get it, it’s the whole “she’s just holes to fill” and that’s great, i respect people who are into that, but even then there has to be some caring and empathy from both parties. Also, orgasm denial is hot but regardless, having sex has to be rewarding for both participants and Roger just sorta fucked her and asked her to leave? In a very non polite way? Sex is about both parties reaching to climax and equality for both lmao.😅 I know it’s a one shot but i would’ve like to see the non sexual part of y/n’s relationship with the boys other than post coital conversations. Again, i loved the first and third part, i think you have so much writing potencial within you and you should embrace it. These are all constructive critics and i do not wish to make you feel bad or offend you. I actually enjoy the whole mecanics of these raw, awesome, hot, sexy sex scenes but even though its fiction (which i know) and this whole slut kink is actually something people like let’s not forget to narrate healthy, caring relationships. Again, this seems like some eassay for a thesis but im just expressing MY point of view and i do not intend harm towards you as a writer or someone else as a reader. And yes, probably i need to “chill the F out” cause it’s just an ao3 bloody fic but still. Expressing an opinion that can help the writer improve is good! I think. Better than spreading hate. Hope you can see this note as friendly and respectul advice. Thank you so much for writing this. Have a great day! Stay safe xxx

and this was my response

Hi! Thanks for taking the time to comment, it really means a lot!

I will definitely keep in mind some of your criticisms as I continue writing, however there are a couple of places where our opinions differ, so I’d like to offer an explanation or two as to why I wrote it the way I did.

Firstly, I have to disagree with your statement that sex is about both parties reaching climax. It’s not. Not always anyway. Taking aside any kink related aspects like orgasm denial, sometimes sex just isn’t about finishing. It can be super rewarding and fun even without the orgasm. So much of an orgasm is related to a person’s mental state that little things like their mood or stress level or if they feel pressure to cum can have a huge impact on how easy it is to orgasm. And women especially can have trouble reaching climax. For some people, mostly women though it can affect men too, the sexual disorder anorgasmia makes orgasm physically impossible no matter how much stimulation they receive. So to say sex is about everyone getting to that end point isn’t totally correct. A lot of the time it’s less about the orgasm and more about feeling good during the rest of the act and/or strengthening a connection with a partner. Expecting everyone to orgasm every time is unrealistic and can in fact make it harder. Of course, that’s ignoring people who enjoy the kink side of it, intentionally stopping orgasms. A lot of people take tease and denial beyond just the length of a single sexual encounter, instead stretching it to days or weeks or months or even years of not being able to cum (fully).

Now, in regards to the fic itself. This chapter came about because I’d asked people to request concepts theyd like to see me write as a blurb or short one shot. I neglected to include the actual request in the summary or author note but the request was for a smutty prequel to interloper flashing back to when Reader was a groupie. At the time of writing I had a lot of requests I was trying to get done within a short amount of time so I was trying to keep things as brief as I could while still giving an entire story. The non-sexual aspects of the relationships didn’t feel important to include in this chapter because that wasn’t what was asked for. On top of that, the entire concept of the story hangs on how the sexual relationship dynamics change when the non-sexual relationship dynamics change and I wanted to make sure that wasn’t affected by the prequel. My goal was to establish a connection between the reader character and each of the guys and to make it feel as if there was history there, so I focused on flirty banter that led into sex scenes. And then, at the end of each scene, implied more would happen between the characters “off page”. I added in the Freddie section at the end as a way to solidify this chapter as a prequel and give a little explanation for how the main part starts (of course, at that time there was no third chapter). Plus, as Freddie doesn’t have a sexual relationship with Reader, his non-sexual relationship with her is very different to her relationships with the others, much closer to a friendship. (Which of course paves the way for how he’s on better terms with her at the beginning of the first chapter.)

One thing you imply in your comment is that as an author I should be writing healthy, caring relationships. I love writing those sorts of stories and relationships but I don’t believe I /have/ to write just healthy, caring relationships. I have a total of 38 fics posted on AO3 and I think most of them deal with “healthy” relationships. I make it a point to write aftercare scenes and to establish trust and safe words between my characters in most of my smut writing. And even if I’m exploring heavier kinks like extreme bdsm or hypnosis and bimbofication I do my best to stick to the rules of “safe, sane and consensual”. But, it is not my job as a writer to create morally perfect or role model relationships. I am well within my rights to explore relationships that don’t adhere to what is traditionally considered healthy, be that through ignoring safe words or foregoing aftercare or just having two characters be manipulative and mean to each other. If you want aftercare and “healthy” I have 37 other fics for you to look at. But this chapter doesn’t have to be that for it to be publishable.

And finally, I feel I have to defend Roger a little bit. I can definitely see how he could be read as sexist and I think part of the problem was just me trying to keep it short which meant I didn’t give enough space for Reader’s reactions or enough descriptions of emotion. But to me, as I was writing it, nothing Roger said was intended to be misogynistic or rude. I was playing around with one of my personal favourite kinks, degradation in conjunction with the orgasm denial (another favourite lmao). Everything he said was specifically to humiliate and degrade her, just because that’s what I find hot. Calling her desperate, telling her she sounds pretty begging, talking down to her, implying he’d /use/ her again later, all of that is part of the degradation kink and I intended for it to be a form of dirty talk. Similarly, the part where he says she can leave wasn’t meant to come across as rude. He calls her a good girl and brushes her hair back from her face first (a softer moment, contrasting everything else that happens between them) and then says she can leave, which plays into the denial kink and the idea that it could last longer than the time they were in bed together. Personally, I’m very very into extended denial, especially if it’s treated as a threat of punishment or something like that, and that was the inspiration behind Roger’s section of this chapter.

Thank you again for the comment, it really did make me think about how I’d written this particular chapter and my intentions behind it. And I fully agree that comments like yours can help writers improve! I’ll definitely keep in mind what you’ve said as I work on my next fic and hopefully avoid some of the unintended sexist overtones in future. Have a great day!

[the-desolated-quill]

Watchmen - Movie blog

(SPOILER WARNING: The following is an in-depth critical analysis. if you haven’t seen this movie yet, you may want to before reading this review)

A movie adaptation of Watchmen had been in development in some form or another since the graphic novel was first published back in 1987. Over the course of its two decade development cycle, being passed from filmmaker to filmmaker who each had their own vision of what a Watchmen movie should be, fans objected to the idea of a movie adaptation, describing Watchmen as ‘unfilmmable.’ Alan Moore himself condemned the effort to adapt his work, saying that Watchmen does things that can only be done in a comic book. But where there’s a will, there’s a way, and in 2009, Watchmen finally came to the big screen, directed by Zack Snyder.

I confess it took me a lot longer to write this review than I intended and that’s largely because I wasn’t sure how best to approach it. Snyder clearly has a lot of love and respect for the source material and tried his best to honour it as best he could. Snyder himself even said that he considers the film to be an advert for the book, hoping to get newcomers interested in the material. So how should I be looking at this film? As an adaptation or as an artistic tribute? More to the point, which of the three versions of the film should I be reviewing? The original theatrical cut, the director’s cut or the ultimate cut? Which best reflects Snyder’s artistic vision?

After much pondering, I decided to go with the director’s cut. The theatrical release was clearly done to make studio execs happy by keeping the runtime under three hours, but it comes at the cost of major plot points and character moments being chucked away. The ultimate cut however comes in at a whopping four hours and is arguably the most accurate to the source material as it also contains the animated Tales Of The Black Freighter scenes. However these scenes break the narrative flow of the film and were clearly not intended to be part of the final product, being inserted only to appease the fans. The director’s cut feels most like Snyder’s vision, clocking in at three and half hours and following the graphic novel fairly closely whilst leaving room for artistic licence.

Now as some of you may know, while I’m not exactly what you would call a fan of Zack Snyder’s work, I do have something of a begrudging respect for him due to his willingness to take creative risks and attempt to tell more complex, thought provoking narratives that don’t necessarily adhere to the blockbuster formula. Films like Watchmen and Batman Vs Superman prove to me that the man clearly has a lot of good ideas and a drive to really make an audience think about what they’re watching and question certain things about the characters. The problem is that he never seems to know how best to convey those ideas on screen. In my review of Batman Vs Superman, I likened him to a fire hose. Extremely powerful, but unless you’ve got someone holding onto the thing with both hands and pointing it in the right direction, it’s just going to go all over the place. I admire Snyder’s dedication and thought process, but I think the fact that his most successful film, Man Of Steel, also happens to be the one he had the least creative influence on speaks volumes. When he’s got someone to work with and bounce ideas off of, he can be a creative force to be reckoned with. Left to his own devices however, and his films tend to go off the rails very quickly.

Watchmen is very much Snyder’s passion project. You can tell a lot of care and effort went into this. The accuracy of the costumes, staging and set designs speak for themselves. However there is an underlying problem with Snyder trying to painstakingly recreate the graphic novel on film. While I don’t agree with the purists who say that Watchmen is ‘unfilmmable’, I do agree with Alan Moore’s statement that there are certain aspects of the graphic novel that can only work in a graphic novel. A key example of this is its structure. Watchmen has the luxury of telling its non-linear narrative over twelve issues in creative and unorthodox ways. A structure that’s incredibly hard to translate into any other medium. A twelve episode TV mini-series might come close, but a movie, even a three hour movie, is going to struggle due to the sheer density of the material and the unconventional structure. Whereas the structure of the graphic novel allowed Alan Moore to dedicate whole chapters to the origin stories of Doctor Manhattan and Rorschach and filling in the gaps of this alternate history, the structure of a movie doesn’t really allow for that. And yet Snyder tries really hard to follow the structure of the book even though it simply doesn’t work on film, which results in the movie coming to a screeching halt as the numerous flashbacks and origin stories disrupt the flow of the narrative, causing it to stop and start constantly at random intervals, like someone kangarooing in a rundown car.

Just as Watchmen the graphic novel played around with the common tropes and framing devices of comics, Watchmen the movie needed to play around with the common tropes and framing devices of comic book movies. To Snyder’s credit, there are moments where he does do that. The most notable being the first five minutes where we see the entire history of the world of Watchmen during the opening credits while ‘The Times They Are A-Changing’ is played in the background. This is legitimately good. It depicts the rise and fall of the superhero in a way only a movie can. I wish Snyder did more stuff like this rather than restricting himself to just recreating panels from the graphic novel.

Which is not to say I think the film is bad. On the contrary, I think it’s pretty damn good. There’s a lot of things to like about this movie. The biggest, shiniest gold star has to go to Jackie Earle Haley as Rorschach. While the movie itself was divisive at the time, Haley’s portrayal of Rorschach was universally praised as he did an excellent job bringing this extreme right wing bigot to life. He has become to Rorschach what Ryan Reynolds is to Deadpool or what Mark Hamill is to the Joker. He is the character (rather tragically. LOL). To the point where it’s actually scary how similar Haley looks to Walter Kovacs from the graphic novel. The resemblance is uncanny.

Another standout performance is Jeffery Dean Morgan as the Comedian. Just as depraved and unsavoury as the comic version, but Morgan is also able to inject some real charm and pathos into the character. You believe that Sally Jupiter would have consensual sex with him despite everything he did to her before. But his best scene I think was his scene with Moloch (played by Matt Frewer) where the Comedian expresses regret for all the terrible things he did. It’s a genuinely emotional and impactful scene and Morgan manages to wring some sympathy out of the audience even though the character doesn’t really deserve it. But that’s what makes Rorschach and the Comedian such great characters. Yes they’re both depraved individuals, but they’re also fully realised and three dimensional. They feel like real people, which is what makes their actions and morals all the more shocking.

Then there’s Doctor Manhattan, who in my opinion stands as a unique technical achievement in film. The number of departments that had to work together to bring him to life is staggering. Visual effects, a body double, lighting, sound, it’s a truly impressive collaborative effort, all tied together by Billy Crudup’s exceptional performance. He arguably had the hardest job out of the whole cast. How do you portray an all powerful, emotionless, quantum entity without him coming across as a robot? Crudup manages this by portraying Manhattan as being less emotionless and more emotionally numb, which makes his rare displays of emotion, such as his shock and anger during the TV interview, stand out all the more. It’s a great depiction that I don’t think is given the credit it so richly deserves.

Which leads into something else about the movie, which will no doubt be extremely controversial, but I’m going to say it anyway. I much prefer the ending in the film to the ending in the book.

Hear me out.

In my review of the final issue of Watchmen, I said I didn’t like the squid because of its utter randomness. The plot of the movie however works so much better both from a narrative and thematic perspective. Ozymandias framing Doctor Manhattan makes a hell of a lot more sense than the squid. For one thing, it doesn’t dump a massive amount of new info on us all at once. It’s merely an extension of previously known facts. We know Ozymandias framed Manhattan for giving people cancer to get him off world. It’s not much of a stretch to imagine the world could also buy that Manhattan would retaliate after being ostracised. We also see Adrian and Manhattan working together to create perpetual energy generators, which turn out to be bombs. It marries up perfectly with the history of Watchmen as well as providing an explanation for why there’s an intrinsic field generator in Adrian’s Antarctic base. It also provides a better explanation for why Manhattan leaves Earth at the end despite gaining a newfound respect for humanity. But what I love most of all is how it links to Watchmen’s central themes. 

Thanks to the existence of Doctor Manhattan, America has become the most powerful nation in the world to the point where its disrupted the global balance of power. This has led to the escalation of the Cold War with Russia as well as other countries like Vietnam being at the mercy of the United States. It also allowed Nixon to stay in office long after his two terms had expired. The reason the squid from the book is so unsatisfying as a conclusion is because you don’t buy that anyone would be willing to help America after the New York attack. In fact it would be more likely that Russia and other countries might take advantage of America’s vulnerability. Manhattan’s global attack however not only gives the whole world motivation to work together, it also puts America in a position where they have no choice but to ask for help because it was they that effectively created this mess in the first place. So seeing President Nixon pleading for a global alliance feels incredibly satisfying because we’re seeing a corrupt individual hoist by his own petard and trying to save his own skin, even if it comes at the cost of his power. America is now like a wounded animal, and while world peace is ultimately achieved, the US is now a shadow of its former self. It fits in so perfectly with the overall story of Watchmen, frankly I’m amazed Alan Moore didn’t come up with this himself.

It’s not perfect however. Since the whole genetic engineering stuff no longer exists, it makes the existence of Adrian’s pet lynx Bubastis rather perplexing. Also the whole tachyons screwing with Doctor Manhattan’s omniscience thing still doesn’t make a pixel of sense. But the biggest flaw is in Adrian Veidt’s characterisation. For one thing, Matthew Goode’s performance isn’t remotely subtle. He practically screams ‘bad guy’ the moment he appears on screen. He has none of the charm or charisma that the source material’s Ozymandias had. But it’s worse than that because Snyder seems to be going out of his way to uncomplicate and de-politicise the story and characters. There’s no mention of Adrian’s liberalism or his disdain for Nixon and right wing politics. The film never explores his obsession with displaying his own power and superiority over right wing superheroes like Rorschach and the Comedian. He’s just the generic bad guy. And I do mean bad guy. Whereas the graphic novel left everything up to the reader to decide who was morally in the right, the film takes a very firm stance on who the audience should be siding with. Don’t believe me? Just look at how Rorschach’s death is presented to us.

It’s very clear while watching the film that Zack Snyder is a big Rorschach fan. He gets the most screen time and there’s a lot of effort dedicated to his portrayal and depiction. And that’s fine. There’s nothing necessarily wrong with that. As I’ve mentioned before in previous blogs, Rorschach is my favourite character too. However it’s important not to lose sight of who the character is and what he’s supposed to represent, otherwise you run the risk of romanticising him, which is exactly what the film ends up doing. Rorschach’s death in the graphic novel wasn’t some heroic sacrifice. It was a realisation that he has no place in the world that Ozymandias has created, as well as revealing the hypocrisy of the character. In the extra material provided in The Abyss Gazes Also, we learn that, as a child, Walter supported President Truman’s use of the atomic bomb in Hiroshima and Nagasaki, and yet, in his adult life, he opposes Adrian’s plan. Why? What’s the difference? Well the people who died in Hiroshima and Nagasaki weren’t American. They were Japanese. The enemy. In Rorschach’s mind, they deserved to die, whereas the people in New York didn’t. It signifies the flawed nature of Rorschach’s black and white view of the world as well as displaying the racist double standards of the character. Without the context of Hiroshima and Nagasaki, Rorschach’s death becomes skewed. This is what ends up happening in the movie. Rorschach removes his mask and makes a bold declaration to Doctor Manhattan, the music swells as he is disintegrated, defiant to the last, and his best friend Nite Owl screams in anguish and despair.

In fact the film takes it one step further by having Nite Owl punch Adrian repeatedly in the face and accuse him of deforming humanity, which completely contradicts the point of Dan Dreiberg as a character. He’s no longer the pathetic centrist who requires a superhero identity to feel any sort of power or validation. He’s now the everyman representing the views of the audience, which just feels utterly wrong.

This links in with arguably the film’s biggest problem of all. The way it portrays superheroes in general. The use of slow motion, cinematography and fight choreography frames the superheroes and vigilantes of Watchmen as being powerful, impressive individuals, when really the exact opposite should be conveyed. The costumes give the characters a feeling of power, but that power is an illusion. Nite Owl is really an impotent failure. Rorschach is an angry bigot lashing out at the world. The Comedian is a depraved old man who has let his morals fall by the way side so he can indulge in his own perverse fantasies. They’re not people to be idealised. They’re to be at pitied at best and reviled at worst. So seeing them jump through windows and beating up several thugs single handed through various forms of martial arts ultimately confuses the message, as does the use of gratuitous gore and violence. Are we supposed to be shocked by these individuals or in awe? 

Costumes too have a similar problem. Nite Owl and Ozymandias’ costumes have been updated so they look more imposing, which kind of defeats the purpose of them. The point is they look silly to us, the outside observers, but they make the characters feel powerful. That juxtaposition is lost in the film. And then there’s the Silk Spectre. In the graphic novel, both Sally and Laurie represent the changing attitudes of women in comics and in society. Both Silk Spectres are sexually objectified, but whereas Sally accepts it as part of the reality of being a woman, Laurie resists it, seeing it as demeaning. The only reason she wore her revealing costume in A Brother To Dragons was because she knew that Dan found it sexually attractive and she wanted to indulge his power fantasy. None of this is touched upon in the film, other than one passing mention of the Silk Spectre porn magazine near the beginning of the film. There’s not even any mention of how impractical her costume is, like the graphic novel does. Yes the film changes her look drastically, but it’s still just as impractical and could have been used to make a point on how women are perceived in comic book films, but it never seems to hinder her in anyway. It’s never even brought up, which is ridiculous. Zack Snyder’s reinterpretation of Silk Spectre is clearly meant to inject some form of girl power into the proceedings, as she’s presented as being just as impressive and kick-ass as the others, when the whole point of her character was to expose the misogyny of the comics industry at the time and how they cater to the male gaze. Now don’t get me wrong, I’m not saying the graphic novel did it perfectly, but it did it a hell of a lot better than this.

Die hard fans have described the film over the years as shallow and ‘style over substance.’ I don’t think that’s entirely fair. It’s clear that Zack Snyder has a huge respect for the graphic novel and wanted to do it justice. Overall the film has a lot of good ideas and is generally well made. However, as much as Snyder seems to love Watchmen, it does seem like he only has a surface level understanding of it, hence why the attention and effort seems to be going into the visuals and the faithfulness to Alan Moore’s attention to detail rather than the Watchmen’s story and themes. While the film at times makes some good points about power, corruption and morality, it doesn’t go nearly as far as the source material does and seems to shy away from really getting into the meat of any particular topic. Part of that I suspect is to do with marketability, not wanting to alienate casual viewers, but I think a lot of it is to do with it simply being in the wrong medium. I personally don’t think you can really do a story as complex and intricate as Watchmen’s justice in a Hollywood film. In my opinion, this really should have been a TV mini-series or something.

So on the whole, while I appreciate Snyder’s attempt at bringing the story of Watchmen to life and can see that he has the best intentions in mind, I don’t think this film holds a candle to the original source material. 

[ck-the-overanalyzer]

I Overanalyze: Can A Good Pirate Be A Good Man?

**Please note: this post contains spoilers for all the first 3 Pirates of the Caribbean films: The Curse of the Black Pearl, Dead Man’s Chest, and At World’s End. If you don’t want spoilers, don’t read.**

**A second note: this post is very long, as is my love for Pirates.**

I grew up watching Pirates of the Caribbean. When I was very little my dad and I would have movie nights while my mom went out with friends. We’d pull out the TV trays and watch movies while eating dinner (something my family doesn’t normally do). Then after dinner my dad would lay across the couch and my little four or five year old self would lay on top of him while we watched. You can see why I associate Pirates with fond memories.

As I got older and began to better appreciate films from a creative standpoint, my love for these movies grew. They feature a fun story line, a well built world, and multifaceted, strong characters. But I think that perhaps having grown up with these movies has made it so that I don’t recognize the novelty of them.

The concept behind the first Pirates of the Caribbean movie is certainly a novel one. I think this can be demonstrated by a line Captain Jack Sparrow says in The Curse of the Black Pearl. The line is given just after Will and Jack set off together and Will asks Jack about his father. Jack admits to having known “Bootstrap” Bill Turner and then adds “good man - good pirate.”

I don’t even remember the first time I saw this scene. Whenever I watch it and see Will get upset, insisting his father was not a pirate, I know he will end up discovering that his father was both a good pirate and a good man. But I wonder how people in the theaters must have felt the first time they heard it. How could a pirate possibly be a good man? By definition, a pirate plunders, steals, and kills. These traits are the opposite of those of a good person. I wonder if there were overprotective parents wondering if they should have let their kids watch this. Or maybe there were many that didn’t allow their kids to see it. What was Disney doing making a movie where pirates were the good guys anyways?

“Good man - good pirate.”

I’d like to take a moment to further break down and analyze this phrase. Let’s start with what it means to be a good pirate.

One potential meaning of the label “good pirate” is that they are good at pirating. They are good at plundering, stealing, and killing. This definition seems to directly contrast the “good man” label. And, given what we know about ol’ Bootstrap, isn’t what I think Jack intended by this statement.

Another possible definition is that maybe one is a good pirate when they keep to the pirating rules - The Pirate Code. This seems to fit what we know of Bootstrap. It didn’t sit right with him that they mutaneed against Jack and left him on an island to die. He seemed to have better respect for the captain and for the code. This is contrasted by Barbossa, who states “the code is more what you’d call guidelines than actual rules.”

Alright, so if this is what Jack intended by “good pirate,” let’s move on to “good man.” A good man is generally considered to follow the rules. As we’ve discussed, the Pirate Code is the rules that the pirates are to follow, and Bootstrap seems to adhere to this. He also seems to have a sense of right and wrong (he feels that betraying and abandoning Jack was wrong) and justice (he claims that they deserve to be cursed to pay for their crimes). So perhaps by general, law-abiding standards, one could not fully consider him a good man. But by these standards, he definitely seems to fit the bill. Furthermore, he does seem to know that pirating is bad, as it was why he left Will and his mother and stated that it wasn’t a life he wanted for Will.

Now, we don’t really get to see Bootstrap until Dead Man’s Chest and At World’s End, but The Curse of the Black Pearl had to adequately support the theme of a good pirate being a good man in order for it to be successful and for more movies to follow. While Bootstrap is the one Jack was talking about when he gave the statement and theme of the movie, the story follows Jack himself, using him to show the example of a good pirate and a good man.

Our good old favorite Captain Jack Sparrow also fits the bill of a good pirate, good man, though perhaps not as well as Bootstrap Bill. He, like Bootstrap, follows and respects the Pirate Code. (Perhaps he gets this from his father, Captain Teague, being the keeper of the code.) He keeps to the code, following the pirate rules, but more than that, he has a basic respect and care for human life. These traits are what make it so that we can consider him a good man.

Captain Jack is contrasted against Captain Barbossa, who I argue fits the bill of a good pirate but bad man. He is a good pirate in the sense that Bootstrap and Jack were not; he is good at pirating; good at plundering, stealing, and killing. He has no respect for the code and, more importantly, no respect for basic human life. He is more than willing to take life when the opportunity arises.

Let’s walk through some scenes in the The Curse of the Black Pearl in order to explore the contrast between these two characters and better establish a good pirate, good man vs a good pirate, bad man.

The scene that allows our dear main characters, Captain Jack Sparrow and Elizabeth Swann, to first meet begins to define Jack as a good man. He is in the midst of attempting to commandeer a ship when Elizabeth passes out and falls over the edge of a high wall, sinking into the depths. Now, Jack is a criminal. He does not belong in this town. He is currently in the process of committing a crime, trying to steal from right under the guards’ noses. And yet, he hands off his beloved items and dives into the water to go after some sinking woman that he doesn’t even know. He didn’t even get a good look at her, so his motivation couldn’t possibly be related to her being attractive or of high standing. It is just simply: someone is in trouble and he is able to help. He saves her life, but wounds up being caught and chained because of it. Elizabeth, recognizing the selfless act of a good man as what it is, protests his arrest. Commodore Norrington’s statement may at this point reflect the thoughts of the audience: “One good deed is not enough to rid a man of a lifetime of wickedness.”

As we know, Jack ends up escaping from his captors, hiding out in the blacksmith’s shop. Which brings us to the meeting of our next dear main character, as well as our next scene that shows Jack’s character as a good man.

When Will Turner returns to the blacksmith’s shop, he notices that some things are the way he left them but others are not, and then meets the infamous Captain Jack. Armed with what he knows of pirates - that they are vile, evil people, and that this one in particular threatened his secret crush - he is ready for a fight. Jack, however, does everything he can to not fight (and more importantly: not kill) Will. He has a short sword fight with Will, treating it as a lesson, and then turns to leave. But Will blocks him. A longer and very cinematically pleasing sword fight breaks out, but it ends with Will having sand blown in his face. Jack then pleads for Will to move out of the way: “Move. Please move.” It is only when Will refuses that he draws his pistol, though he doesn’t want to shoot it. (We know he intends this shot to be for Barbossa, but everything about his mannerisms suggest that he also doesn’t want to kill Will.)

Well, Jack indeed ends up getting captured. Our next character showing scene comes at the introduction of the movie’s antagonist and Jack’s foil character: Captain Barbossa.

The Black Pearl responds to the call of the cursed Aztec gold and appears at Port Royal with cannons blazing. This alone shows Barbossa’s character; he is going to get that gold, and he doesn’t care who dies in the process. His men raid the beach, attacking and killing many of the port’s inhabitants, not to mention the vast property damage. Their arrival is loud and unmissable. Elizabeth ends up going to the ship with Pintel and Ragetti under the protection of parlay, and this is when we first see the dread pirate “so evil that hell itself spat him back out.” Barbossa follows the code this time and negotiates with Elizabeth, ultimately kidnapping her and delivering the line about the code being more like guidelines and not applying to her anyways.

We will now jump forward to Will and Jack’s escape from Port Royal. They board The Dauntless and force the crew off of it, and it should be noted that they do so without harming or killing any of the crew. Perhaps the crew is willing to disembark because, as Lieutenant Gillette states, “two men cannot man The Dauntless.” When Norrington comes on The Interceptor to catch them, Will and Jack pull the ol’ switcheroo and steal The Interceptor instead, leaving The Dauntless in such shape that it can’t pursue. Thus they stole a ship and escaped without killing a single person, all thanks to Captain Jack’s ingenious.

While they begin sailing in pursuit, Barbossa blackmails Elizabeth into having dinner with him and then shows her the nightmares of their curse before ultimately locking her up for the rest of the trip. You know, a real gentleman.

Eventually they arrive at the Isla de Muerta and they take Elizabeth to try and break the curse. Now, to his credit, Barbossa does choose to cut Elizabeth’s palm rather than kill her, saying “waste not.” However, I posit that his intentions here were not pure. He wasn’t done with Elizabeth. He had mentioned that, as part of the curse, they couldn’t “feel the warmth of a woman’s skin” and that they had an “insatiable lust.” His demeanor towards Elizabeth up to this point doesn’t suggest gentlemanly intentions. The lack of gentlemanly intentions are added to after he catches up to and sinks The Interceptor, throwing Elizabeth to his crew in order to repay her “taking advantage of his hospitality.” When making Elizabeth walk the plank, he asks for the dress back, his crew hooting and hollering as she undresses into her dressing gown. He sends Jack off with just the one shot in the pistol even though he is banishing both of them, encouraging him to “be the gentleman and shoot the lady, then starve yourself.”

Taking a step back to before he sinks The Interceptor, Jack tries to negotiate going over and getting Barbossa what he needs, to which Barbossa replies “That’s exactly the thinking that lost you the Pearl. People are easy to search when they’re dead.” Jack had such a reputation for not wanting to unnecessarily spill blood that it had upset Barbossa, and apparently other crew members, enough that they wanted to overthrow him. 

This time when Barbossa and his crew take Will, the true Turner child, to Isla de Muerta, they say they will kill him and spill all of his blood. It could just be as the second mate says: they are just doing it to be sure. But as far as Barbossa is concerned, there is no real reason to keep this kid alive after using his blood. He serves no purpose and his life is meaningless to him.

Now, it is often difficult to follow dear Captain Jack Sparrow’s plans. In the original plan, he spoke of leverage, and it seemed that he was going to use Will in order to regain The Black Pearl, perhaps throwing Will away and letting him die. However, in his adjusted plan following he and Elizabeth being saved by Norrington, it seems he has accounted for saving both Elizabeth and Will. We cannot know for sure, but I would be willing to bet that Jack had planned on finding a way to ultimately save them both in his original plan, as well.

Whatever the case, his second plan ends up succeeding, at least on his end. He warned Norrington that he may want to defend The Dauntless, but Norrington ignored him, which ultimately lead to some loss of life on the ship. (It would have perhaps been less had he listened, showing Jack again seems to be thinking about how to preserve life.) Will and Elizabeth both end up surviving, Jack kills Barbossa with the single shot he’s been holding onto to repay his backstabbing old friend, and the curse is broken, allowing the rest of the crew to be killed or taken into custody. After selecting a fair bit of his enemies’ treasure, he requests that Will and Elizabeth drop him off at The Black Pearl.

However, when they leave the cave, they find that The Pearl is gone, as Gibbs and the others escaped on it. Elizabeth tells him that she’s sorry, to which Jack only replies “They’ve done what’s right by them.” Afterall, when leaving the first time, he had told them to keep to the code: “anyone who falls behind is left behind.”

Later, after Will frees Jack from the gallows and The Black Pearl rounds the bend, coming to retrieve her captain, Jack tells Gibbs “You were supposed to keep to the code.” Gibbs replies “We figured they were more actual guidelines,” echoing what Barbossa had told Elizabeth and what she, in turn, had told Gibbs and the rest of the crew. Jack then gives a very quiet, very sincere “thank you.”

Now Captain Jack Sparrow, the good pirate and good man, sails off with his crew after having reclaimed his beloved ship. The movie does a wonderful job of showing its theme and bringing across its point. Besides seeing it in the contrast between Jack and Barbossa, you can also see it in the changes in opinion of Elizabeth and Will throughout the movie.

When Will first meets Jack in the blacksmith’s shop, he tells of his distaste for pirates with lines like “I make a point not to get acquainted with pirates” and “I practice so that when I meet a pirate, I can kill it.” He refers to the pirate as “it,” showing that he doesn’t even truly consider a pirate to be fully human.

As mentioned at the top of this post, when Will and Jack are sailing away on The Interceptor, Will becomes offended at the possibility that his father could have been a pirate, though Jack states that he was a good pirate and a good man. (Here too, it should be noted, Jack is not eager to fight Will, finding it unnecessary to do so. Also, I guess, he needs another man to help him man the ship and bring it into Tortuga.)

After Will rescues Elizabeth and leaves Jack behind, the two are below deck in The Black Pearl and Elizabeth returns Will’s medallion. When he asks why she took it, she replies “Because I was afraid you were a pirate - that would have been awful.” This shows that, despite her obsession with pirates, she considers them to be awful people. This is perhaps fueled by her recent interaction with said pirates, but even as a young girl she considered them to be awful, thus taking the medallion from young, unconscious Will.

You can see Will’s expression change when she says “that would have been awful.” You can see him look at the medallion and think it through before he says “It wasn’t your blood they needed. It was mine. The blood of a pirate.” He slams the medallion down on the table, the realization hitting him: the filthy blood of the foul creatures he so despised flowed through his veins. You can just imagine what he’s questioning. Does that make him filthy like them? Does Elizabeth, the woman he loves, view him as awful, given his heritage?

These scenes are greatly contrasted with those that accompany Jack’s hanging at the end of the movie. As Jack’s crimes are being read out, Elizabeth states “This is wrong.” The man up there, though a pirate, had saved her life multiple times over the past few days. While not the most upright of gentlemen, she knows him to be a good man.

Her father’s response is interesting. “Commander Norrington is bound by the law, as are we all.” He doesn’t deny that this is wrong. He doesn’t point out the wrongdoings and foul deeds Captain Jack has committed. He just states that this is what they must do. Their hands are tied. (Norrington, it should be noted, looks somewhat displeased with this exchange.)

Will then saves Jack from the gallows, but the two are surrounded by guards. Norrington, Elizabeth, and Governor Swann come over. Governor Swann expresses his disbelief at Will’s attempt, stating “He’s a pirate.” Will’s reply shows how truly full circle he has come.

“And a good man.”

He then adds “If all that I have achieved today is that the hangman will claim two pairs of boots instead of one, so be it. At least my conscious will be clear.”

Will has found that Captain Jack Sparrow, a good pirate, is also a good man, and he is willing to die to stand by that. Elizabeth joins him, showing that so is she (though it is doubtful that the Governor would allow his daughter to be killed here, and she didn’t directly participate in the rescue attempt other than feigning passing out, so she’s at less risk).

After Jack falls into the water and is rescued by the crew of The Black Pearl, the Governor states “Perhaps, on the rare occasion, pursuing the right course requires and act of piracy. Piracy itself can be the right course.” This statement seems to follow a sort of “Robin Hood,” vigilante mentality. Maybe you must occasionally bend, or even break, the rules to do the right thing. Governor Swann also thinks that Jack is a good man, even if a foul one he’d rather his daughter not associate with.

After Norrington leaves, the Governor turns to his daughter and Will, asking if this is truly the man she wishes to marry. While he will acknowledge that a man of filth such as a pirate can be a good man and do the right thing, he is still a man of high standing and wishes that for his daughter. He states “After all, he is a blacksmith.” I propose that Elizabeth’s reply, “No. He’s a pirate,” has a deeper meaning. Given the theme of the movie, and how the two’s view as changed over the course of it, I posit that it could be replaced with:

“He’s a good man.”

Evidence of Jack being a good man while Barbossa is a bad man can be found throughout the rest of the Pirates of the Caribbean movies, as well. Will and Elizabeth’s perspectives of pirates continue to evolve. While the theme becomes less of a major focus in the later movies, The Curse of the Black Pearl’s defining theme: “Good pirate, good man” is still a key part of the series.

If you’d like to see more evidence through out the following movies, here’s part 2.

[sleepykalena]

“It’s not a problem if you don’t look up.”

I’m a POC and I love Jyn Erso.

And lately it seems like there are some folks (literally just a few folks, afaik) who seem keen on painting parts of the fandom with such a broad brush that their shouting has made their way into my corner. It’s such an angry brush, and I understand where the frustration comes from. But I’d like to remind anyone who’s bothered to actually look at this post:

Fandom is what you make of it.

I mean this in the intended sense as well as with regards to the things you create and put out there in the fandom itself. I don’t want to contribute to the anger or the fighting. I go out of my way to try and not pick fights with people. Yet somehow the fighting finds me. The real life has me tired. So tired. Between the Orange Skull, the racist white folk who decide to actively trash my POC friends and neighbors in one of the most liberal areas of the US, and politics within the industry I chose to have a career in, I just want to sit in my corner and do my thing on my own terms, with the people who’ve supported me, in my own little section of the Rebelcaptain fandom.

So here’s the thing about Jyn Erso, and why I love her so much: “it’s not a problem if you don’t look up.”

I have been raised as a second-generation Asian-American to keep my head down, stay quiet and don’t cause a stir, and just try and climb your way out of your social class and aim for a higher rung on the ladder. I was blessed to be raised with a level of privilege that the military comfortably provided me, with an income that brought food to the table and helped pay my tuition.

But that doesn’t change the atrocities committed against me as a female and a POC- the emotional manipulation, the sexual assault, the slurs thrown at me from people of all walks of life.

Regardless, I kept my head down and didn’t bother to “look up”. I literally do not like to look people in the eyes, because it implies I’m itching for a fight or a confrontation. I kept quiet where I could. I tried to make change where I was able to, knowing full well that it would make a difference. I would try my hardest to help others (and sometimes a little too hard if I think back on the last few months), only to find myself still beaten down by some other entity- be it the people I once trusted, by the powers that be in government, or even down to the people who try to fight for causes I also believe in. But if you piss me off enough, if you push my patience to the very edge and test me, then I will lose all sense of remorse for whatever I do unto you when I snap.

Jyn’s emotional development and attitudes aren’t too different from my own, and I love that this was written in to her character. Her character arc lines up so well with my own life and experiences that I will continue to write about her and draw her until my wrists break.

I also love Cassian Andor, but it has less to do with Diego Luna and more to do with my significant other (who, for the record, is also Latinx).

It seems expected that I would like him, given that I’m a rebelcaptain shipper, Lunatic, and likewise a fellow POC. But if it weren’t for my partner and all the qualities I see in him as I see them in Cassian, I don’t actually think I could be as fervent a rebelcaptain shipper as I am right now. Cassian’s brightest character points, as well as his darkest ones, are very easily found in my partner. In the same way that Cassian gave Jyn hope, my partner gives me hope in a world that deserves to be burning in the depths of whatever hell you happen to believe in. In the same way that Cassian internalizes all his character flaws, so too does my partner try his hardest not to dwell too much on the negative aspects about him. He’s quiet, a man of few words, and even fewer true ones. Cassian speaks just enough for people to be appeased, but the words carry little meaning, a ploy to comfort people to make sure he can live to fight another day. His words of honesty, of thoughts in his mind, are rare, and shared only to those he finds himself trusting. My partner is hardly any different.

But, if there’s anything he let himself admit to me, it’s that he loves that I’m there for him when he needs it, and that I’ve taught him to be less apathetic. Me, the cynic, the one bitter with the real world, had taught him to be less apathetic. Who’da thunk?

In every piece of fanfic I write, I almost inevitably fall back on this: Jyn teaches Cassian something that changes him for the better. It brings me immense joy to be told that I, a Jyn, had helped him, a Cassian, to be less apathetic, to care just a little bit more about his actions, how they affect others, and why he should take more effort to visibly care just a little bit more.

Is it a problematic trope? Sure, according to some of those folks in the fandom. But I write these stories because, for once, I made a difference to my partner’s life, to someone’s life. To me, Jyn teaching Cassian a thing is a result of her finally making a difference in a galaxy where she was inundated with the idea that her existence doesn’t matter, that what she does makes very little difference. My reasons for writing fic are intensely personal, and there are bits of me and my partner scattered in all of them, in various proportions.

What I don’t appreciate is being told that, as a POC and based on my personal experiences, my “silence” and refusal to be loud and join this tirade of sorts makes me complicit in what is allegedly rampant sexism and racism in the fandom.

Being a POC, particularly a WOC, puts a target on my back on the internet. I keep quiet, especially with regards to my racial identity, precisely because I know how dangerous it can be to open my mouth and scream too loudly into the void. Out of all the fights I want to pick, fandom “discourse” is far and away from my list of priorities. I’m busy trying to get my representatives in to make actual difference in my city, state, and country, informing myself for the broader problems that exist outside of this fandom, making money to put food on the table, etc. All I want to do is enjoy my corner of the fandom in peace, and not have an extra “duty” to fight this racial fight at the risk of looking like “a bad POC”. If anything, that puts an onus on POC to be “perfect” with all that preaching, and not only am I far from perfect, I also think that expectation is damaging to the movement as a whole.

Much like Jyn, you could ask me if I care not for the cause. Much like Jyn, I do. But, cynically, I have to say again: “It’s not a problem if you don’t look up”. Making that much noise to fight a cause is a huge waste of my time and effort because I’m surrounded by people who either 1) are so fully-formed in their development that they’re set in their ways and are otherwise unchangeable; 2) are already are aware of these issues and tropes, and thus I’d be preaching to the choir; or 3) don’t care for my existence because I’m not really a big name in the fandom.

But the biggest reason why I don’t make a huge noise about it is because fandom is what you make of it. These people literally have every right to write whatever trope they want, including exceedingly problematic ones, because- you guessed it- it’s their space too. I acknowledge that their presence exists and I refuse to share my space with them, but so long as you’ve written your line in the sand over your space, I won’t interfere with your space. Don’t interfere with mine. Any overlapping peers who happen to like us both are free to cross to and from the borders. My kink is not your kink, my headcanon is not your headcanon, but so what? I’ll still tell people to write that stuff anyway. Because that’s what they want to make of fandom, whether or not it’s canon/fanon, whether or not I like it.

I fight problematic tropes by setting an example. If kudos, views, notes, and comments are currency, then I, as one could phrase it, “talk with my money”. And believe me, some people have got me feeling pretty stingy. I think it’s far more effective to incite change in this small fandom by creating content that (hopefully) sets an example that inspires others to do things a little more like the way I do them, rather than trying to scream at people. I try my hardest not to adhere to these tropes or dynamics I find disagreeable. I boycott content from certain users if I find their presence and/or actions a threat to my enjoyment of the fandom. And I block people who regularly engage in fandom wank and abuse the tagging system. In a fandom that seems to be increasingly sensitive to note counts and feedback, my withholding of attention is a more than effective tool at showing people that I don’t like their stuff.

Does it create an echo chamber? You betcha! But this is my echo chamber; the real world is already looming over me with its own set of drama. Creating an echo chamber for my corner of the fandom and making a safe space out of it is something I deserve as a human being.

I’m relatively confident that others have taken the same policy and thus do not give me their attention to any of the things I’ve created. And that’s perfectly okay. It sucks, but it’s perfectly okay, because I don’t owe them my time just as much as they don’t owe me theirs.

I will fight by encouraging change to those in my purview in my own terms, in my own way. I refuse to be painted with this brush of being uncaring and complicit, especially when all I’ve seen from those people is hate against the enemies and very little uplifting, encouragement, and love to the ones they claim to fight for. I don’t even think they’ve read or liked a single thing I’ve ever made in the fandom; I am, in short, a POC not worth supporting. What’s more, their shouting had become so loud and so angry that I nearly cancelled a fic because it was a modern AU in which Cassian is Mexican-American and speaks Spanish off and on depending on the situation. I planned for him to speak Chicano English by default, but use Californian English whenever he’s outside his own home. I chose them because I think his identity and accent matter to the plot. These people, who were so fed up with the use of the Spanish language and Mexican identity for Cassian, had me scared to ever write this fic even though people I’ve discussed the story with insist that this upcoming fic is perfectly fine. It was hard to hear their support when the loudest voice in my head repeated all those gripes that other people had about the depiction of POC in the Rebelcaptain fandom, and it took several tries and a relentless barrage of support to give me back the courage to draft this fanfic, which has a huge socio-political slant specifically targeting the POC of the Rogue One squad.

The people who encouraged me to do it? Still predominantly white folk (and I deliberately choose not to use the word “women” here). I get support from people of different racial identities as well, no doubt (and one POC in particular comes to mind because she’s been my loudest supporter since I officially entered the fandom), but most of them have been white. 

My corner of the fandom has been peaceful and the least problematic, and the people are, at their very core, truly lovely people. I’m sorry that people mistake my alleged silence for compliance. I’m sorry that people find my work so uninteresting that it’s not worth their time to give me their support. I’m sorry that some people are finding their corner of the fandom violated and full of toxicity that no amount of blocking can help matters.

But please, for the love of every deity in human existence, keep your anger away from my corner of the fandom. I only get a few hours each week to myself, and I’ve chosen to spend it here. I want to make each minute count. And the next minute, and the next, on and on until I’m satisfied with my contributions here, or until the minutes are spent. Let me love Jyn and Cassian in my own way. Let me celebrate their relationship in my own way. Let me fight my fight in my own way. If you don’t like it, that’s fine! Use that currency I mentioned earlier and take your money elsewhere. But do not dictate how I should act within my space and place expectations on me because I’m a POC, and do not make assumptions about my character.