#at the very least i like to keep relative details intact

[gamebunny-advance]

What do you think?

(Unedited)

(Robot & Zam scaled x0.9)

I couldn't leave well enough alone, so I tried messing with this again. (Also learned how to import the textures~)

Yesterday, I thought I'd concluded that Zam was properly scaled and was just a big guy, but I still couldn't shake that he just looked too big since I know he's not supposed to be that tall from the concept art.

So, I tried re-scaling him (and Robot) to see if that would look a little more natural, and I think it does. Maybe x0.9 is too much of a downscale, but I think it looks more accurate than the original.

(Zam + Robot adjusted for x0.95, and B2J)

I think this is probably the most accurate I can get.

I did try rescaling Gigi and Yiruk, but after I "fixed" Zam and Robot, they started to look more normal by comparison too, and the concept art does show them as on the short side anyway, so I think the new chart is more or less accurate.

[cliban]

AYE

Hi so to preface - I'm a sexual assault survivor who is DEEPLY uncomfortable with how Angel was treated in the show, by the show creators, and in general, and I've put a little bit into re-working him to still keep him relatively intact as the original Angel Dust, but portrayed in a way I feel would reflect a more interesting character. I also don't like Hazbin Hotel or Vivziepop very much lmao - I happen to be a trans guy.

Spoilers for the entirety of Hazbin Hotel, and CW for discussions of rape, other sexual assault, loss of autonomy, transphobia, and abuse.

Angel, in the rewrite I have going with Jay and co, is a sinner trapped in a bad contract with Valentino, that part stays enough the same. Valentino likes to use Angel's image as a porn star and as a trans man (another change - Angel literally just has breasts in the original but is still a cis man. Not to say that cis men cannot play with gender however they want, or that cis men cannot have breasts, but the sexualized nature of Angel's chest felt fetish-y to both transfems and transmascs) to portray the "perfect" sexual being.

Angel himself was initially all for it, as he quite enjoyed sex, sexuality, etc - He's a gay man that's invested in kink and bdsm, he thinks it's fun, etc. To note, he would be the only major character in this Hazbin rewrite who has an arc so sexually present - the others would be Asmodeus (obviously), Stolas (to outline his consent issues), and to a lesser extent Fizz (similar to Angel's autonomy issues, but less about the sex doll thing and more just.... Mammon's control), who are all more Helluva Boss centric. Anyway, to clear that up, most characters would not be as hypersexual as they are in the show lmao

Pre-show, Valentino has successfully marketed Angel as that perfect sexual being - a somewhat androgynous man with a vagina, feminine enough to have breasts but masculine enough to overall pass as male. Something for everyone. Angel is becoming slowly more dysphoric, but is banned from transitioning, and violence slowly creeps into his and Valentino's relationship as Angel starts to protest against some of the bullshit, but is, of course, shot down. By the time the show present rolls around, Angel is quite literally at his lowest point, and willing to take the free lodging just to get away at some points.

He initially presents as a very flirty, very porn-y person, extremely confident, thinks he's funny, more like he is in the pilot. Kind of a dick, feels very self-centered and acts like he's better than everyone because he's famous and a porn star. When Charlie, Vaggie, Husk, Alastor, etc start very firmly rejecting any flirting he does, he starts spiraling a little in private, because "God, I pushed them too far, and that makes me just as bad if not worse than Valentino" and "If nobody actively wants me all the time, what worth do I even have?"

Those initial personality traits are mostly to get him by - People expect him to be a little flirty at least, so he dials it up. He can get away with seducing his way out of bad situations using his body and his reputation, and he does it so often that it becomes a very subconscious first nature thing to him.

Eventually, this leads up to my rewrite of episode 4, which is so long I put this under a cut lmao

Now I did like the aspect of Husk calling Angel out on his very fake demeanor, but there was absolutely 0 leadup to it, so I would push episode 4 over to a far later episode and have some scenes building up to it; We know Angel uses drugs to cope, and I assume that would extend to drinking, so Husk would just quietly start picking up on when those episodes happen (after porn shoots), the visible marks on Angel's body (physical violence from Valentino that he passes off as a bdsm shoot), all those little details that Husk would have picked up on from his gambling history. In any case, Husk wouldn't call out Angel in front of everyone because Angel would just. Back further away from any progress. Instead, I'd put Angel as trying to come onto Husk (possibly drug-induced state) and Husk calling him out there. Maybe Alastor or Charlie could overhear, to which Charlie decides to go Support Angel At Work (because she would be less. squeamish abt everything in the rewrite lol) and see how the business is run

In any case the scene of Charlie accidentally mucking things up - in this case she's just distracting actors because she's genuinely interested in people - and Valentino goes and whispers something inaudible to the audience to Angel, because Valentino has been friendly (not creepy like he is in the original ep) the entire time, and Angel's face just drops, but he goes over to tell her to sit down and the conversation escalates because Charlie's panicking that Angel's upset and Angel is panicking that Valentino's gonna take it out on him and now Charlie's upset, so it escalates to Charlie leaving.

After that night's shoot - which is Not depicted by the way, I want to make it very clear that that montage was literally a sexual assault/gangrape montage - Angel is visibly battered and if we have make the details clearer we can have an advertised scene or people talking about how good [that shoot] was, contrasted with Angel covering up and being uncomfortable. I'd rather have it implied not even because of discomfort but because leaving things up to implication can make the audience feel so much worse for him

then Angel enters the hotel and Charlie tries to talk to him about it in that bright cheery "how'd it go?!" and Angel is genuinely a dick to her. Like full on snapping at her. I think it's important to have Angel have some real assholish moments in the show, then have Valentino use that later in order to manipulate Angel further in another attempt to isolate him. Anyway Angel storms out and Charlie makes to go after him, but Husk goes wait. I'll do it. and because Charlie has had some scenes with Husk demonstrating his people-pacifying social skills to her before, she trusts him and passes along a message

Husk finds Angel at the same scene, schmoozing it up with some guys and letting them spike his drink. Husk drags Angel out again and asks why the fuck he'd let that happen. I'm not entirely sure how Angel would react, but his internal reasoning is that if he lets that happen, it's a more "real" form of assault on him. Valentino very clearly manipulates Angel's consent to the point where Angel is unsure if he's consented or not (he is not), and Angel deals with hypersexuality as a result of that. In this case, he'd go out and sleep with a bunch of ppl in very dubious consenting situations because 1. he is hypersexual and craves validation that is not from Valentino, which is easiest to access via sexual validation, 2. his self-worth is somewhat tied to how much he can serve others, or drugs, and both are of equal value to him, 3. if all else fails, he can point out that situation to himself as the most "valid" violation of his consent, and justify his godawful situation to himself, a "at least Valentino doesn't do this to me!"

Husk, being very good at people, goes yeah. okay. that's fucked. it's all fucked. you still need to apologize to charlie though. and Angel agrees because he was being a dick. But from there it opens up a dialogue of Charlie and Husk slowly getting through to Angel and eventually, when Charlie figures out the full extent of what Valentino is doing to Angel, she goes fucking feral. princess of hell an all that

If you have any questions feel free to ask, i guess! jfc that got long

Please tell me what is Angel Dust in your rewrite

@cliban wanna do the honors?

[theoriginalcarnivorousmuffin]

In your latest post, you said that Dumbledore MEANT to put Harry in a abusive household. That, or when he found out he did nothing to stop it. Why is that?

You’re going to get a lot of people angry with me. Well, I suppose they’re already angry. Somewhere out there, on the wider internet.

Right, anyway, the evidence of Harry’s abuse is so overwhelming that it seems improbable to me that Dumbledore wasn’t aware of what was happening. More, every interaction he has with not only Harry, but characters in similar circumstances, lends me to believe that in the event that Dumbledore does know he’d take no action.

Harry Potter and the Sorcerer’s Stone: Scene 1

We start out the entire Harry Potter series with Minerva and Dumbledore waiting in the early dawn for Hagrid’s arrival and to place Harry with the Dursleys. Minerva immediately announces her discomfort with this, 

She specifically says the following:

"You don't mean — you can't mean the people who live here? Dumbledore, you can't. You couldn't find two people who are less like us."

Lily Evans’ relatives are infamous enough such that Minerva McGonagall, who is presumably not as close as her like aged peers (i.e. Sirius, Remus, and Peter) knows about them.

Granted, some of this is anti-muggle sentiment. Minerva isn’t sure that suburban muggles raising a magical child like Harry Potter is a good idea. Nevertheless, she has deep misgivings, and relays them to Dumbledore.

We know from further evidence that Dumbledore is perfectly aware of what Petunia and Vernon are like as well. He gives Harry to the Dursleys anyway.

Dumbledore, for his own reasons, chooses not to listen.

Dumbledore’s Letter to Petunia

Dumbledore writes a letter to Petunia, knowing it is highly necessary, as he gives Harry to the family. The letter is... vaguely threatening but in a very polite Dumbledore way. It pretty much implies “Take Harry, or else, also be nice to your dead sister.”

The point is, Dumbledore is aware that this letter is highly necessary. And then... other things happen.

Dumbledore Sends Hagrid

Dumbledore sends Hagrid to pick Harry up.

Ordinarily, in such circumstances, Minerva is sent to introduce muggleborn children to the Wizarding World. “Perhaps she was busy,” you say, too busy for Harry Potter? Wizard Jesus and the child of perhaps her favorite students who she openly favors throughout the series?

“Perhaps Dumbledore was being nice to Hagrid, and he had an errand to do anyway,” well, it’s all well and good to be nice to Hagrid, but is he really the best guy to introduce anybody to the Wizarding World?

This is Hagrid, the likelihood of him having taken Harry to an exotic pet shop where Harry then gets eaten by the Chupacabra is 95%. The 5% where it didn’t happen is because Hagrid went to the pet shop alone and some, distant, rational part of his brain told him that Harry would want the pretty owl vs. the one-eyed blood sucking rat demon in the cage next to her.

You don’t send Hagrid if you want a child returned to you with all its limbs intact.

So why do you send Hagrid?

When you want someone who’s so painfully oblivious, loyal, and stupid that they could stare a hellscape in the face and wouldn’t even notice.

Hagrid gets a firsthand view of Harry’s living conditions. He learns that Harry’s relatives have been actively blocking Harry’s letters, that they have run across the country to avoid them. He sees the state of Harry’s clothing in comparison to Dudley, how thin Harry is in comparison to Dudley, and the way the family interacts with each other.

Harry’s child abuse is staring Hagrid right in the face.

Minerva would demand that Harry be placed somewhere else, they can find some other means of protecting him.

What does Hagrid do?

He gives Dudley a pig’s tail illegally and proceeds to tell Harry that Dumbledore is the greatest man who ever lived. 

Other Evidence Comes to Light

Other characters start getting pretty big warning signs that all’s not right at the Potters.

Ron and Hermione know the situation is “bad” and that Harry’s relatives “hate magic”. They’re also kids and don’t really understand what this means, the idea of being abused and hated by your guardians is unthinkable to them and Harry doesn’t come out and just say it.

That said, they’ve seen enough that they drop hints to those around them. Mr. and Mrs. Weasley are told about the bars on Harry’s window. Ron was so concerned about Harry in the summer after first year that he steals his father’s car with Fred and George to go pick him up. That is not normal behavior, that is deep concern for your friend.

Despite all of this... nothing happens.

Hermione spends far more time at the Weasleys then Harry ever does. Every summer, he returns to Privet Drive, and it’s likely if Arthur and Molly did have concerns Dumbledore told them off.

Arabella Figg

Arabella has been keeping an eye on Harry for years. She’s noted some very disturbing trends and been witness to years of the Dursleys interacting with Harry Potter.

She passes this information on to Dumbledore.

He knows how bad it is.

Harry Potter

Harry tells Dumbledore he does not wish to remain at the Dursleys, he notes that they don’t like him and he doesn’t like them. Now, he tries to downplay it, but this is a child saying some pretty disturbing things. You don’t brush this off.

Dumbledore does.

Dumbledore Visits the Dursleys

In book 6, Dumbledore visits the Dursleys and sees, in person, how bad it is. However, he shows no surprise, only vague disappointment in Petunia. Tsk, tsk, Petunia, I thought you were better than this.

He offers a few threats and then he and Harry go on their merry way.

Severus Snape

Snape is Dumbledore’s spy who reads Harry’s mind for half a year. Granted, Snape is a bastard who loathes Harry Potter, but he sees evidence of the Dursleys abuse of Harry.

We know, from what he relays to Dumbledore later, that he had at least some concern for Harry and was very disturbed by Dumbledore’s plan to murder him in cold blood due to the horcrux.

I think it’s very likely Severus Snape knew and told Dumbledore that Harry was being abused. I’m sure Albus’ response was, “Bitch, I know, would you like a lemon drop?”

Point being, there is no conceivable way that Albus Dumbledore, even if he was the world’s dumbest man, didn’t know exactly how bad it was. He let’s it happen anyway.

But What About the Blood Wards?

Dumbledore eventually tells Harry that the reason he can’t run away from Privet Drive is because of the blood wards created by his mother. They can only be applied if he lives with blood relatives and protect the Dursley house as long as Harry considers it home.

Now, this is a bit suspect given that Harry really considers Hogwarts his home, Privet Drive is just that hell hole he has to go back to every summer. Even the Burrow is more his home than Privet Drive so... That doesn’t sound right.

More, though, there are other means of protection.

There’s the Fidelius which Dumbledore casts on Sirius’ house in book 5. Given that, Harry really could have lived with Sirius (well, Sirius is not in a good place to have a kid around and that would be a disaster and a half). Point being, Harry could be raised elsewhere and there are wards that could protect him.

More, Voldemort and the Death Eaters are out of commission for thirteen years. Indeed, we see Dumbledore up Harry’s security detail by secretly assigning the Order to tail him after fourth year.

So, for a very long time, it’s not about Harry’s protection and when it does become that we see Dumbledore make significant changes.

So, what could it be?

Well, let’s look at Dumbledore’s other actions. Dumbledore prevents Harry from becoming prefect because “he thought it would go to his head”. Which, Harry should absolutely not be made prefect at all, and Ron’s a laughable candidate too but...

To me that’s very telling.

I hate to say this, but this is Dumbledore, but I think he has a very similar reasoning behind Harry going to the Dursleys.

He doesn’t want Harry to be corrupted by the Boy Who Lived persona. He wants him in a certain state of mind when he enters into the wizarding world and... Frankly, he wants him vulnerable. Dumbledore, in time, will need to either murder this boy or have him kill himself. If Harry has a halfway decent guardian, that task becomes a hell of a lot harder.

Harry has to love the wizarding world so much, trust Dumbledore so much, that these things are worth dying for.

You Mentioned Something About Dumbledore’s Other Actions?

Dumbledore has no sympathy for victims of child abuse.

Tom Riddle, an impoverished orphan loathed by those in his orphanage, he thinks is the very devil and sends him back into the Blitz with a smile and a wave. Enjoy the bombs, Tom, hope you die.

Severus Snape, the half blood child of an abusive muggle father and absentee mother, who is nearly murdered by Sirius Black via Remus Lupin, is told to shut the fuck up and sit down before he ruins the lives of his betters.

Dumbledore has a very bad track record with this and, well, Harry Potter is not an exception.

To be fair, I think the wizarding world has not concept of CPS or even child abuse. There’s no hint of a foster system, you go to the closest relative of the godparents. So, I think to them, you’re stuck with whoever you’re stuck with and if your uncle rapes you then it sucks to be you.

[chibimyumi]

Redesign Prompt RESULTS!

Alright, thank you everyone who has voted, the results are now in! Overwhelmingly our winner is Ranmao 🐈!

First of all, I need to insert a few caveats here. Unlike with Victorian fashion, I do not have years and years of studying of Qing dynasty-fashion behind me. So whatever results I show here are the product of a fortnight of reading up and meticulous studying of contemporary photographs. a.k.a. I am merely scraping the surface here. But! I do promise that everything shown here is done to the best of my ability to be responsible as a content provider.

Now without further ado, let us dive into Ranmao’s current design, the blatantly obvious inaccuracies, and how I propose to redes...ign... her outfit while keeping the original intact as much.... as possible????  Heck, this is not even worthy of being called a ‘redesign’, this is straight up designing from scratch!

Hair

Let us start with her bangs. Her bangs are in fact surprisingly accurate, as late Qing dynasty women would wear their bangs in a variety of Bettie bangs trimmed well above the eyebrows. Having sides of the bangs growing longer framing the face was usual too, though they would be cut slightly thicker than Ranmao’s. Though, we don’t know how much hair Ranmao has, so I see no reason to alter it.

Twin braids are very much associated with the “China doll look”, but they seem to have been branded into our image of the “Chinese Girl” because it was the go-to look for unmarried women in Republic China (which is many years later than Ranmao’s time, and also has more surviving images.)

In Ranmao’s time, unmarried girls would either wear the bottom part of their hair down, or have everything tied into a single braid behind them. Girls who preferred a more feminine look would often decorate the sides or the top with flowers or other ornaments depending on their wealth.

Yana’s notes say that the flower in Ranmao’s hair is a Chinese peony, which is also called the Empress of Flowers in Chinese as well as Japanese culture. I could find sources on how the peony was the symbol of the Empress of China, and how one better avoid wearing any type of peonies around the Empress herself for fear of being suspected of disrespect. But I could not find any evidence of such flowers being banned for other people, so presumably it was more an ‘unwritten code of politeness’ rather than fashion law.

Hence, I kept the pink peony design for Ranmao, and decorated them in the way Qing women would have.

Neckline

By far the most interesting thing I learned from this redesign attempt was that the “mandarin collar” - the thing that pops up first in most people’s minds when thinking about Chinese fashion - was in fact not at all common.

In this academic work on Chinese fashion history, Finnane writes that the ‘high collar’ was “not a common feature of costume before the twentieth century.” Instead, most costumes would have had a round neckline.

Finnane, Antonia. Changing Clothes in China : Fashion, History, Nation. New York: Columbia University Press, 2008. p. 93

The ‘high collar’ gained popularity in early 1900s in China after the Europeans brought with them the beauty standard for high collars, as well as slim-fitted silhouettes. The Chinese increasingly adopted this type of collar and the slim silhouette (the well known ‘china dress/qipao/cheongsam’), and the relatively many early photos that survived helped engrave this stereotype into our minds.

Sleeves

I do not think it requires any mention, but 19th century Chinese fashion did not include boleros... For many of the original designs of Ranmao I can sort of see where Yana got that image from, but this bolero-look truly beats me.

The sleeves worn in the late Qing period were relatively wide, though they were starting to slim down over time. Late Qing women enjoyed much more flexible clothing rules than earlier Qing women, and the width of the sleeves was in great part determined by personal preference, season, but mostly one’s wealth.

Needless to say, the larger the sleeves the more fabric and embroidery it would require, and thus more expensive. Also, the wider the more it would get into the wearer’s way.

I don’t know how much thought Yana put into Ranmao’s original design in relation to her function as elite bodyguard, but considering how the original has zero practicality and only serves to maximise Ranmao’s attractiveness, I have no qualms about giving Ranmao fairly large sleeves too. Besides, let us assume that Lau is responsible for providing Ranmao with clothes. Illegal money tends to fill the pockets quite deeply, I don’t think he can’t spare a few pounds for big sleeves.

Wider sleeves would expose much of ‘a lady’s precious skin’, as such a more fitted layer would have been worn underneath. (The sleeves under the wider sleeves obviously did not have to be orange-ish. This was merely coincidence that both my redesign and the visual source have this colour.)

Silhouette

The figure hugging silhouette x Chinese clothes was - as mentioned above - not at all a thing in Ranmao’s time. In fact, the accentuation of the “female curves” was considered very inappropriate if not downright ugly in the Qing dynasty.

Finnane, Antonia. Changing Clothes in China : Fashion, History, Nation. New York: Columbia University Press, 2008. p. 94

Yana’s notes mention that the thing Ranmao wears is just an European corset and that that is the only thing ‘English’ about her attire.

Well... I don’t know where the idea that Victorians wore corsets on the outside comes from, but I myself admittedly was fooled by this a few years ago too... I promise you all now however, Victorians decidedly did not wear their ‘bras’ on the outside. I think even now this look is considered rather ‘questionable’ by most people.

Instead, Qing dynasty clothes were mostly cut wide and straight, loosely dangling around their bodies offering maximum comfort and space. You feared Ranmao killing you in her corset? Now tremble before her now blessed with maximised agility.

Trousers

Well... I considered ‘translating’ Ranmao’s attire to 2020 standard like I did for O!Ciel, but that would not be Tumblr-filter approved. Skirts so short they could be mistaken for a belt are nothing too surprising today, but wearing one with a split that deep is probably a bit too revealing even by today’s standards.

By the late Qing dynasty, men and women, rich and poor alike predominantly wore trousers. Long robes (skirts) were definitely in fashion too, but they were reserved for those who could afford to not have much agility. If you were a farmer, robes would not have been your first option. Perhaps the way long skirts were viewed by the Qing Chinese was not unlike the way we see them now; ‘more classy’ ‘more feminine’ and ‘less convenient’, but not the only way to express femininity.

In these pictures below we can see relatively rich women, married and unmarried alike, all wearing trousers.

Ranmao is predominantly a fighter, and as trousers are plenty feminine in Chinese fashion culture, I don’t see why she would not choose to wear trousers instead of a restricting long skirt. Hence I gave her a pair of trousers.

Shoes

Like I said before, “the shoes are correct...” But the anklets definitely are not!

Golden or silver anklets are something that are worn by very, VERY young children in China. Even to this day it is customary among many Chinese people to gift newborn children at least one piece of pendant, bracelet or anklet, for it is believed to bring the child luck. More practically, this piece of jewellery will become the child’s first piece of property then, which can be sold later SHOULD they ever run into a financially difficult situation.

These anklets or bracelets would not be removed from the child unless they have outgrown them, which happens fairly quick. Ranmao who is probably full grown should have outgrown them at least ten years ago. Hence, seeing these things on Ranmao would probably make it look like she is still wearing diapers or bibs.

Chinese people would likewise not have worn shoes barefoot. Instead, they would have worn cotton socks which were mostly white.

DOUBLE HAMMERS

HERE COME THE WEAPONS! Luckily Yana wrote the following note or I would never have guessed what they are for my knowledge about Chinese weapons is next to nothing.

“These are【SUPER】heavy. They are weapons called 双錘 (double hammers) and they in fact exist. I heard these were used by power-type warriors.”

So, I googled 双錘 and it turns out that the type Ranmao is holding do indeed exist! But... only in fiction and theatre.

The hammers that were used in actual combat were either very thin and long, or short and plump. Such hammers were one of the most primitive metal weapons in China, and quickly fell out of favour among Chinese warriors when more practical weapons such as the metal spear, sword and bows were invented. The hammers mostly retained their value because of their weight in heroic tales and myths about legendary warriors and deities.

I don’t have the full details, but apparently according to some legends or myths, one of such big-ass hammers could deal a force of 200kg, and thus 400kg combined. Regardless of this being realistic or not, it sure does sound very cool! It is therefore no wonder this primitive weapon retains its popularity even today.

Nowadays when these hammers are used, they are either the blown up theatrical versions, or the smaller versions for the sake of preserving martial arts.

I had a bit of a dilemma as to which version to give Ranmao, but in the end I settled with the short and heavy ones because I wanted to keep the idea of this small and innocent looking girl wielding solid metal balls. Two cheer-leading sticks would simply not have the same weight, figuratively and literally.

Alright everyone! Did you enjoy my response to your votes? I hope you did ^^ Non-European fashion history really is not my strong suit, so my deepest apologies if I messed anything up.

Pray tell if I did, I am always happy to learn ^^

[number5theboy]

Please elaborate on how Five could've turned into the most insufferable character to watch

Thanks for asking me to elaborate on this text post:

@tessapercygranger​, @waywardd1​ and @margarita-umbrella​ also wanted to see a more detailed version of it, and I ended up writing an essay that’s longer than some of my actual academic essays. So buckle up.

WHY NUMBER FIVE SHOULD BE THE MOST OBNOXIOUS CHARACTER IN TV HISTORY, AND HOW HE MANAGES NOT TO BE

Number Five: The Concept That Could Go Horribly Wrong

Alright, let’s first look at Five in theory in an overarching way, without taking into account the execution of the show. The basic set-up of the character, of course, is being a 58-year-old consciousness in a teenager’s body, due to a miscalculation in time travel. Right off the bat, Five is bar none the most overpowered of the siblings; by the end of Season 2, no one has yet been able to defeat him in a fight. He is a master assassin – and not just any master assassin, but the best one there is – and a survival expert, able to do complex maths and physics without the aid of a calculator, shown to have knowledge of half a dozen languages, has very developed observational skills and, to top that all off, he can manipulate time and space to the point where he can literally erase events that happened and change the course of history. And Five knows how skilled he is; he is arrogant, self-assured and sarcastic, and his streak of goodness is buried deep inside. David Castañeda once described Five in an interview as 90% chocolate with a cherry in the middle, meaning that you have to get through a lot of darkness and bitterness before knowing there is a good core, and I think it’s an excellent metaphor. However, Five is also incredibly, fundamentally terrible at communicating with anyone, and, because he is the only one with time travel abilities, the character a lot of the actual plot - and the moving forward of it - centres around. Also he’s earnestly in love with a mannequin, who is pretty much a projection of his own consciousness that functions as a coping mechanism for all the trauma he has endured. All in all, this gives you a character who looks like a teenager, but with the smug superiority of a fifty-something, who a) is extremely skilled in many different things, b) has a superiority complex, is arrogant and vocal about it, and most of the superiority is expressed through cutting sarcasm, c) has one very hidden ounce of goodness that he is literally the worst at communicating to other human beings, d) is what moves the plot along but is also bad at talking to anyone else, meaning that the plot largely remains with him, and e) his love interest is essentially a projection of himself. Tell me that’s not a character who is destined to be just…obnoxious, annoying, egocentric, a necessary evil that one has to put up with to get through this show. There are so many elements of this characterisation that can and should easily make Five beyond insufferable, but the show manages to avoid it, and I’m putting this down to three aspects.

That Trick of Age and Appearance

Bluntly put, Five as a character would not work if he was anything else than an old man in a 13-year-old body. Imagine this character and all his skills and knowledge, but actually just…a teenager. Immediately insufferable. Same goes for him being around 30, like his siblings, all of which are stunted and traumatised by their father’s abuse. If Five, being comparatively unscathed by Reginald to the point where he explicitly does not want to be defined by his association with his father, were 30 like his siblings, it would just take the bite out of that plot point and also give him a lot less time in the apocalypse, reducing the impact it had on him as a person. And making Five his actual 58-year-old self would make him very similar to Reginald, at least on surface level, with the appearance and attitude. Five and Reginald are two fundamentally different people, but having one of the siblings being a senior citizen that’s dressed to the nines and bosses his siblings around in a relatively self-centred way does open up that parallel, and would take away from Five’s charm as a character. Because pairing the life experience of a 58-year-old with the appearance of a teenager gives you the best of both worlds. You get the other siblings (and a lot of the audience, from a glance in the tags of my gifsets) feeling protective and paternal about Five, but his age and experience also give the justifications for his many skills, his arrogance, in a way, and his ability to decimate a room full of people. It’s the very interesting and not new concept of someone dangerous with the appearance of something harmless, a child. This is also where Five’s singular outfit comes in. I know we like to clown on Five to get a new outfit, but I think what gets forgotten often is how effective this outfit is at making the viewer take him seriously. The preppy school uniform is the perfect encapsulation of the tension between old man in spirit and young teenager in appearance. The blazer, vest and especially the shirt and tie are quite formal, relatively grown up. They’re not something we, the audience, usually associate with a teenage boy wearing; it makes Five just a little bit more grown up. But there is also a reason characters in this show keep bringing up Five’s shorts and his socks, because those are not things that we associate with grown men wearing; they’re the unmistakably childish part of his school uniform. Take a moment and imagine Five wearing a hoodie or a t-shirt, jeans, and sneakers; would that outfit work for him as well as the uniform does? Would he be able to command the same kind of respect or seriousness as a character? I don’t think so; the outfit is a lot more pivotal in making Five believable than a lot of people give it credit for.

Writing Nuance

The other big building block in not making Five incredibly insufferable is the writing. Objectively speaking, I think Five is the most well-written, and, more importantly, most coherently written character on the show (which does have to do with the fact that the show’s events are all sequential for him), and his arc and personality remain relatively intact over the course of the two seasons. More to the point, a giant part of what makes Five bearable as a character is that he is allowed to fail. He is written to have high highs and low lows, big victories through his skills and his intelligence, but also catastrophic failures and the freedom to be wrong. His superior intellect and skillset are not the be-all end-all of the plot or his character, just something that influences both. His inability for communication has not (yet) been used to fabricate a contrived misunderstanding that derails the plot and left all of us seething; instead, it’s a characteristic that makes him fail to reconnect with the people he loves. This is a bit simplified, as he does find common ground with Luther, for example, but in general, a lot of the rift between Five and his siblings is that they can’t relate to his traumas and he does not understand the depth of Reginald’s abuse, which is an interesting conflict worth exploring. Another thing that really works in Five’s favour is that he is definitely written to be mean and sarcastic, but it is never driven to the point of complete unlikability, and a lot of the time, the context makes it understandable why he reacts the way he does. Most of the sarcastic lines he gets are actually funny, that certainly helps, but in general, Five is a good example of a bearable character whose default personality is sharp and relatively cold, because it is balanced out with many moments of vulnerability. Delores is incredibly important for this in the first season, she is the main focus of Five’s humanising moments, and well-written as she totes the line between clearly being a coping mechanism for an extremely traumatised man and still coming across to the viewer as the human contact Five needs her to be. In the second season, the vulnerability is about his guilt for his siblings, it’s about Five connecting a little bit better to them. There’s also his relationship with the Commission and the Handler specifically – which honestly could be an essay on its own – that deserves a mention, because the Handler is why Five became the man he is, and this dynamic between creator and creation is explored in a very interesting way – their scenes are some of the most well-written in the entire show. And TUA never falls into the trap of making Five a hero, he is always morally ambiguous at best, and it just makes for an interesting, multi-faceted character, well-written character, and none of the characteristics that should make him unlikeable are allowed to take centre-stage for long enough to be defining on their own. I know a lot of people especially champion the scenes where Five goes apeshit, but without his more nuanced characterisation, if he was like that all the time, those scenes would not hit as hard.

Aidan Gallagher’s Performance is Underrated

But honestly, none of the above would matter that much if the Umbrella Academy didn’t luck out hard with the casting of Aidan Gallagher. I think what he achieves as an actor in this show is genuinely underappreciated. Like, the first season set out to cast six adults having to deal with various ramifications of childhood trauma, and a literal child that had to be able to act smart and wise beyond his years, seamlessly integrate into a family of adults while seeming like an adult, traumatised by the literal end of the world, AND had to be able to create the romantic chemistry of a thirty-year-long marriage with a lifeless department store doll. The only role I could think of to compare is Kirsten Dunst in Interview with a Vampire, where she plays a vampire child who, because she is undead, doesn’t age physically, but does mentally, so she’s 400 in a child’s body. And Kirsten Dunst had to do that for a two-hour movie. Five is a main character in a show that spans 20 episodes now. That’s insane, and it’s a risk. Five is a character that can’t be allowed to go wrong; if you don’t buy Five as a character, the entire first season loses believability. And they found someone who could do that not only convincingly, but also likeably. As I said, he is incredibly helped by the costuming department and the script, but Aidan Gallager’s Five has so much personality, he’s threatening and funny and charming and arrogant and heartbreaking. He has the range to be convincing in the quiet moments where Five’s humanity comes to show and in the moments where Five goes completely off the rails. Most child actors act with other children, but he is the only child in the main cast, and holds his own in scenes with adults not as a child, but as an adult on equal footing with the other adult characters. That’s not something to be taken for granted. But even apart from the fact that it’s a child actor who carries a lot of the plot and the drama of a series for adults, Aidan Gallagher’s portrayal of Five is also just so much fun. The comedic timing is on point, he has the dramatic chops for the serious scenes, the mannerisms and visual ticks add to the character rather than distract from him, and his line deliveries, paired with his physical acting, make Five arrogant and smug but never outright malicious and unlikeable. It’s just some terrific acting that really does justice to the character as he is written, but the writing would not be as strong if it wasn’t delivered and acted out the way Aidan Gallagher does. He is an incredible asset for this show.

Alright, onto concluding this rambling. If you made it this far, I commend you, and thank you for it. The point of all of this is that Five, as a character, could have been an unmitigated disaster of a TV character. He is overpowered, arrogant, uncommunicative and could so easily have been either unconvincing or completely unlikeable, but he turned out to be neither. It’s a combination of choices in the costume department, decisions in the writing room, and Aidan Gallagher’s acting skills that make the things that should make him obnoxious and annoying incredibly entertaining, and I hope you liked my long-winded exploration of these. Some nuance was lost along the way, but if I had not stopped myself, this would’ve become a full-blown thesis.

[nugnthopkns]

dance me to the end of love (iv)

word count: 4.1k

warnings: fem!oc, cursing, alcohol consumption

series masterpost: here

a/n: my apologies for the delay!! life got crazy for a bit but i'm back with my two favourite idiot intellectuals

Magdalene stays busy to keep the loneliness at bay.

All of her friends have left Denver, doing whatever it is that hockey players and their partners do in the off-season. She never expected them to stay to keep her company, and would certainly never ask. Besides, they were all so excited to go home and visit family. How could she disrupt their happiness just so she wouldn’t feel so alone? It isn’t her fault that Ryan, Bette, and company aren’t estranged from their families like she is. At twenty-five she should be a little more self sufficient than what she currently is, but Magdalene is working hard at being kinder to herself.

To combat the pervasive loneliness Magdalene spends a lot of time in the heart of downtown Denver. Under normal circumstances she would hate the crowds, but now they comfort her. The swaths of tourists walking the streets and approaching her to take family photos make her feel like a part of something bigger than the pity she finds herself wallowing in often. Barn Owl Books also becomes a frequent retreat when she has downtime, and the owners enjoy when she brings Caligula around. Other patrons adore the white cat and he loves the attention.

One day as she’s leaving work, once again offering to stay late so June doesn’t have to, Magdalene’s phone rings. She contemplates not picking it up, wanting nothing more than to curl into bed with the novel she picked up at Barn Owl the other day, but she knows it must be important. No one ever calls her around this time unless it’s absolutely necessary. Digging the phone out of her pocket, she sees the number of her building superintendent Paul flashing on the screen.

“Hello?”

“Miss Stevenson?” he asks, voice tinged with the toughness that comes with dealing with upset renters on a regular basis.

Magdalene chuckles at the formality, pointing out he hasn’t called her by her last name since she moved in five years ago. “Yeah Paul, it’s me. What’s up?”

There’s the crackle of static on the phone line as the man clears his throat. “So, uh, some bad news.” Magdalene’s stomach twists into an intricate knot. She knows she paid rent on time and can’t think of another reason he’d call her. “A sprinkler main on the floor above yours burst about an hour ago, and it’s pretty bad. Your place definitely got hit the hardest because it’s directly under where the pipe burst. You’re going to have to move out for at least two months while we gut the place and start from scratch. How quickly can you come and get the things that are salvageable from your apartment?”

“Fuck.” This is the worst news Magdalene has ever received. “I can be there in fifteen minutes,” she panics, “But Paul, you’ve gotta go inside and check on my cat. He’s going to be freaking out.”

Paul agrees to visit Caligula after some prodding, and Magdalene drives much faster than she ever has before through the neighbourhood. It’s far from reckless, but she knows that it isn’t the safest course of action. A police officer stops her about three minutes from her final destination but lets Magdalene go after she explains the situation as calmly as possible.

Other tenants affected by the flood are already moving boxes down the stairs when Magdalene pulls up. Everyone is understandably grief stricken, but she can’t find it in herself to console them like she would under normal circumstances. All Magdalene cares about is making sure Caligula is okay. She sprints up the four flights of stairs and doesn’t even break a sweat, adrenaline flooding her veins. Her apartment door is ajar, most likely from Paul entering a few minutes ago, and she flings it open with more force than probably needed. It swings back violently on its hinges and makes a spectacular crash when it hits the wall.

“Caligula?”

“He’s in the bathroom,” Paul sighs. “I can’t get him out of the tub but he’s still breathing. Is he not scared of water?”

Magdalene lets out a breath of relief she didn’t know she was holding in. She treads deeper into the apartment, casually assessing the damage, before reaching the room in question. There, pressed against the far corner of the tub, is the fluffy white cat that Magdalene’s heart beats for most days. Paul is there too, leaning against the sink and shaking his head.

“Thank you,” Magdalene says sincerely. “I’ve got it from here.”

The superintendent exits the unit with a solemn goodbye and heads to the lobby, no doubt going to direct traffic flow and answer questions. It takes a few minutes but Magdalene coaxes the cat out of the tub and into her arms. She holds him tightly and whispers words of praise, knowing it will help to calm them both down. After an uncounted amount of minutes Magdalene moves them into the bedroom, that looks surprisingly intact upon first glance, and changes out of her work clothes and into something more suitable for rummaging around her destroyed home. Caligula climbs up her body and settles gingerly into the hood on her sweatshirt. She starts in the bedroom, and finds that the only thing that’s actually salvageable is the clothes in her closet. Grabbing the suitcase from the top shelf, Magdalene shoves everything inside of it and wheels it into the living room.

She spends the next few hours going through every room in a meticulous manner, desperate to keep relics from her life in Denver. The water did a number on her space and destroyed almost everything. All the furniture is a write-off, and most of her books and records are ruined. Two things that withstood the damage are faux marble busts of Augustus and Marcus Aurelius, which Magdalene packs into one of the boxes Paul dropped off. Everything else fits in three other boxes and they’re tucked into the trunk of her car before the sun sets. Paul insists that the demolition company will get rid of everything else and ensures her she won’t have to pay rent while the construction is going on. It isn’t much of a consultation, considering that Magdalene has no idea where she’ll be staying, but she thanks him anyways as she makes the final trip to her car with Caligula.

Once inside, Magdalene breaks down. She has no idea what to do – no one is in Denver to help her out and she can’t afford to stay in a hotel for however many months this is going to take to fix. Tyson and Bette will be back in just over a month, but Magdalene doesn’t want to bother them or guilt them into coming back early. She cries in the driver’s seat of her car for a while, Caligula on her lap and doing his best to lick up the tears streaming down her cheeks. Not knowing what else to do, she dials Ryan’s number. Though they haven’t been talking as frequently due to the time difference and Magdalene’s insistence he enjoys his time with family, she knows he’ll pick up and listen intently. He’ll also hopefully talk her down from the imaginary ledge she’s found herself on.

He picks up on the second ring. “How’s my favourite girl?” Ryan asks, and Magdalene can hear the smile in his voice. The combination of his voice and the words spoken has her choking on another sob. “Hey, hey, breathe.” Concern is now the primary emotion expressed through the phone line. “Mags, what’s the matter?”

It takes her a few seconds and multiple pads of Caligula’s paws into her stomach for Magdalene to calm down, but she eventually tells Ryan what happened. He listens just as she thought he would, and keeps her breathing steady with his voice. She cries a bit more before running out of tears, but Ryan keeps her focussed on anything but the shitty circumstance she’s found herself victim to – detailing how he skated with Nate earlier in the day and just how many times his teammate kicked his ass. Hearing the mundane story helps more than Magdalene thought it would, and when Ryan asks her where she’s going to stay she responds with a relatively strong voice.

“I’m just going to sleep in my car.”

“Fuck no you aren’t.” The certainty in which Ryan utters the words takes Magdalene by surprise. For someone so far away, he has a lot of opinions on what she should be doing.

She sighs. “There isn’t another option Ry. I can’t afford a hotel for the months my apartment is going to be out of commission and there’s no point in renting another place.”

“Stay with me.”

A series of flabbergasted noises come out of Magdalene’s dropped jaw, but she can’t form any words. Ryan continues, “Think about Caligula. Being cramped in a car isn’t going to be good for him. Or for you. I have an extra bedroom you can call your own for as long as you need. Please Mags.”

Truthfully, it’s the best she’s going to get. Bette and Tyson offered to house a couple of rookies this season, meaning their spare rooms are filled, and there’s no one else she’s close enough with to think about asking. “I don’t want to intrude,” she sighs, but it isn’t a very convincing deflection.

“I want you there,” Ryan insists, “And little boots too.”

It takes them a while to work out the logistics, but Ryan makes a couple of calls and lets the doorman of his building know Magdalene is moving in. He also books a flight for the next day, and ensures her that he’s more than ready to come back to Colorado. They talk for a few more minutes, and in that time she gets directions to her temporary home. Once Ryan hangs up with well wishes and a see-you-soon, Magdalene looks in her rear-view mirror and sets out for a part of Denver she never thought she’d live in.

☼☼☼☼

When Magdalene calls Bette to fill her in on what’s been going on while on the way to pick Ryan up from the airport, the blonde is taken aback by the surplus of information. “Hold on,” she breathes, “Ryan’s coming back to Denver?”

“What part of ‘I’m on my way to the airport to pick up Ryan’ was confusing?” Magdalene laughs.

Her friend doesn’t find the jest funny. “Fuck off.” The comment only increases Magdalene’s laughter, but Bette forges on with the conversation. “Can you recap the events that led to Ryan leaving home nearly three weeks early?”

Magdalene indulges her friend, explaining for what feels like the hundredth time that her apartment was destroyed in a flood and that Ryan offered her his spare bedroom and that he was coming home so she wouldn’t be alone in the unfamiliar environment. Bette listens in silence, and Magdalene imagines she has a shit-eating grin plastered on her face. She’s made quite a few comments about how friendly the two of them seem, but Magdalene does her best to shrug them off. Ryan can just be her friend, a great one even, without Bette projecting her need to have her best friend to have an identical lifestyle to her. Even if she’s right, and Magdalene does want there to be something more between her and Ryan.

“Hold the phone.” Magdalene hears Tyson shout, no doubt getting closer to his girlfriend so he can join in on the conversation. “Gravy’s letting you stay at his place?”

“Yeah…” she trails off, unsure about what wasn’t clear this time.

Tyson hums as though he’s an old-school anthropologist who just made an astute observation about the group they’re studying. “Interesting.”

“How so?”

“Well for starters, he barely lets us hang out at his place,” Tyson explains. “I think I’ve been there maybe twice. So that’s new. Is Caligula staying with you?”

Magdalene is completely confused. “Why wouldn’t he be? He’s my cat.”

“How does Gravy feel about it?”

“What the fuck are you getting at Tys?” Magdalene asks, but there’s a bite to the question. She’s tired of the impromptu interrogation he’s providing. “Because Ryan was excited to have him around. Last night I sent him a video of little boots prancing around the condo like he owned the place and he thought it was hilarious.”

Bette, who had been silent for several minutes, gasps loudly. Tyson laughs, but Magdalene can tell it’s riddled with disbelief. “Mags,” he says gently, though with more than enough teasing laced in, “Gravy isn’t a big pet guy.”

The comment hits Magdalene like a tonne of bricks. What is she supposed to do with that information? There’s only ten more minutes until she gets to the airport, and she needs time to push Tyson’s comment to the back of her brain and collect herself. Magdalene gives a rushed farewell before hanging up the phone and checking her rearview mirror and blindspots. The radio filters back through the car speakers, but she doesn’t hear it, too caught up in what Ryan allowing Caligula to share his space means. There’s little traffic on the off-ramp and before she knows it Magdalene is pulling into a parking space and killing the engine.

She grabs the messily scribbled welcome home banner from the back seat before locking the doors and heading inside to the arrivals section. The inside of the airport looks similar to the empty parking lot – it’s a Tuesday after all. Only a few others wait with her for the plane, and many chat idly amongst themselves. Magdalene stays off to the side in an attempt to not get sucked into a conversation about the upcoming thunderstorm. Passengers slowly trickle through the open door, and Ryan is easy to spot. He towers above everyone and is carrying a rather large bag of hockey equipment. Magdalene smiles at the sight of him, unable to help herself. It’s been nearly a month and a half since she’s seen him and being apart for that long is something she never wants to do again.

“Hi,” she breathes as he approaches, waving awkwardly while she speaks. It’s as though she hasn’t spent countless hours talking with him about every possible topic her mind could dream up.

Ryan doesn’t feel the tension, or if he does he doesn’t say anything. Instead, he wraps her in a tight hug that lasts a touch longer than one with just a friend should, especially in public. Magdalene tries hard not to melt into his side but it’s nearly impossible – Ryan has a magnetic pull that tugs on her heartstrings and makes her insides feel fuzzy. Others bustling around the terminal start to give them strange looks, and it’s only then that Ryan clears his throat and untangles his arms from Magdalene’s waist.

He smiles down at the strong-willed brunette with kind eyes and shoulders his bag once more. “Let’s go home.”

☼☼☼☼

It takes a few days to settle into a routine, but once they do it’s glorious. Training camp doesn’t start for another three weeks, so Ryan spends his day doing light workouts and chilling with Caligula while Magdalene is at work. Once she gets home they make dinner and watch West Wing reruns on the cable network Ryan didn’t know he was even paying for. Their lives fit together seamlessly and it surprises Magdalene just how much she missed having a roommate – Bette moved out after their sophomore year of college, and it’s been just her and Caligula ever since. Though the personal space is nice, she likes being able to hear Ryan laugh at the meme she just sent or knocking on his door in the middle of night to ask if he wants ice cream.

Magdalene wakes up one Saturday to complete silence. It’s unsettling considering she hasn’t heard that since adopting her pet – Caligula sleeps next to her head and breathes loud enough that she’ll never have to buy a white noise machine. She notices her door is slightly ajar and hears soft noises coming from the living room. Ryan must be taking a day off, Magdalene notes, because he’s typically out of the house by seven and it’s currently five minutes past eight. She rolls out of bed and stumbles into the ensuite, brushing the tangles out of her hair and washing her face.

Not bothering to change out the pyjama pants and hoodie she stole from Ryan, Magdalene pads into the sunlit living room to see her roommate doing yoga. On a tiny mat beside him is Caligula, stretching his limbs like he’s following along with the tutorial. The sight is adorable, and before she can think twice about it Magdalene is snapping a photo of the two of them and posting it to her Instagram story.

“You trying to whip my cat into shape Graves?” Magdalene teases, weaving around them and plopping onto the couch, bringing her knees to her chin and holding in a yawn.

Ryan laughs, loud and care-free, and Magdalene wishes he could record the sound and play it on loop. “He kept trying to sit underneath me and I didn’t want to hurt him. I read somewhere that if you give a cat something similar to what you’re doing they’ll leave you alone. Guess it really works.”

Her heart constricts in the best way possible. Ryan continues to go above and beyond to make her and Caligula welcome and doesn’t seem to mind they’re the ones invading his space and not the other way around. There’s still twenty minutes left on the YouTube video he’s watching, so Magdalene pushes herself off the expensive leather sectional and into the kitchen. The least she could do is make breakfast. Deciding on pancakes, Magdalene gets to work prepping the batter and warming up the frying pan. She hums absentmindedly to the Joni Mitchell song playing on the small radio she placed in the kitchen window. Music always made cooking more enjoyable for her, and Ryan doesn’t seem to mind the device taking up space.

The island is set and the food ready by the time Ryan slides into his seat, small beads of sweat lingering on his forehead from the workout. Magdalene resists the urge to wipe them away and instead busies herself with placing the right amount of berries on his plate.

“Mags,” Ryan calls softly, pulling her out of her mind and back down to Earth. “That’s more than enough. Sit down and eat before it gets cold.”

They eat in silence until Caligula appears, meowing for whatever scraps he can get his hands on. Against Magdalene’s pleas Ryan feeds him a blueberry. The cat sniffs it inquisitively before swallowing it, though it comes up again a few moments later.

“You’re cleaning that one up bud,” she laughs, bending down to make sure Caligula is okay before rinsing her plate in the sink.

“Fuck.”

Ryan does as he’s told and helps Magdalene with the dishes before getting ready to head out for an unofficial team meeting. Camp starts in a few days and Gabe wants to get together and make sure they’re all on the same page before barreling head-first into the season. He promises to pick them up a late lunch of sandwiches from Barn Owl and Magdalene follows him to the door to say goodbye. It feels natural, like they’ve always shared this routine, and she knows that Ryan feels it too because he wraps her in a tight hug before petting Caligula one last time and slipping out the door.

Bette calls soon after he leaves and grills Magdalene on all the details of her new living arrangement. She’s still in Canada, spending a few more days there than Tyson to help his mom and sister finish unpacking their things at the house they recently purchased.

“So, have you kissed him yet?”

The question is asked in such a casual, Bette-like manner that Magdalene barely chokes on her water. “Bee, what the fuck?”

“Oh come off it Mags,” she sighs, “You like him. He likes you. The two of you live together now. It’s only a matter of time before the friendship turns into something more.”

The blonde is right about at least one thing – Magdalene has developed a steady crush on Ryan. She should have known being in such close proximity to him all the time would put her feelings into overdrive. However, she didn’t have another option other than to accept his offer when it was proposed nearly a month ago, so Magdalene is now being forced to deal with the repercussions.

“I have, in fact, not kissed Ryan,” Magdalene huffs. “But I’ve thought about it once or twice.”

A squeal tears from Bette’s throat and she forces her friend to share the details. Magdalene obliges mostly to get her off her back, but it does feel good to talk about it with someone. It’s a very long time since she’s had romantic feelings for anyone, and Magdalene is nearly giddy with excitement over the possibility of new-found love by the time Ryan gets home. She says farewell to Bette and promises to come over as soon as they're both in the same city again.

It’s later than both of them expected, so they decide to forgo lunch and instead cook an early dinner. Ryan wants chicken and Magdalene wants spaghetti, so naturally they compromise on a carbonara without the pork. The radio is cranked to the highest volume as they work, both singing along and in their own little worlds. Magdalene is in charge of cooking the pasta and Ryan sets about making the sauce, and more than once she catches him looking at her while he’s supposed to be stirring the mixture. She can’t be too mad, however, because each time their eyes meet she’s supposed to be doing her job too. Before too much time has passed the meal is ready. It cools on two plates while Caligula is fed and wine is poured – the former done by Magdalene because the cat still isn’t quite comfortable enough with Ryan. Once sitting, they raise their glasses in a silent toast and dig in. The pasta tastes heavenly, and Magdalene makes sure to say so.

“Oh my god this is delicious,” she nearly moans, “You have to make this like every night.”

Ryan laughs and raises his fingers in mock salute. “You got it boss.”

Conversation flows into how they spent their hours apart – Ryan gushing about how good it was to see his teammates again and Magdalene talking about how she caught up with Bette on the phone. She of course left out the part where she confessed feelings for her best friend to her other, more senior best friend. Dinner passes in the blink of an eye and soon the two of them are standing side by side at the sink, elbows knocking occasionally as they do the dishes.

“Want to watch a movie tonight?” Ryan asks nonchalantly. “You said earlier this week you wanted to see Clueless again.”

Magdalene smiles – of course he would remember this offhand comment she made a few days ago about the classic. “That sounds fantastic. Can you finish putting these away? I’m going to pop a couple blankets in the dryer to warm up and see if I can get a nice picture of the sunset for Bette, she mentioned on the phone that she’s missing it.”

“She literally hasn’t changed time zones!”

Laughter tumbles from Magdalene’s lips as she slips out of the kitchen. Two fluffy blankets are pulled from the back of the couch on her way down the hall and tossed into the machine. Grabbing the same sweater of Ryan’s she was wearing earlier in the day from the foot of her bed, Magdalene heads for the balcony door and slips through the glass.

The city is nearly silent. Cars pass under Ryan’s balcony like blips in the night, but they don’t dare touch the peaceful atmosphere radiating from Magdalene. She’s had one of the best nights of her life, just her and Ryan laughing over glasses of wine and the pasta dish they cooked together. It’s all so domestic and charged with stolen glances and soft smiles that Magdalene knows it’s more than two friends living together for a short period of time. There’s been a fundamental shift in their relationship but she doesn’t know how to address it, or if she even wants to despite her looming attraction. Being with Ryan is so easy that she forgets it’s only temporary. Realistically she knows it can’t last forever, but she finds herself hoping each day Paul will call and tell her the rebuild is taking longer than expected.

Ryan calls her inside, informing her the blankets are out of the dryer and the movie she picked out days ago is queued up on the television. Magdalene takes a deep breath and finishes her glass of wine in one gulp. Hopefully he won’t notice when she casually leans in and rests her head on his shoulder halfway through the film.

☼☼☼☼

taglist: @scrunchmakar @marcoscandellas @toplinetommy @samsteel @lovethepreds @cutiesara23 @hockeyallthetime @stlbluesbrat21 @denis-scorianov @danglesnipecelly @c-tangerine @stormingroses @spine-buster (add yourself to the taglist!)

[theggning]

Codsworth Is So Underrated, You Guys

ALTERNATE TITLE: Codsworth and the Totally Understated Mindbending Evolution of Artificial Consciousness

I find Codsworth is often the most underrated of the 16 companions in Fallout 4. Your faithful robot butler is among the very first you can recruit and an excellent early-game ally, but he has a few disadvantages in gameplay that mean he’s often sent back to Sanctuary before long. Codsworth is a mid-to-close range fighter only, cannot wear armor or be equipped with weapons. He cannot be healed by stimpak, which makes him a liability if you’re playing on Survival mode. He has no companion quest of his own, so unless you particularly enjoy him there’s not a compelling reason to keep him for a long time. He also becomes recruitable exactly 2 minutes after adorable puppy Best Boy Dogmeat, so he is often (understandably) replaced just as soon as he’s made available.

But there is this great, completely understated facet to Codsworth, so understated that the game does not draw attention to it in any way. And yet, it is a wonderful reflection of many of the themes of Fallout 4 and, I believe, a pretty strong indication of its thesis statement.

Now what in the hell am I talking about?

Like many sci-fi/fantasy universes, the Fallout series is home to many highly-advanced robots. Robots were commonplace before the Great War, and many have survived the bombs intact and in working order. Others have been built or modified by wastelanders to serve various tasks (Percy, Ada.) The most important thing to understand about robots, though, is though they may have vivid personalities programmed in, they are widely accepted to be objects. They are thought of the same way as an appliance, a machine built for a specific purpose and programmed to follow a strict set of protocols.

Many jokes revolve around the relatively rigid intelligence of robots. Pre-War, many were deployed in inappropriate jobs or designed haphazardly (Mister Handies acting as nurses in a hospital, “paramedic” Protectrons with massive deadly tasers for hands, military robots constantly going haywire and erupting in friendly fire.) Others continue to man businesses and play out daily tasks as they were programmed to do over 200 years ago. Most robots are incapable of understanding anything beyond their initial programming, and most pre-War robots are completely unaware that the Great War ever happened.

When the Sole Survivor reunites with Codsworth at the ruins of their home, it seems like he, too, doesn’t understand what’s going on. He talks about tending the (dead) garden, references the (ghoulified) neighbors, and generally acts like the chipper robot butler Sole left behind on their way to Vault 111.

But there is something slightly… off in Codsworth’s dialogue here. Though he acts like the war never happened, he also specifically mentions details that suggest it did:

Player Default: Codsworth! You're still... fully operational?          

Codsworth: {Defiant} Well of course, mum. You can thank the fine engineers at General Atomics for that! At least, you could have. Had they not been... vaporized.

A bit over 210 actually, mum. Give or take a little for the Earth's rotation and some minor dings to the ole' chronometer. That means you're two centuries late for dinner! Ha ha ha. Perhaps I can whip you up a snack? You must be famished.

You've no idea the desperation for human contact one develops over 200 years. {Upset, recalling bad memories of encountering raiders and scavengers. / Disgust} And when you do encounter them? Oh the cruelty! You're either... target practice or... spare parts!

Even stranger, Codsworth mentions details that are plainly made-up (or some kind of delusion):

Codsworth: It's been ages since we've had a proper family activity. Checkers. Or perhaps charades. Shaun does so love that game. Is the lad... with you...?   

Player Default: Codsworth... listen to me carefully... have you seen him? Have you seen Shaun?              

Codsworth: Why, sir had him last, remember? Perhaps he's gone to the Parker residence to arrange a play-date?

(Shaun is an infant. He is too young to play charades or to go to the neighbors for a play-date.)

So at once, Codsworth does and does not acknowledge the war. He does and does not seem to understand what’s happened, and he does and does not seem to follow Sole’s urgency regarding their spouse’s death and Shaun’s kidnapping.

And then, after a speech check, Codsworth finally snaps and breaks down sobbing in despair. Not only does he understand that the war happened, he has developed the ability to get depressed about it. Longing for human contact and with nothing else to do, he’s even developed coping mechanisms to help him try to deal with his loneliness and despair—futilely trying to do his chores and deluding himself into pretending everything is completely normal.

Wait a minute. Sobbing? Despair? Depression? Coping mechanisms and delusions? This Is all pretty sophisticated stuff to be programmed into a robot, and if you spend more time with Codsworth, the reality of what’s happened to him becomes apparent:

Codsworth has evolved beyond his programming. In his 210 lonely years of existence, he has developed emotional reactions and self-awareness far beyond that of most other robots, and, indeed, has basically evolved an artificial consciousness.

“Emergent intelligence” is the theoretical ability of an AI to eventually develop something resembling human thought processes, and it seems that our dear Codsworth has undergone this. Traveling with him, he displays many sophisticated thoughts and behaviors far beyond what most robots are shown to be capable of. He has memories of pre-War time and places, and understands how various locations have changed. He is capable of learning new information and forming opinions on it, gaining his own understanding of the people and factions in the Commonwealth. He can feel happiness, sorrow, fear, disgust. He can anticipate things, predict danger and imagine how people might respond to your actions. The mere he fact he has opinions and a moral code that he applies to you shows he has free will, something even other robot companions don’t (Ada has a personality, but absolutely does not care about your actions.)

He’s also smart enough to make many wry observational jokes, and to lay one hell of a sick burn on you:

{Joking - Found an old bowling alley. / Amused} Fancy a game, mum? Something tells me the bumpers are no longer available.

 Codsworth’s intelligence is even more sophisticated than that. He displays stunning self-awareness, frequently referencing the fact he is a robot and what that means. He is very proud of his background as General Atomics’ finest, and seems pleased with his robot nature and his lot in life. (Unlike Curie, I don’t think Codsworth would ever really want to gain a synth body. He seems quite happy as he is.)

Here he is making reference to still feeling the tug of his programming:

{Seeing an office with chairs arranged in a circle. / Neutral} I've the most incredible urge to rearrange those chairs in a more perfect circle.

Understanding when other robots are restricted by theirs:

A pity. It appears Deezer's programming is too severe to allow for normal conversation. Ah well.

And when they’re actually not:

Codsworth: Greetings, sir. Good to see another robot in town. That chef hat becomes you.

Takahashi: Nan-ni shimasho-ka?

Codsworth: Takahashi you say? I'm Codsworth, a pleasure to make your acquaintance.

Takahashi: Nan-ni shimasho-ka?              

Codsworth: Is that so? Well, we both know RobCo is no General Atomics. It's not surprising it failed, shoddy work and all.  {Friendly - trying to cheer up another robot. / Friendly} Chin up, though. Never know when parts may turn up.

 And here’s Galaxy Brain Codsworth ruminating on his own state of being and contemplating his nature:

{Disappointed that he can't be 100% human sometimes. / Sad} It's unfortunate that I lack the proper design to consume liquids. Something about camaraderie over a few drinks is very inviting.            

I suppose if I had the hardware, I'd have the software as well. I'd hate to see how that'd affect my honesty and manner settings.

{Reconsidering what he thought was a good idea. / Thinking} Indeed. Perhaps I should rethink my initial desire.

Hilariously, Codsworth does not seem fully aware of how remarkable his intelligence is. He occasionally says things like “if I had feelings” and “if I could feel things,” indicating that in some ways he still believes he is only a robot and defines himself by what a robot is and does.

But as we can see, our humble robot butler has essentially evolved to become the smartest, most emotionally intelligent and person-like robot in the Commonwealth*, and potentially in the series.

([SIDE NOTE: Other FO4 robots nearing Codsworth’s level of consciousness and developed personality include Captain Ironsides, KLE-O, Whitechapel Charlie, and perhaps Takahashi. Curie is close, but also receives the unfair advantage of being uploaded into a synth body with a human brain. Jezebel also functions off of a human brain. Nick is not a robot, he’s a synth (though he does jokingly refer to himself as one) and also has the advantage of a human brain encoded on his processor.])

Also hilariously, the game basically does not acknowledge Codsworth’s impressive evolution. At all. There is absolutely no direct mention of it in the script. It is all left to ambient dialogue and the player’s own observations. And because so many people overlook Codsworth as a companion, they may not even realize exactly how unique his expanded consciousness is.

Now, you might call this total lack of mention a mistake, an oversight on Bethesda’s part, or that old chestnut “bad writing.” I don’t think it is. I think it’s a deliciously subtle little detail to include in a story about humanity, machines, artificial intelligence, and what makes a person.

Many of the themes of FO4 revolve around synths—distinctly not robots, but androids, artificially created beings with fully organic human bodies. Most of the storyline factions have strong beliefs about synths and the relative humanity thereof. The Institute believes that synths are objects, tools, machines no different from a robot who are only simulating their personalities through programming. The Brotherhood believes synths are monstrous abominations, a danger to humanity itself, technology run amok which needs to be destroyed. The Railroad believes they are people. Not humans, but people, built instead of born, free-thinking beings that deserve to be treated with respect and given rights.

Through quests, dialogue, notes, worldbuilding and other venues, players explore these questions. What makes someone a person? If your personality and memories can be rewritten or programmed, then who are you, really? Where do we draw the line between humans and machines, and how do we decide who belongs where?

Meanwhile, as the player contemplates the nature of personhood and the definition of intelligence, their robot butler quietly evolves into a fully-conscious person on his own, right beside them.

Codsworth is unquestionably a machine, but also unquestionably beyond the appliance he was built to be. Which to some philosophies and players should really beg a few other questions. If a robot can be considered a person, then what makes synths so different? And how many excuses do we have to make to pretend otherwise?

Ya boy Codsworth may not be flashy, or powerful, or kissable. He may not be the most glamorous companion around. But he is a good friend, a beloved member of the family, and above all else, a loyal butler—content to serve, quietly and humbly doing his job where some may never even notice him-- or the fact that he’s casually become his own person and sent generations of roboticists and philosophers spinning in their graves.

[kjack89]

An Agreement Between Gentlemen (Chapter 4/?)

Continuation of the E/R Bridgerton AU, regency-era fake-marriage shenanigan-fest. This time, with duel-shenanigans as well! (Chapter 1 tumblr | AO3, chapter 2 tumblr | AO3, chapter 3 tumblr | AO3)

Dearest Readers, 

This Author recommends that young women prone to swoon do not read this most peculiar of updates without someone there to catch them, as the most shocking of scandals has broken, and not, as one might expect, from the city but rather from the country.

If you have guessed that it involves our two unlikely friends out for a country jaunt, you would be correct, but we doubt even the most voracious of readers would guess the nature of the scandal. It turns out Mr. Grantaire is not an only child, as many have supposed, but instead has a sister of the marrying age. Why she was not presented to society is anyone’s guess, but we expect she’ll be along soon enough, given what has occurred. 

Details are still forthcoming, but suffice it to say, the Marquess of Enjolras, perhaps least likely amongst his cohort to find himself in this situation, appears to have been found in a compromising position with Mr. Grantaire’s sister. A quick, quiet wedding is the fastest way to deal with a scandal of this nature, but the salacious nature of this situation doesn’t end here:

The Marquess has allegedly refused to marry Mr. Grantaire’s sister, so Mr. Grantaire publicly challenged the Marquess to a duel for his sister’s honor, and the Marquess accepted. 

Tales of Mr. Grantaire’s prowess in physical contests are well-known, so this Author hopes for the Marquess’s sake that his aim with a gun is less impressive. Fear not, dear Reader. This Author suspects that both the Marquess of Enjolras and Mr. Grantaire will emerge from the duel with all limbs intact, but we also suspect that Grantaire will emerge with a soon-to-be brother-in-law – and the Marquess with a fiancée. LADY WHISTLEDOWN’S SOCIETY PAPERS, 4 May 1831 

It was, charitably speaking, ungodly early when Enjolras was roused from his bed by the ever dour-faced Le Cabuc. There was not even a hint of sunlight when he glanced out the window before getting dressed, and when he and Grantaire set off a half hour later, there was still just the beginning rays of sunlight creeping over the horizon.

Usually, Enjolras did not mind waking at an early hour, though he was more inclined to work late into the night and have a bit of a lie-in the next morning whenever possible, but he had slept poorly the previous night. Undoubtedly, he thought sourly as he followed Grantaire away from the house, because of what they were setting out to do.

Not that he had much real cause for concern – after all, if Grantaire was going to shoot him, surely he would have done it long ago.

That said, he would also have felt slightly more comfortable if he was carrying one of the guns, rather than Grantaire carrying both as he currently was.

But he suspected his tossing and turning was more related to the grand scheme they were attempting to pull off, and his very real concern that they were not going to be able to. Thus far, certainly, all pieces of the plan had fallen in place, but that as much as anything was setting him on edge. After all, it would take but one thing going awry from the whole arrangement to unravel, and Enjolras was not thoroughly convinced that—

Grantaire heaved a sigh and glanced over his shoulder at Enjolras. “Could you please be quiet?” he asked, sounding as tired as Enjolras felt.

Enjolras scowled at him. “I haven’t said anything!” he protested.

“No, but I can hear your mind going a mile a minute,” Grantaire groused, waving a dismissive hand. “It is positively spoiling what should otherwise be a magnificent morning.”

It was a lovely morning, Enjolras supposed, especially as the sun inched further up in the sky. “There is only so much I can do about the relative volume of my mind,” he told Grantaire, half-smiling as he did.

Grantaire pursed his lips slightly before shaking his head. “No, I suppose not,” he said, pausing in his stride to allow Enjolras to fall into step besides him. “Which means that I shall have to distract you instead.”

“And how do you intend on doing that?” Enjolras asked, more amused than curious.

“Well, I could regale you with what little I know about the vegetation in this area,” Grantaire offered, and when Enjolras wrinkled his nose, he laughed. “Very well. Then what conversation topic would you prefer?”

Enjolras considered it for a second. “I suppose you could start by telling me where, exactly, you’re taking me.”

“So banal,” Grantaire said, half under his breath, and he laughed and dodged when Enjolras tried to elbow him in the ribs. “Fine, fine. There’s a field not far outside of town that’s up on a small bluff. Isolated so that no one will see, but the elevation and lack of foliage between the field and town will allow the sound to carry, which is what I am banking on.”

“Not a lot of shooting out this way?” Enjolras asked, mostly jokingly, though Grantaire seemed to consider it for a moment before shaking his head.

“No. A fox hunt every now and then or something or the sort, but usually advertised well in advance and taking place further afield.”

The terrain sloped upward at that point, and both Enjolras and Grantaire fell silent as they trekked along. Finally, the slope evened out, and as Grantaire had promised, they were standing on the edge of a fairly flat field overlooking the town below. “Well,” Grantaire said, rather unnecessarily. “Here we are.”

He handed one of the pistols to Enjolras, who took it, feeling unusually out of sorts, even though this was hardly his first time wielding a weapon. “Ten paces?” he asked, mostly for lack of anything better to say.

“I suppose so,” Grantaire said, before winking at him. “Of course, in keeping with our attempt at verisimilitude, I could shoot you, if you wish. Just a flesh wound, in the shoulder maybe – just a little something to demonstrate how coerced you were into this whole affair.”

Enjolras rolled his eyes. “While I am certain that you would have no compunction shooting anyone, I really don’t think that’s necessary.”

Instead, he squared his shoulders and dutifully marched ten paces away before turning to face Grantaire again. “Here?” he asked, but Grantaire was frowning, his gun held loosely at his side.

“What do you mean by that?” he asked.

Enjolras blinked. “I mean, is this the correct distance?”

“No, by my not having any compunction about shooting anyone.”

There was something unfamiliar in Grantaire’s tone and Enjolras frowned, trying to figure out what exactly he had said to put Grantaire out. “I meant no offense,” he offered.

Grantaire shook his head. “I do not necessarily take offense,” he said. “But I would still wish to know what precisely you meant.”

Enjolras considered him for a moment. “I know that you are an accomplished boxer,” he said after a moment. “And I have it on good authority that you know also how to wield a blade, so it can only stand to reason that you know how to use a gun. That s all that I meant.”

“Know how, yes,” Grantaire said, “but I’ve never shot anyone, and I’m not certain that I could bring myself to, were it to come to that.”

Now it was Enjolras’s turn to frown and ask, “What do you mean?”

Grantaire shrugged, glancing down at the gun in his hand. “I mean, with boxing, with fencing, hell, even with street brawling as Bahorel and I are wont to do—”

“Wont is certainly one word for it,” Enjolras said sourly, too aware of how many times those two had gotten themselves into scraps.

“—with all of those,” Grantaire continued, ignoring him, “the goal is surrender. You wound or injure to get the offending party to back down. But with a gun?” Again he looked down at the gun in his hand, hefting it as if testing its weight. “With a gun, the outcome is too often death, no matter the intent. And I am not certain that I could bring myself to shoot a man, knowing the likely outcome is his death.”

It had not been at all the answer Enjolras was expecting. “Oh,” he said, a little stupidly. “I suppose I did not think of it that way.”

“What of you?” Grantaire asked, with a wry half-smile, as if aware of the absurdity of this conversation when the two men were facing each other with pistols in hands so as to duel. “Have you ever shot a man?”

Enjolras shook his head. “No,” he said, “but I don’t think I would have the same hesitation you would. Death is a tool, and there are times when, in order to bring about the best future possible, killing someone is the only option.” Grantaire shifted as if he was about to interrupt, but Enjolras did not let him. “But the law of progress is that this will no longer be the case some day, and that is the moment for which I would fight, and kill if necessary, so that none after me would face that choice.”

Grantaire was silent for a few moments after, and he was too far away for Enjolras to be able to read every line in his face like he normally would be able to. “I understand,” Grantaire pronounced finally, the two words spoken almost like a vow. 

Enjolras felt strangely tongue-tied at that, and looked away. “Shall we?” he asked, his voice strangely thick, and Grantaire nodded.

Both men faced each other once more, lifting their pistols to aim in the rough direction of the other, ready to get this over with. Later, Enjolras would never know what possessed him in that moment, but as he stared down the barrel of the gun at Grantaire, he could not help but blurt, “I could have sworn that you were going to kill that soldier.”

Grantaire lowered his pistol, his brow furrowing. “What soldier?”

Enjolras lowered his weapon as well. “Do you remember the demonstration we hosted outside of parliament last spring?”

“I am fairly certain the authorities deemed that less a demonstration and more a riot,” Grantaire said, a small smile twitching at the corners of his mouth.

“Even so,” Enjolras said, refusing to allow himself to get distracted. “Soldiers were called in to ‘enforce the peace’, though I am certain they were more violent than any of us—”

“They certainly were,” Grantaire murmured.

“—and there was this one soldier in particular who seemed quite determined to…”

Enjolras trailed off, and Grantaire cleared his throat. “To beat you to death in the street?” he supplied, a false, sharp cheerfulness to his words. 

Shaking his head slightly, more at the memory than in disagreement to Grantaire’s words, Enjolras swallowed before continuing, “That’s one way of putting it.” He met Grantaire’s eyes. “But you stopped him.”

“Yes.”

“Quite violently, as memory serves.”

Grantaire’s expression didn’t so much as flicker. “Yes.”

“But you did not wish to kill him?”

“Oh, I wanted very much to kill him,” Grantaire said, an ugly look crossing his face. “But I did not.”

Enjolras had the sense that continuing too far down that path was not going to end well, so he changed tacks slightly. “So then you too agree that death is a sometimes necessary tool.”

Grantaire jerked a shrug. “I suppose, yes,” he allowed. “If the circumstances were right.”

“And the circumstances were not right that day?” Enjolras asked, because he couldn’t resist prying, just a little.

Grantaire shook his head. “No.”

He did not seem inclined to elaborate any further, and Enjolras frowned. “Because you feared that you could have been arrested?” he asked, though he doubted that was the case, as Grantaire had been arrested as many times as any of their number.

Indeed, Grantaire snorted derisively. “As if the threat of incarceration has ever once stopped me,” he scoffed, before arching an eyebrow at Enjolras. “Or you, for that matter.”

“It helps knowing that you or I would only be incarcerated until the police realized who we were and released us,” Enjolras said dryly. “The perks of nobility – or gentility, I suppose, in your case.” 

“Gentility,” Grantaire repeated, smirking again. “I dare you to use that the next time you’re arrested, just to see what the officer placing you in irons has to say in response.”

Enjolras just rolled his eyes and ignored him, steering the conversation back on track. “What did stop you, then?” he asked, and when Grantaire looked confused, he elaborated, “From killing the soldier, if not the possibility of incarceration.”

Grantaire’s expression was unreadable as he locked eyes with Enjolras. “You were no longer in danger,” he said simply.

The stark words left Enjolras feeling as if his chest was suddenly a size too small, and it took him a moment to compose himself. To know Grantaire had reacted that way when the man was not convinced he could take a life, and all because Enjolras had been in danger...it was too much. Finally, he met Grantaire’s eyes once again, and hoped the two words he could muster conveyed everything that he wished they did. “Thank you.”

Grantaire seemed suddenly flushed, and he cleared his throat and looked away. “In any case,” he said loudly, “can we kindly get back to the business of shooting each other?”

Enjolras rolled his eyes. “Shooting at each other,” he corrected.

Grantaire smirked at him, all traces of the previous conversation disappearing. “Is that not what I said?” he asked innocently.

Again Enjolras rolled his eyes before once again raising his gun and aiming it in Grantaire’s general direction. Grantaire followed suit, a half a beat later. “Are you ready?” Enjolras asked.

“As ready as I will ever be,” Grantaire said. “On your count?”

Enjolras jerked a nod. “On my count,” he affirmed, taking a deep breath before counting, “One...two...shoot.”

Both guns went off with a flash of powder and smoke, the gunshots echoing loudly in the still morning air, loud enough to make Enjolras wince – though that may also have been from the recoil, which left Enjolras’s arm feeling weak. “Do you yield?” Grantaire called, and it took that question for Enjolras to remember the absurd reason for which they were there in the first place.

“Yes, I yield,” Enjolras told him, the first and only times those words had ever come out of his mouth.

Grantaire smirked at him. “And do you agree to marry my sister?”

Enjolras gave him a look. “There is no one here to hear my answer, you realize.” Grantaire returned his look with one of his own, and Enjolras sighed. “Yes, I will marry your sister.”

“Then I have my satisfaction,” Grantaire said, sounding just a little smug.

But as Enjolras handed his pistol back to Grantaire, as lingering pieces from their conversation played over in his mind, he could not help but feel that they had both gotten satisfaction that day.

[botwstoriesandsuch]

Kip v Age of Calamity

For someone who writes tough shit on Age of Calamity, you sure don’t see me writing a better story. So maybe I should stop complaining and be satisfied with what was given to me. 

...or...

...maybe we can dedicated a few hours of my time to spite an ask. 

Even though the entire argument of “why are you mad if you can’t write a story yourself” is inherently flawed and pointless considering that’s the equivalent of telling me I should chug spoiled milk because I’ve never milked a cow, I’ll fucking step up to the plate here, I’ll put my money where my mouth is. 

So here is Part 1 of your residential Kip approved rewrite of Hyrule Warriors: Age of Calamity. Or as I like to call it: 

Ok so before I get into it, a couple things I wanna establish. First, I know I just said I’m doing this out of spite, but I’m actually also doing this for fun. I really enjoy and am passionate about the writing process, so if you were looking for an angry rant about how terrible everyone’s opinions are about everything, this isn’t that. I don’t think that I am a better writer than anyone, or than the professionals that made this game, or that I am somehow superior to Nintendo. I am someone with the benefit of hindsight, I don’t have the constraints of producers and mandated directives and executives rubbing their hands in the story to make it more marketable or dumbed down or any of the other chaos that goes into crafting a videogame. So while obviously I think the people involved in this could have done a much better job, this isn’t a bash to say, “look how easy it is to make a story” because there’s a ton of unseen drama that goes into development that I have the luxury of avoiding, and it’s a miracle that any games are coherent and enjoyable in the first place. I’m just a lil Kip doing a fun lil exercise. 

This little series is also not going to be a fanfic. I’m going to be telling the story chronologically as if you were playing for yourself, but it’s going to be from my omniscient perspective because 1) I need to relate the story to the gameplay 2) That would take way too much time to actually make this into a fanfiction as it already takes a hell of a lot of time to even plan out the beats of this rewrite and 3) This is less going to be a telling of a story, and more of a fun little exploration on the Three Act Structure and The Hero’s Journey. In fact, I am going to try and keep the given story of Age of Calamity as intact as possible. 

The general ending is going to be the same, the characters used are going to remain roughly unchanged, (there will be no new characters, or removal of characters) and characters that live or die and where they end up are going to be mostly the same with how the original game is written. I know, I know, we all would love to see the Champions die brutally or to get us that sweet sweet Link angst or to have a game with multiple endings. And even though I personally would change some of those premises in Age of Calamity, I’m going to strive to keep it all as intact as possible, just to prove wrong the misconception that the story was only bad because of the writer’s choices for the general arc. I am a firm believer that biggest weaknesses of this game are in its methods of conveying its story, a problem in the storytelling process, and not (necessarily/only) the story product itself. 

If you want to use any of the ideas that I present, go for it! I release them into the public domain, I have no plans whatsoever to write a fanfic for this myself, in fact I already have my own separate Pre-Botw fic story that I am pouring myself into, so I give the people full permission to take these ideas off of me. 

Alrighty! With all that out of the way, let’s get into:

HERE IS THE VERSION IN A GOOGLE DOC FORM BECAUSE TUMBLR HATES YOU MOBILE PEEPS

Spoilers! Obviously. I’m going to act on the assumption that you know the full story of Age of Calamity to save myself some time, capiche?

Ok so we start out the game roughly the same, with eggbot being chased and forced to time travel into a portal. But, there is going to be some important differences in details. 

We have the part of the scene where Zelda awakens her powers, and at the same time, something else in Hyrule Castle glows with the same aura. However, this glow is not coming from the Princess’ Tower, but instead, the camera pulls back from the fields of Fort Hateno, sweeps over Hyrule (where you can see the Guardians and the sense of destruction and all that) and the camera eventually flies over Castle Town, then within the Castle, weaving through the halls, until the camera stop and focuses on the entrance of a destroyed room, slowly creeping in. It’s a room that’s been demolished, stone rubble from Guardian blasts ruin the floor and cave in from the ceiling, there’s a small fire in the corners of the room, and from the props that you can make out, it seems to look like some study or office of some sort. The room is small, but domed and circular, signifying that it’s of a bit more importance than you might think . The desks and books and all buried beneath this collapsed stone brick. But as the camera focuses on that pile of rocks, from within that rubble, you see that same glowing aura that Zelda has, glowing brighter and brighter until finally out pops, eggbot.

Now, you can have that same sequence within the game where he runs around all cute, the outter wall of the room is broken so eggbot can look outside and see the Calamity’s destruction. Then that cut to Zelda saying “I want to save...everyone,” and this is important because I need the fade in between Zelda’s line and the fade back to eggbot to wordlessly imply that he is hearing these words, something that’s already done pretty well in the original cutscene. Anyhow, then the Guardian Stalker pops from behind, prepares to shoot, and eggbot can escape into its little time portal, and then the malice follows or whatever.  

However, I’m not gonna immediately cut to the title, but instead, we have the music build to eggbot’s little jump in a pretty climactic way. But then the music still lingers slightly, and rests in suspense, camera is still looking out the window where eggbot jumped. It pulls back, turning back into this room that eggbot emerged from. Music is still relatively silent. Then, from the corner, you see some of the fire suddenly catch onto something. Flattened between the rocky rubble, just a few feet where eggbot emerged, is a purple cloak, trimmed with gold, flapping just slightly in the wind. [Said flapping being what causes it to catch] The fire catches, burning through the cloak, and underneath it, is a fallen copy of the Sheikah tapestry of 10k years ago. Camera zooms into that art of the Calamity, music suspends, merge to title card, then the music hits that climax and BOOM, “Hyrule Warriors: Age of Calamity.” Main Theme plays. Let the opening title roll.

Now the reason I changed this slightly is because 1) I wanted to earlier set up some of the plot points that I have planned for this (some of which you might already guess or maybe not who knows *wink wink*) and 2) I think that the original opening could have been much stronger with its hook. Yes, the element of mystery is established with eggbot’s existence and that element of time travel, but then the opening immediately goes into saying “This is the tale of champions, a diminutive Guardian who traveled backwards through time, and the Great Calamity they faced.” So...you just dampened that hook you established two seconds ago because you explained it all. Sure, it doesn’t completely ruin it, but I think the impact would be much stronger if that text wasn’t there at all, and the music and hype of the tapestry moving and coming alive is all there was. I’d much rather that element of time travel just be explained through the cinematography itself, because you can already understand that perfectly with that scene where you see the portal lead into birds flying around a beautiful Hyrule Castle.

Also, the music in this game is fantastic! So letting moments that really let you soak it in, I think would be very beneficial. So now this scene serves as a much more effective hook before we get into the actual plot. The mystery of eggbot’s identity is heightened and left a bit more unexplained, you have this mysterious circular room that you’ve never seen before, and the set up of details that will eventually serve later revelations in the plot, cough cough. 

Then you hit Chapter 1, Link gameplay, eggbot and the tower, that’s all the same. I got no changes for the story there, it’s a great introduction. However! I know my strength here is writing and I am by no means a game developer or designer, but I need, I absolutely need to add one aspect to the gameplay.

Near the end of the first stage, where there are those three moblins at the end, I want to add something that I’m going to call, a gambit. The game already introduced you to the special meter and “press a to use special attack” thing, but I want Impa and Link to use a gambit to defeat this last horde of moblins. Essentially, you press A to use your special attack, BUT, if another character is in proximity, the attack is even more powerful. Every pair of characters has a special little attack, that does tons of damage, and during said sequence, there are voiced lines, or at the very very least text boxes that comment on it. And with this gambit, while a regular solo special attack still does a lot of damage, I’m gonna nerf it slightly to encourage players to use this gambit feature. 

Now, why did I add this? Because I need to better connect this gameplay to the story on more than an external “lets defeat this and go from point A to point B” type of way. I need something in the gameplay to better serve to the game’s main theme of “teamwork makes the dreamwork” and all that. The CURRENT gameplay, although absolutely fun and fantastic, just doesn’t do this. I need just one element to serve this theme while ALSO having the dual purpose of serving as character interaction. The current structure of Age of Calamity works where the sidequests and battle serve as your character interaction, development, and banter, while the cutscenes serve the main story beats, and important plot revelations. The cutscenes just aren’t crafted to support the weight of these dozens of characters while also giving them all interesting interactions, and that’s fine! So I’m just adding this feature to the gameplay, because being able to customize different lines for different characters for different stages that are voiced will go a long way into making the character development seem more fleshed out. And this gambit feature doesn’t necessarily change the way you play the game drastically, as you can still have four character slots and have them split up to take on the battlefield, but now you can split them off into groups of 2. And also, because I’m not completely blind to game design, the damage percentage boost of these gambit attacks will not increase as much, just slightly lower, than the damage boost of a solo attack when you level up. So what I mean is, when your character is weaker level, you are forced to rely on others in order to defeat your enemies, but, with the way the leveling up percents work, your characters can still reach a point where they can defeat big bosses all on their own without gambits. THAT way, when certain events happen in later chapters, when your character is all leveled up, (and maybe they awaken a sacred power or two) it feels all the more powerful when you can go off on your own. You can feel how your character has grown in strength because you can contrast it with your teamwork gameplay of earlier levels. AND it still highlights the importance of that theme of companionship, because you would never have gotten to this level of strength had you not relied on your friends. 

OK, so the stage 1 ends with a gambit attack, Impa compliments Link’s fighting style or something that shows her admiration or respect for him. And then stage 2 for the Road to the Royal Lab is the same, but gambit dialogue for that stage is Impa complimenting Link, Impa being protective of Zelda, and since this is Zelda’s first playable area, Zelda’s gambit lines can be about kinda brushing Link aside like “I want to capable to hold my own in battle but thank you” to Link (cause I never really got that same “I don’t really like you” vibe that is established in botw for this game) and then to Impa Zelda’s gambit lines can be like “is this thrill what you always feel when battling?” and Impa is like “yeah isn’t it great we should do it more often!” and then you can allude to that with a sidequest for Zelda’s training or something. I just want to better connect sidequest stories with this stuff. And also, gambits are obviously optional so that’s why this is all just banter and character development and not actually plot points, and I’m going to stick with just one-on-one dialogue, although it should be theoretically possible to have gambit boosts of three and four, but I feel that would be too much as I don’t want to ruin the gameplay balance and encourage you to keep all four character slots close together, because splitting them up is an important part of the game. Anyhow!

So Chapter 1 is done, my changes being almost purely in the gameplay because this is the start of the story and the character set up is important. Chapter 1 to Chapter 2 is basically the establishment of the ordinary world, and in the Three Act Structure it’s basically Act 1. Act 1 is all about set up. I need to really focus this chapter on both introducing the player to the mechanics of the game, having them connect to the characters and the characters connect to each other through the gameplay, and I need to establish this tone so that when I rip it away, and change the tone during the threshold, it feels more meaningful and suspenseful. 

As you can see from the diagrams, Act 1 has something called the Inciting Incident. The Inciting Incident is going to be the Yiga attack in Chapter 2, where our heroes first experience the true dangers of their journey, and there is no turning back. BUT I’m getting ahead of myself.

Chapter 2 is also exactly the same. I would literally change nothing about the Champion’s sections (other than my addition of gambit interaction of course) because they’re all pretty great. For the record, yes, evil egg is still a thing, and yes, Zelda and the gang can still discover those pictures of the Calamity in eggbot, yes you beat up Revali, and the Divine Beast sequences are the same. I just really need that gambit dialogue to help establish character relations. Revali quips at Link, Mipha protects him, Daruk is his buddy [I thought a cool gambit attack for Link and Daruk to better show that they are old friends could be them both chewing down on some rocks, before striking an enemy simultaneously. Because they never eat rocks together and I just want this ok] Kohga is the same, Sooga is the same, BUT, for that scene when you first meet Astor in the Yiga base, I need two things to happen. 1) The camera reveal for Astor starts at his cloak, which is intact and NOT tattered like how his design is in game. It’s a deep purple with gold trim, the camera pans up to the back of Astor’s head. Now 2) When the camera moves to look at Astors face, I need him to be standing in front of and staring solemnly at the evil eggbot. He’s frowning, and his eyes suggest something like he’s deep in thought of something in the distant past. That’s how the scene starts, and in the background is Kohga recounting the events of his failure to beat Urbosa and the gang. Then, Kohga can say something funny to annoy him, Astor’s face changes to your classic villain disgust. Then, he can get a bit pissed and go on his little rant about how pathetic the Yiga are and how the Calamity is trapped within the evil eggbot and how he will use his powers to end the Kingdom of Hyrule. Then he can take his little astrolabe and be all “My harbinger, show me the future!” and all that. IMPORTANT LINE CHANGE,  Astor’s motivation here is not “The future, as it will and must be. I will not allow anyone to alter its course.” Instead, I need to tweak it slightly to be, “The future, as it was fated to always be. The pathetic stories and legends of children and false kings cannot waver this course. I will not allow it, for my sake…” camera pans to the broken evil guardian, Astor’s voice lowers just slightly. “...and yours.” The slightest, almost silent bits of the harmonies (not the melody) of the Hwaoc Main Theme play before fully fading back to Astor’s theme. And the final shot of that scene is Astor, looking down at the heap of Sheikah tech, with a neutral expression, but then looking back up at the malice stars, and the future visions of the Calamity. He just ever so slightly smiles. 

[Also I JUST realized that the harbinger is actually slightly above Astor, because it’s supposed to show that the power dynamic is really Calamity Ganon is in control, so ignore the “looking down” parts I talked about, and just think in the broad direction of Astor looks at the guardian, and then looks further up at the ceiling with the Calamity and the future and then he smiles]

For that scene, I also need to remove any characterization where Astor is laughing and being joyous at the impending destruction, I only need that smile at the end. There is no villainous cartoon laughter, at least, not yet. Also the part where Sooga calls Astor a fool for thinking he can control the Calamity is GREAT I need that, that absolutely needs to stay in.

And then Chapter 2 closes off with that Yiga ambush. That’s the inciting incident, so I need the tone at the end to be slightly different. Instead of ending on that cute little thing where eggbot points angrily at Link, (like that part can still EXIST in there BUT) I need it to end on a more serious note. 

Referring back to the Hero’s Journey, the Call to Adventure is the parts of each of the Champion’s recruitment. They each have their initial reasons for joining the fight, whether to protect their people, to feel validated for their skill, to get closer to the ones they love etc etc that’s all established in their respective stages.

This Yiga stage, however, serves as the official barrier between Act 1 and Act 2, the threshold between the known world and the unknown world, where the heroes prepare to seek out the obstacle that stands in the way of their goal. It’s important that this threshold establishes a sense of urgency, because that better gets you invested in the stakes, and helps the story's momentum to move forward. IT shows that the journey and adventure that these characters want/need to take is outside the safety of their home/known world.

In the original game, the threshold ends with that cute scene of eggbot and Zelda and Link and the Zelink vibes. That’s not bad, but it’s also not good. The momentum towards the later confrontation in Korok forest needs to feel more important, because this is a major turning point in the story. SO, I am going to add one more scene at the end. It’s just after the ambush, after the fires have died down, and Zelda (and in the back the Champions) discussing the events with the King. I want King Rhoam to a few things. First, I need him to kinda berate the Champions for falling for the Yiga’s “splitting them up trick” and leaving his daughter vulnerable. This 1) establishes doubt within the party, which makes for better uncertainty for the future and later internal conflict. This was supposed to be the dream team but the King is already kinda telling them off. 2) This also still characterizes the King as someone who cares for his daughter’s safety. That care for his daughters safety is layered in the subtext of him saying something like “Your priority must be to protect the only person capable of sealing the Calamity. You were so concerned with victory and glory in battle that you forgot that the fate of this kingdom lies on my daughter’s survival.” and blah blah blah. The King can also congratulate Link for keeping Zelda safe, and this is GREAT because that can add further to Zelda’s slight resentment for him, as he’s getting the approval from the King that she has yet to receive. But like overall the King is like “don’t leave my daughter alone cause she almost got killed if it weren’t for Link wtf.” and then that can also be a further excuse to hurry to korok forest to find the wielder of the sword so that they can better protect “not just the Princess, but the entire world,” something something fancy kingly dialogue. 

Also when the Champions leave THIS can also be the time where Zelda gives that Sheikah device thingy to Rhoam and also where he sees eggbot. I know that happens a bit later, but for pacing purposes and for the sake of the story changes that I made, it better serves to place it here. That interaction itself can stay mostly the same as it is in the game.

So now, the threshold ends with a bit more tension. The Champion squad is powerful, but also has flaws in how they were split up by the Yiga, (cough cough I wonder if that serves the themes of the game in some way cough cough) and it’s not just “smooth sailing” into the search for the Master Sword, and the stakes are a bit rocky as we finally enter into the story’s Act 2.

= = = = = 

And that’s Part 1 of my rewrite. Not really a lot, cause again this is mainly character set up, and establishing stuff, but personally I think it’s already a bit stronger than how Age of Calamity did it. Stay tuned for Part 2 either tonight or tomorrow, mwahaha. 

Predict the future if you can...

[a-secret-bolton-vampire]

The Coming War for the North, Part 3: The Battle of the Bastards

To see the previous installments of this series, part 1 and part 2 are available to read here and here, respectively.

The idea that Jon and Ramsay would fight has been around for a while, even before the TV show. There are a lot of signs pointing to a similar confrontation in the books, but how it unfolds might be a little different from the show. In this final section, I'll get right down to business on this final battle for Winterfell, and the purpose and themes this plot line.

Two Snows & Winterfell

Jon and Ramsay are two very different, and somewhat very similar characters. Throughout ADWD Jon has letters sent by Ramsay detailing events transpiring in the North, including the retaking of Moat Cailin, and the marriage of Arya Stark (really Jeyne Poole) to the newly legitimized Ramsay Bolton. Stannis also begins his campaign to take the North, and sends letters to Jon detailing his movements and what he is doing. When confronted by Melisandre, Jon learns that Mance Rayder was actually Rattleshirt in magic disguise, and Rattleshirt is actually Mance in magic disguise, and with Melisandre's nudging, agrees to send Mance and six spearwives to rescue Arya from Winterfell.

Then Ramsay sends the pink letter and tells Jon that he defeated Stannis, has captured Mance, and demands Stannis's family and allies or he will attack the Night's Watch. Don't forget that Jon is the one who started this, not Ramsay. He was the instigator, helping Stannis and taking Arya away from Ramsay. Not to say Ramsay is in the right here morally (quite the opposite), but Jon did break his vows for this to happen, and he wasn't really on Ramsay's radar until this happened. Thus, ADWD has set up a rivalry between the two. However, the two characters have a lot in common to be set up as foils to each other.

Both are bastards of a very prominent noble lord of the North. Both resent their bastard status and yearn for approval to be a trueborn member of their House. And both want Winterfell. Ramsay already has Winterfell and is declared the Lord of Winterfell, while Jon nearly took Stannis's offer to be Lord of Winterfell, before rejecting it to keep his vows to the Night's Watch, while still yearning to have Winterfell. However, from there, they are complete opposites.

Ramsay is a demon in human skin, a sadistic serial killer and rapist who enjoys torture and murder, and has no regard for the laws of men. Meanwhile, Jon, as raised by Ned, is a noble and honourable person who tries his best to keep his oath and honour intact (although he does forsake it at the end of ADWD). In the season 4 DVD extras for Game of Thrones, GRRM himself even talks about this.

The relationship between Roose and Ramsay is, in some ways, a dark counterpoint to the relation between Ned Stark and Jon Snow. In both cases, a noble father with a bastard son. Jon and Ramsay are literally the opposite to each other. Jon is very noble and honorable. And Ramsay is none of those things. Roose himself is a cold and calculating man. A dispassionate man. "I placed far too much trust in you." But their treatment of the bastard son is very different. Ned keeps Jon Snow at Winterfell and he's raised with Robb and Bran. For all practical purposes, he is one of Ned's sons. Ramsay gets nothing from Roose.

Given the fact we have good build up between a rivalry between them, and that they are foils of each other, a confrontation between the two seems very likely. And even more so when you look both at the past history and at ADWD. The Stark-Bolton rivalry is the longest and most prominent feud in the North, supposedly dating back to the Long Night. Numerous wars were fought between the Red Kings from the Dreadfort and the Kings of Winter from Winterfell, some of them ending in Bolton victory. At least twice, two Bolton kings (both named Royce) took and burnt Winterfell (and it happened a third time in ACOK when Ramsay did it). The Boltons also were alleged to have flayed and worn the skins of Stark princes as cloaks.

In a way, this rivalry is a very dark, yet still grounded fantasy version of werwolves and vampires. There are quite a lot of stories including werewolves and vampires that have the two be natural enemies, with feuds that go back centuries sometimes. Of course, both the Starks and Boltons take on very clear roles as werewolves and vampires. Starks have warg blood in them (even if not all of them were wargs), and many of them have dreams at night of being a wolf and rampaging around, which sounds very much like old werewolf legends. The Boltons being vampires, on the other hand, is less magical and more implied.

The Boltons have this unearthly, sinister feel and look to them that makes them appear somewhat inhuman, with pale eyes variously described as dirty chips of ice or pale moons, and a look about themselves that is similar to some descriptions of vampires. Then of course there is the Dreadfort, a spooky old castle ruled by a very spooky and yet somewhat cultured man (Dracula anyone)? Then of course we have all the very creepy images of Boltons flaying people, and Ramsay sometimes writing using human blood as ink.

Basically, what I'm saying is that ASOIAF has done what Twilight did but better.

To go back to the future, it makes thematic and narrative sense for the Starks to retake Winterfell from their ancient nemesis. The rivalry began between a Stark and a Bolton, and will end with a Stark bastard and a Bolton bastard, fighting over dominance of the North and of Winterfell.

The Battle of the Bastards

At first glance, it seems like it's a no brainer for how this battle will unfold. Ramsay is gonna lose a lot of support, and Jon will have all the support and completely demolish Ramsay. However, while I do think it will end in victory for Jon (and not without outside help), I think that both are going to be in rather desperate positions, Jon maybe more so.

After Jon's resurrection, there is no question in my mind that he is going to head south. Those were his last thoughts and actions as he died, similar to how Catelyn killing a Frey and her grief of losing her family was the last action and thought before she died, and Beric protecting the smallfolk from the Mountain was his last act before dying. Given the strong implication he is inside Ghost, coming back, we should expect a darker, different Jon, one who doesn't give a shit, is more violent, and more determined. Of course, if he is to retake Winterfell, he should need support.

Fortunately, right before he died, he got all the free folk to cheer for him and agree to join him. Mix those free folk with the giants and mammoths that were recently let past Eastwatch, and he might have a formidable force. However, of the 4,119 or so free folk that are currently south of the Wall, not all of them are fighters. If we take the estimate for 20,000 warriors and 100,000 free folk in total, then we should expect around 820+ free folk capable of fighting. Not a lot. He will need some outside help. Of course, there is already set up for that in ADWD, when he marries Alys Karstark to Magnar Sigorn of Thenn.

He tells a captive Cregan Karstark to send word to his relatives at Karhold and yield to prevent their deaths, but Cregan stubbornly refuses. Alys believes Karhold will open their gates to her, and Alys is thankful for Jon Snow providing her refuge at the Wall and a marriage to get out of an even worse one she did not want. The strength of Karhold may not be the best, but it seems very likely for Karhold to join Jon and his cause, under the banners of Alys.

As for the other houses of the North, I don't expect much more support. Think about how Jon will look to the Northmen. He is a bastard, and those are already quite condemned throughout the North (and Westeros in general). He broke his vows by leaving the Night's Watch, and since the North takes vows and oaths and honour much more seriously than the rest of Westeros, being an oathbreaker who abandoned the Wall is not going to make him popular. And finally, he is leading a band of wildlings south. The North despises the free folk, thinking of them as savages, thanks to centuries of conflict with them. So the picture of Jon painted as an oathbreaking wildling bastard is going to be a major problem for him. At worst, he would be viewed just as evil and treacherous as Ramsay, the other prominent bastard in the North.

In fact, even if Ramsay loses a lot of support from his own actions (more later), he could use this to his advantage. At best, the northerns who hate Jon will remain neutral in the conflict, but at worst, they might even ally with the Boltons. The clansmen have a deep hatred of House Bolton, but they also have a very deep hatred of the free folk, so they may actually remain neutral. The Umbers are another House that deals frequently with wildlings, and many years prior, Crowfood lost his daughter to wildlings raiding south of the Wall. So instead of Jon's presence invigorating the Umbers to fight against Ramsay, their own vehement hatred of the wildlings might lead them to simply stick with Ramsay.

However, that isn't to say everything will go swimmingly for Ramsay. Their hold on the North is tentative, and if Ramsay kills Roose and Walda and their child, it could become even more unstable. For one, Lady Barbrey Dustin isn't loyal to the Boltons, but instead loyal to Roose. Her sister was the former wife of Roose, and Domeric was her nephew, so Lady Dustin has reason to be on friendly terms with Roose. On the other hand, she despises Ramsay, blaming him for Domeric's death, and not even allowing him to step foot in Barrow Hall because of it. In turn, Ramsay also holds her in contempt.

"It should have been you who threw the feast, to welcome me back," Ramsay complained, "and it should have been in Barrow Hall, not this pisspot of a castle." "Barrow Hall and its kitchens are not mine to dispose of," his father said mildly. "I am only a guest there. The castle and the town belong to Lady Dustin, and she cannot abide you." Ramsay's face darkened. "If I cut off her teats and feed them to my girls, will she abide me then? Will she abide me if I strip off her skin to make myself a pair of boots?" "Unlikely. And those boots would come dear. They would cost us Barrowton, House Dustin, and the Ryswells."

If Roose dies, not only would Lady Dustin probably suspect Ramsay, but she would simply not follow Ramsay. So already, just by becoming Warden of the North and Lord of the Dreadfort, Ramsay would lose the Dustins and the Ryswells. Of course, since Lady Dustin does have a grievance with the Starks because Ned never brought her husband home from Dorne, I think she would probably remain neutral in the conflict.

Other houses might leave Ramsay too. Some might stay simply out of fear of retaliation for betrayal. It will depend on the House, their head, their own needs and goals, etc. As for the actual battle itself, who knows what will happen. However, I do think that Ramsay will likely try to lure Jon into some sort of trap rather than give him a direct face to face confrontation. There is also very interesting foreshadowing and even direct confirmation that the battle is going to be possibly more magical than we might believe it to be. Not only are there giants and mammoths... in the final script GRRM wrote for the show, he put in this note:

[N.B. A note for future reference. A season or two down the line Ramsay’s pack of wolfhounds are going to be sent against the Stark direwolves, so we should build up the dogs as much as possible in this and subsequent episodes.]

So the hounds are going to fight the Stark direwolves... wait, direwoves? Not direwolf? Curious...

The Pack Survives

I purposefully avoided the other factions of the North there, because the heart of the conflict will be Ramsay vs. Jon. But Jon won't be alone, at least not entirely. There is Rickon, who is to be touted as the Lord of Winterfell by the Manderlys so they can support Stannis. He isn't even the only Stark who could join in. Sansa is in the Vale under the guise of Alayne Stone. Arya keeps warging into Nymeria, who leads a massive pack of hundreds of wolves throughout the Riverlands. Bran is training his demigod greenseeing powers beyond the Wall with Bloodraven and is definitely manipulating events far south of the Wall.

So, the plural of direwolves makes me think Ghost won't be the only Stark direwolf fighting against Ramsay. We could get Nymeria's wolf pack joining as well, and Shaggydog, or even Summer (if Bran is in the North at this time that is). In fact, the idea that Ramsay will fight against Rickon is something that is heavily hinted at in ADWD.

The next litter to come out of the Dreadfort's kennels would include a Kyra, Reek did not doubt. "He's trained 'em to kill wolves as well," Ben Bones had confided. Reek said nothing. He knew which wolves the girls were meant to kill, but he had no wish to watch the girls fighting over his severed toe.

And then, more directly...

"Stark's little wolflings are dead," said Ramsay, sloshing some more ale into his cup, "and they'll stay dead. Let them show their ugly faces, and my girls will rip those wolves of theirs to pieces. The sooner they turn up, the sooner I kill them again."

Ramsay may be impulsive and unaware of intricate politics, but he seems prepared for what to do should Bran or Rickon show themselves again. This makes me worried for Rickon, honestly. Will Ramsay capture Rickon and keep him prisoner as hold over Jon Snow? Will he kill Rickon like he did in the show? I really, really hope not, but I'm afraid that's exactly what will happen.

There is a line that Ned spoke in AGOT that George says will eventually be very important, that I think perfectly applies to this situation.

"When the snows fall and the white winds blow, the lone wolf dies, but the pack survives."

Ned speaks to Arya about this in King's Landing, to get her to understand that the Starks should not fight one another in times of danger, or be isolated from each other, but look after one another, protect each other. Winter has now come, the snows are falling and the white winds are blowing. Who is the lone wolf in this scenario? While Jon certainly fits the bill (he literally is a lone wolf, it's very clear at the end of ADWD he was prepared to ride to Winterfell all by himself until he got the wildlings to his side), I think Rickon could too.

Rickon is very isolated from everyone else, even when he was at Winterfell. He was only 4 years old, and didn't understand why everyone was leaving him. Given the plan to use Rickon as a pawn to reinstall Stark rule of the North being something we can cheer for and expect to happen, I don't think it will happen. Rickon, the lone wolf, will be used to try to depose Ramsay, but it won't go well, and he will die because of it.

Jon will probably find himself in a bad position in battle too, and very nearly die as the lone wolf... but now that winter is here, and everyone is starting to converge on Winterfell at some point, I think that it won't be Jon who ultimately retakes Winterfell: it will be all the Starks. Sansa may be in the Vale, but Littlefinger plans to use her to take Winterfell back at some point (even if it won't go exactly to plan).

"When Robert dies, Harry the Heir becomes Lord Harrold, Defender of the Vale and Lord of the Eyrie. Jon Arryn's bannermen will never love me, nor our silly, shaking Robert, but they will love their Young Falcon . . . and when they come together for his wedding, and you come out with your long auburn hair, clad in a maiden's cloak of white and grey with a direwolf emblazoned on the back . . . why, every knight in the Vale will pledge his sword to win you back your birthright."

Arya is having a lot of wolf dreams as Nymeria, and GRRM has said that her wolf pack will one day be used as a Chekov's gun. Bran may be far away, but he is getting more powerful and beginning to influence events as far south as Winterfell. The pack comes together to survive in winter, to help Jon and the North by defeating their enemies.

So as Jon fights against the bastard he so deeply despises, it won't just be him. It'll be the Knights of the Vale, led by Sansa. It'll be Nymeria and her wolf pack, piloted by Arya. It'll be Bran, skinchanging into whatever is around. TWOW may end up being the darkest book in the series, and the retaking of Winterfell won't be as glorious as we imagine or even as I spelt it out (Rickon's death and the perception the North has of Jon should play very big roles in making it not entirely happy), but this will be maybe one of our only moment of deserved catharsis we might get from it.

[crimson-dxwn]

Love So Alike (Jango Fett x F!OC)

Summary: Jango Fett takes the occasional bounty posting to keep things interesting. This time, his ship gets hit and he crash-lands far from Kamino. Fortunately, he is found.

Rating: Teen

Warnings: mentions of blood and injury, mild lustful thoughts

This is going to be multi-part! Also many apologies for the sh*ttiest pic collage ever. I tried. HMU if you want to be on the taglist!

-------------------------------------------------------- This day has been fucked to shit, officially. His latest bounty had friends. Nothing he couldn’t handle, but Slave I, Slave I had taken more damage than he was prepared for. One of said Klatoonian friends nailed a lucky shot. Right to the damn hyperdrive, and now he was stranded in the Outer Rim, parsecs from Kamino. Jango’s next priority was picking which skughole to crash-land on and try to fix the damage. 

His bones protested the bumpy ride to the surface of the green and blue marble enlarging rapidly before him. Ralltiir, the most hospitable-looking planet in this system. It was about as populated as Concord Dawn, which wasn’t saying much. Fortunately not Republic controlled or occupied. The navicomputer helpfully told him that it was an agricultural world - great - with a few mid-size urban centers. The best he could hope for was to try and aim for one of those. The choking whine coming from the backside of his ship was leading him to believe that it wasn’t just his hyperdrive that was damaged. Smoke started to fill the cockpit, acrid and hazy, as he struggled to keep the controls on course for a settlement. His helmet could only filter so much particulate - every breath burned and his head swam. 

He entered atmo at the same time as a great boom echoed from below him, shaking the ship as his stomach lurched uncomfortably. This wasn’t going to be pretty. His hands were numb now on the controls and he struggled to keep them gripped to the joystick. The details of the world below were rapidly coming into focus as Slave I careened toward the surface. His head spun from the lack of oxygen, and he ripped his helmet off to find even more acrid air. Boba...his thoughts ran toward his son, left on Kamino in the care of the aiwha-bait while he chased bounties. He should’ve stayed with his son; he was gonna die on this planet, covered in mud, far from Kamino. There was way too much water, more than he judged when he’d briefly studied the map. If he overjudged his landing, he’d drown in the middle of nowhere with nobody to come looking.

The joysticks protested his efforts to pull the ship up parallel with the ground as trees whipped by, filling his windscreen completely. Solid ground blessedly met the flat landing platform of his ship as the g-forces nearly robbed Jango of consciousness and his head cracked against the console. Boba. He’d make it back. Just another bumpy landing, he thinks, as he stripped out of his harness, coughing black soot from his lungs. There was a little blood left on the back on his hand when he wiped his mouth. Nothing to worry about. He’d had worse. As soon as he could breathe fresh air, he’d be able to think straight and get out of this. When the edges of his vision weren’t blackening and closing in. Finally he made it down the lowered ramp. And his vision blacked out completely.

Through her binocs, Roha watched the man faceplant into the mud. His ship crashing had nearly blown both eardrums to smithereens a few minutes ago and she couldn’t resist clambering up on an outcropping of rocks to watch the ship come down, barely a klik from the homestead. He wore strange armor, from what she could judge that wasn’t soot-blackened or  covered in churned soil from the crash. She couldn’t identify his ship, but Roha guessed it wasn’t common from its unusual shape. It was unlike anything she’d ever seen in her roughly thirty years here. Truly, the man must be a skilled pilot to be able to crash-land so delicately that his ramp could still open. From the look of the back end of the starship, he’d taken some heavy damage, probably from some less-than-legal outfits. The man cut quite a figure until he fell, face-first, towards the ground. Part of her hesitated to help, worried that it might be a ploy. But the way he’d gone slack led her to believe that his need was genuine. And so she wiped her dirty hands on her skirt and hurried to the smoking hulk. She prayed she wouldn’t need the small vibroblade hidden alongside her right leg. Roha’s breathing was coming fast by the time she reached the prone figure. Not that she had much to worry about - he hadn’t moved a muscle since passing out. 

Roha crouched next to him, watching his back rise and fall shallowly for a few seconds before getting her arms underneath his torso. Flipping him on his back was going to be difficult. The man wasn’t tall, but he was thicker than she anticipated, dense with muscle and weighed down by silver fox armor. Mud squelched as she dug her boots into the mire, searching for some leverage. Finally she got him on his back. Soot streaked his face - his very handsome face. Joining the old scars lining the man’s rugged features was a new gash over his left temple, still oozing blood. Two fingers on his neck revealed a strong, regular pulse, and despite being minimally conscious he seemed to be relatively intact. 

The ship had hidden itself relatively well, nestled in a copse of trees at the bottom of the valley, though others were likely to have seen the craft. It was fortunate he’d landed where he did. Half a klik farther east and he’d be at the bottom of the ocean. He groaned a bit - that was encouraging - but didn’t open his eyes. He needed medical attention, that much was obvious. And shelter, that too. No use worrying in who’s shot him down at the moment. That was a worry for later. Now that she’d determined he was alive, the next problem was how to lug his unconscious body back to her cabin. 

She knelt in the mud as rain started to mist down on the two of them, him unconscious in the mud and her knee deep in the mire. Eventually she trudged back to the homestead in her soggy boots and harnessed her single orbak and constructed a makeshift stretcher for him to haul. The man was blessedly still breathing when she led the animal back to the crash site. His eyes were still closed and the oozing from his cut had stopped. Was she really about to bring this stranger into her home? Maybe he’d recover and be on his way. Roha checked his breathing again. Still his chest rose and fell, rapid and shallow, dark brows furrowed. 

The orbak huffs, indignant at being roped into extra work for the day. The sun had set below the mountains in the west and her breath steamed out in from of her face. There wasn’t much time before it became too cold for him to be lying out in the open, wet and covered in icy steel. She sighed and made her decision as the orbak stamped his feet, impatient for a warm stall. 

“Me too, boy,” she murmured to the beast. Using her full weight, she heaved the man onto the stretcher. The mud soaked through her skirt, so cold that it numbed her skin from her thighs all the way to her ankles. She couldn’t wait to light a crackling fire...maybe heat up some water for a bath. Her skin crawled at the thought. Darkness was falling, and the rain falling harder with it. She clicked in the back of her throat to urge the pony back home. He carried the man easily and she thanked her lucky stars she’d traded for him six months ago, though she lamented not trimming his feathered fetlocks which were - to her dismay - now caked in dark fertile mud. Another worry for tomorrow.

She got him back to the homestead. It had been hers for years since her husband had died. Modest though it was, it was enough. Though a main pitfall, she now realized, was the single bed. Not that she’d be sleeping much anyway, with an unknown man in her home. But part of this felt...right. If she left him outside like, she’d never forgive himself if he died. Damn the consequences. Still wouldn’t sleep a wink. 

Her heart breaks for her bedding when she finally rolls his mud-covered body on it with a pained groan. Though fortunately he’d gained a bit of consciousness on the trip to the cabin so she didn’t have to lug his dead weight through the threshold. She on the other hand, was absolutely exhausted. It was all she could take to strip him down to his basics to look at his abdomen and extremities. Hideous bruises covered his chest and stomach. It looked incredibly painful. The man hadn’t done much in terms of movement besides thrash his head from side to side and moan softly. He needed a medical droid, but there wasn’t one for a long ways. The best she could do was cool compresses for the bruises and keep him warm and hydrated. And pray he lived. 

---

When Jango wakes it’s because someone is touching his face. It wasn’t something that happened often. And when it did it filled him with prickly discomfort. He greatly preferred the security and anonymity of his helmet. The desert that was the back of his throat distracted him for the moment. He tried to get his bearings. No helmet, but he vaguely remembered removing it in the ship. No comforting weight of beskar on his chest. An arm reaches up to inspect exactly why he was in his basics and how he was going to escape….wherever this was. Forcing his stinging eyes open, he registered a slatted wood ceiling, the smell of woodsmoke and an undercurrent of earthy sweetness he couldn’t quite identify. 

A hand stopped his own and Jango grasped the attached forearm, hard. Time to break out. 

His abdomen strongly protested his efforts to sit up. Pain struck him, so overwhelming he almost blacked out, and he let out a pathetic noise that normally he wouldn’t be caught dead making. Half groan, half sob. He’d really done it now. Jango settled for simply turning his head and a woman came into view, forearm still trapped in his grip. When her pleading eyes met his, he dropped his hand. She was maybe the least threatening thing that his mind could conjure up at this exact moment. 

“Don’t try to sit up,” she said, “you’re badly injured.” He’d established that already, thanks.

“Where..” even talking hurt. He tried again. “--where am I?” 

“Ralltiir,” the woman replied, “in the Outer Rim. You crash landed--”

“I know that,” he interrupted. She shut up, wariness in her soft brown eyes. 

“Where is my armor?” 

She pointed to the foot of the bed she’d laid him on, and there it was, neatly stacked in a wicker basket. “And my blasters?”

“Confiscated,” she replied. She was rubbing her forearm where he’d grabbed her. Jango could see the marks from his fingers marring her skin. He didn’t make a habit of hurting women, but sentiment about which parts enemies had between their legs didn’t prevent them from killing you. 

“Your ship went down about a klik north of here. You passed out from smoke inhalation and I couldn’t just leave you facedown in the mud-” her speech was getting faster and faster; it was obvious she was scared of him. Perhaps he shouldn’t have been so gruff with her. After all, she could’ve just slotted his shebs outside Slave I. Jango reaches a hand up to his face. Quite the stubble growth. He had to have been lying here for almost a day. More than enough time for her to call any sort of scum - slavers, bounty hunters, or worse. He sighed as she babbled on, wringing her hands nervously. He decided to take pity on her and interrupt.

“-can I at least have my undersuit back?” She looked at him with a wide, embarrassed expression. Sheepishly, she went to the basket and pulled out his shirt and pants, neatly folded and suspiciously devoid of mud. 

“I’m Roha,” she offered, with a pregnant pause, obviously expecting him to return the favor. He supposed it was enough that she dragged him a klik back to what seemed to be her home and probably her own bed. 

“Jango,” he replied. Roha gave a small smile in response and started busying herself with rearranging the stacked armor and accessories in the basket. 

After his show earlier it was clear that he was going to need help sitting up. Frustration boiled deep in him - it wasn’t often he needed help. Especially from wilting female farmhands. From an upright vantage point he’d be able to get a better idea of his surroundings. Besides, being kept supine under heavy blankets was making his claustrophobia flare up. 

“Uh..” he started, “do you mind...” Maker, he hated feeling this helpless. Jango grit his teeth and tried again. “Can you help me sit up?” 

“Oh. Yes, of course.” She reached an arm out and he grasped her hand with his. It was still painful, but she was surprisingly strong. Soft brown curls fanned out from her face and there was a strand of something caught in it. Hay. A strange impulse to brush it away flashed across his mind, but he pushed it down. Roha stood back a few paces, still watching him carefully. It was good she was wary. 

Throwing off the woven blankets, he gingerly rose. Somehow his legs had survived mercifully intact, though now with his chest bare he could see the extent of the bruising that he could previously only feel with every breath. Moving was slow, and he needed to use the edge of the bed for support. Jango could feel the woman’s eyes still on him, skin prickling at the unwanted contact. It reminded him too much of his youth, stripped down to his basics, injured, helpless and trapped in an unfamiliar place. 

“Do you mind?” he snapped over his shoulder. He could practically feel her blush. It rose over her cheeks and down her neck, barely tinting her tanned skin. 

Her eyes snapped to the floorboards, looking chastened. “Sorry.” 

Jango got his bearings as he changed, taking in the little cottage. It was one spare room, likely with a fresher out the back, much like the ones he’d grown up in on Concord Dawn, except this one was made of light-colored wood. He imagined must have quite the concussion because all the sights and smells of such a humble place had begun dredging up memories he swore he’d forgotten forever. Maybe it was the osik’la jedi playing mind tricks - as they were wont to do - weaving a scene to get him to talk. Unbidden, his stomach rolled over and the room spun with it. He breathed hard through his nose, trying to steady himself. Blessedly, the nausea faded but he had to slow his movements to a crawl and focus on one point in front of him. He already felt less exposed with the flight suit on. It was something. 

“My ship?” he asked. 

“Besides the back end? Relatively unscathed,” she said, eyes still glued to the floor, “but I’m no mechanic.” 

No shock there. He made a noncommittal sound under his breath. Despite his suspicion of head trauma he did remember his hyperdrive getting shot to smithereens as well as the smoke pouring out the engine room and filling the cockpit. The question of where he was going to get parts to fix Slave I was a bit of an afterthought, as he currently could barely move. Plus, he’d been unconscious for hours and there were more pressing needs to take care of.

He cleared his throat. “Fresher?” 

“Out back,” she replied, and gestured at the heavy wooden door at the back of the homestead. “Can you walk?”

“I’ll manage.” He hoped he could keep his feet enough to manage a piss. Guess he was about to find out. 

When get returned, she was pulling something out of the ancient looking oven. It was a giant behemoth of cast iron with a chamber to feed in sticks of firewood. Whatever it was smelled...amazing. Jango was back on the bed, despite his best efforts to stay upright, and settled for simply watching her like a hawk from his perch, trying his best to ignore the ache that gnawed in his belly. 

“Why are you helping?” He’s a little shocked the phrase slipped out. But he wants to know. She should’ve just left him, called the cops or whatever passed for them in this backwater. He wasn’t used to blind kindness, to giving without some sort of transactional relationship. 

She was still fussing around the stove, conspicuously letting him have his privacy. He was more grateful than suspicious and so he fell silent, content to watch her work. Half her skirt was tucked into the thick leather belt wrapped around her waist. It was thick and worn, with a swirling tooled pattern, and much too big for her. It was fastened on its smallest setting, which happened to be a sloppily awled hole far from the rest of its counterparts.

“Is it just you all the way out here?” he asked, strength fading fast. 

Again, she eyed him warily, but replied, apparently dismissing him as a threat at present. “Yes, just me.” Without elaboration she went back to her cooking and Jango finally gave into his screaming midsection. Lying on the bed felt like such a relief. It had been a while since he’d been badly injured and he’d almost forgotten how much it took out of you. The clinking and shuffling from the other end of the room lulled him back under despite his best efforts, and he fell asleep wondering about Boba. 

———

That night Roha woke to Jango’s anguished murmuring, listening to him thrash from her nest of blankets in the corner. She’d wanted to get a little broth into him, but he’d fallen fast asleep after their brief, awkward conversation and she wasn’t keen on waking him again. He’d survive without broth for a night, at least. Now, though, he was fretful and she hoped it was a nightmare rather than his injury.  

Boba, he kept muttering, over and over. A name? His partner perhaps? A parent? A child?

Trying to get back to sleep was impossible. Roha settled back against the wall and willed him to calm. At first she thought it worked, until he started visibly shaking, large hands gripping the sheets. His muttering changed violently. He was almost yelling now, in a language she didn’t recognize - harsh and grating on her ears. She debating waking him once again. He was going to hurt himself. Tangled in the sheets, he kept shouting in the strange language. 

She was exhausted. Wary to wake him too suddenly, she kept her distance, though she knew he could barely sit and walk on his own. The moonlight spilled through the window to the bed, lighting his features in his half-sitting position, arm clutched over his midsection. 

And then he looked right at her. The eeriness of his wide open eyes struck her.

“Anade kyrayc...” 

“Jango?” she asked, her voice low and soft. She didn’t dare touch him. 

He hissed. “Ke’pare.” 

She started a little more strongly this time. “Jango.” He stilled and the absolute expression of anguish on his face broke her heart. 

“You’re safe,” she assured him. His dark eyes were glassy and stared less at her and more through her, still wandering in the land of nightmares. Though he calmed a little, breaths coming less harshly than a few minutes earlier. “Go back to sleep. You’re safe here.”

Relief weakened her knees as he paused and gingerly laid himself back down, still trembling ever so slightly. Noting his sweat-dampened head and soaked clothes, she rummaged in the storage space below the bed for a pair of Jet’s old pants and a tunic and set them at the end of the bed. She hoped they would fit, though right now she was too exhausted to care much. Curling up in her corner once again, she slept fitfully, chased by fretful dreams of her own and unable to get comfortable on the hard floor despite the cushioning of her quilts. 

Hours later, she was roused once again by the sound of someone foreign in her home. Jango was returning from the fresher, in his sleeping clothes. Deep purple circles ringed under his eyes. She felt the same - this cycle of waking the other was getting old. 

“‘Morning,” he said gruffly. 

“Good morning,” she replied. The warm orange sunrise was peeking through the window over the sink. As good a time as any to get up - the animals would be waiting to be fed. 

“I thought you might like a change of clothes,” she offered, nodding towards the tunic and pants. Jango squinted at them. “They were my husbands. If you’d like to bathe, the inlet out front is cold but clean...or I can bring water from the well for you?” 

“That won’t be necessary” 

“I’ll be at the barn, just yell if you need me.” 

He looked down, looking halfway bashful rather than stern. “Thank you,” he said finally. 

He glanced at the clothes again and Roha busied herself with the kitchen scraps for the roba, not wanting to pester him or reveal any more embarrassing details about herself. 

“There’s bread wrapped in the cloth on the counter,” she threw over her shoulder on her way out. Her own stomach was grumbling terribly, but it would have to wait. 

The barn was a ways from the house. Enough that any - unpleasant - smells wafted away in the wind, but close enough for a bearable walk when the snows fell. The chill of early spring was in the air and the breeze was clean and fresh, nipping at her cheeks and making her wish she’d thrown a shawl on over her thin top or under the quilts and furs on her bed. It was plenty warm in the house with a banked-low fire. The creamy white stones that lined the outside had been specially picked for their insulating properties. 

The chores whiled away mindlessly.  On her way to the pasture she heard the faintest creak of the front door back at the homestead. It shocked her that he’d refused her offer to heat him some bath water. Most men she knew would’ve jumped at the chance to be waited on hand and foot, all while denying that they liked it, or worse - expected it. 

Pouring the grain into the trough, she resisted the urge to look for him behind her. Though the tip of the inlet was a ways away, she still averted her eyes while she walked the path back to the barn. If he felt up to bathing, he was probably out of the woods for now. 

She heard the breath he sucked through his teeth when he realized how cold the water was and smiled. Maybe he’d changed his mind about that bath. She peeked just for a moment to the shore, just to make sure he was safe and not lying facedown on the pebble beach. The water was waist height, lapping at his lower back. His shoulders were tense, whether from cold or pain she couldn’t tell.

Roha couldn’t believe she’d mentioned Jet. She rarely spoke of him, let alone reveal to strange men staying in her home that she didn’t have a man of the house. Her mother would disapprove. What she  would also disapprove of his how long Roha has been staring at a naked and injured man’s heavily muscled back while he bathed. Heat rose to her face and for once she was glad she was alone out here. Insistent bleating of the gathered sheep in their shed finally drew her attention away from the very well-made man half-submerged in her little bay. 

She fed them their allotment of grain as usual, but something was off. Almost all her ewes were pregnant, and it was a little early for them to lamb, but the one with the cream fleece and black undercoat was nowhere to be seen. A little pit formed in her belly. It had frosted overnight, and if the ewe gave birth in the pasture, the lamb was vulnerable to hypothermia. Roha hopped the fence, leaving the rest of the flock to their breakfast and headed out into the pasture. Parts of the grass in the shade still crunch with frost under her boots. She’s lucky the ewe’s coat sticks out so much or she’d never have found her in the copse of trees at the far corner of the pasture complete with a tiny black lamb, curled up by its mother, barely moving. 

The mother was concerned, nudging the little creature with her nose, trying to get the little one to perk up. Crouching by the pair, she tries to rouse the lamb. It breathes fast, wet coat cool to the touch. She sighs. They’d need to be separated; the baby was too cold now to be kept in the shed. Roha prayed Jango was washed and dressed as she rushed back to the cottage. 

He was back in bed, dressed in Jet’s old clothes, breathing deep and even. The bath had taken a lot out of him, then. Oblivious, the tiny thing in her arms gave a weak cry. Jango opened an eye to assess and Roha busied herself making a nest out of a ratty old blanket and mixing formula she kept in the storage shed. 

When she glanced back at her guest, he was upright on the bed - a promising sign.

“What’s this, then?” he asked. 

“Little one came on an inopportune morning,” she replied, rubbing the lamb dry with the blanket and scooching herself closer to the fire for warmth. It took to the bottle well, fortunately, and drank its fill. Jango watched silently as she worked. She stroked the little whorls of wool on the lamb’s head absentmindedly. Jango didn’t look confused at why she had a farm animal indoors and she wondered if this wasn’t the first time he’d crash landed on a rural world and been taken in. She couldn’t help the smile that tugged at the corners of her mouth. 

Sitting here, alone with him in the small house brought back the events of the previous night vividly. She’d never ask what he’d dreamed about. He likely wouldn’t remember, and the last thing Roha wanted was to dredge up any painful memories he might have. And by the amount of scars littering his body, he had many. What she couldn’t help beng curious about was the name he’d called out, distinct from the rest of his speech. 

She tried to be as nonchalant as possible.

“Who’s Boba?” 

One look at his expression told her that she’d made a wrong move. 

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

Mando’a Translations

anade kyrayc - everyone’s dead

Ke’pare - wait

[dontcallmecarrie]

“I’m on the mend

Like I’m wearing a neck brace

Like I��m sleeping in my own place

Like I’m pulling all the stitches out of my own face.”

I Lost a Friend by Finneas

Genre: going all in on the h/c, it feels like. Works for anything set in canon after the first Avengers movie, basically

Fandom: MCU [I was tempted to pick something else, but this song can basically be another theme song for one of the arcs of one of my WIPs and I’m trying to switch it up right now]. 

.

...hmm. There’s [unfortunately] far too many scenarios this song fits in, really. Are we talking Tony’s POV anytime after Iron Man 3? Natasha after Age of Ultron? Civil War? How about Steve after the Winter Soldier? 

Sticking very close to canon seems a bit boring, though, for this thought exercise. How about...okay, let’s try this for a change. 

The Avengers’ perspective of Moments of A Dying World, aka the one where Tony becomes a villain [for realsies, and it is not pretty because rocks fall and literally everyone dies in the original AU]. 

...however, since I don’t have the stomach for 100% downer endings at the moment, here, have a potential fix-it remix that’s bittersweet instead [more bitter than sweet, though]

.

Nobody noticed when Tony Stark died in that corridor, alone and afraid.

Nobody could pinpoint the exact moment the Merchant of Death took his place, a cruel monster who saw the world around him as nothing more than a game and oh, was he going to have fun.

...or, at least, that was the plan.

.

It’s Bruce who first picks up on the fact that something is very, very wrong with his best friend. 

Kind of hard not to, when Tony came back strangely quiet— though he’d been a chatterbox not five minutes beforehand. 

Which, okay, might’ve made sense if it’d been because of the Chitauri corpse they’d found— after all, he knew better than anyone just how Tony’d been dealing with things after New York— but.

When he asked, all he got was a puzzled look and a, “now, why would I be bothered by something like that?”

Like it genuinely didn’t bother him, as if the panic attacks Bruce’d had to help him through not two months ago had never happened, and now is when the red flags start cropping up because it might be his imagination, but he could’ve sworn he saw the flicker of red in his best friend’s eyes.

From there, it’s so, very easy to restrain him, and figure out just what the hell was going on—

.

The rest of the team’s convinced after the readings show up, and Tony— or, rather, the stranger wearing his face— rolls his eyes but drops the ruse and oh shit this guy was bad news. To the point where the ball of evil that tried to take over a cell phone was a footnote, because this ‘Merchant’ guy had all of the ruthlessness and venom Tony’d ever buried and had absolutely no compunction about using it against them.

It’s...not pretty. More of an eye-opening experience, really.

Because Tony’d been nothing but kind and supportive towards them, had always gone out of his way to try and help— whereas this guy...well.

Steve now knows just what kind of man Howard became, and all the ugly details of the Winter Soldier program Tony’d been in the process of compiling in an attempt to help him with his search for Bucky; Bruce gets every single insecurity he’d ever had aired out in front of everyone, and Thor nearly gets driven to tears; Natasha is the only one who can spend more than five minutes in the same room and come out relatively intact— and even then, it’s a very draining experience, having to deal with the Merchant.

But hey, now it’s just a matter of figuring out how to fix this. 

Because they can fix it, right? 

Right?

.

After having spent several hours in the company of the Merchant, and consulted multiple experts on the readings, the Avengers decide to try and go with the old-fashioned ‘head trauma to break the mind control’ for lack of better options. 

[Look, it’s the best they can do, okay?]

And...well.

To be fair, it works.

One sharp tap to the head, and the Merchant collapses and all instruments say the weird energy’s gone, so that’s it, problem solved, right?

Except.

.

Tony Stark blinked awake, and tried to raise a hand to rub at his aching head— only to freeze as he noticed the handcuff keeping him stuck to the chair bolted to the floor.

And the redhead standing above him eyeing him warily, and the other people milling around in the corner but priorities.

“Who the hell are you, and what the fuck do you want.”

.

pro: Tony’s back!

con: his memories are scrambled, especially when it comes to the Avengers and now there’s a lot of getting to know each other [again] and there’s an added level of awkward because now the team’s seen him in multiple crisis situations and are very very aware of just how bad he can get, whereas Tony’s just seeing a bunch of random strangers who he trusts about as far as he can throw without his suit. 

bonus angst if there’s some subconscious instincts/dramatic irony going on here too, because this Tony wants to befriend these guys but part of him just can’t. 

Like, he’d love to geek out in his labs with Bruce Banner! It’s just...a part of him feels very very uncomfortable with the idea of opening up to him, and Steve Rogers really really wants to spend time with him, but Tony’s just not sure why??? 

[fascinatedhelix]

More spoilery Pathless thoughts, notes, ideas, etc:

So, from the limited glimpses I’ve gotten of the Shark Temple monks, the hoods they wear don’t look like scarves like I initially thought when I saw them in Abzu. The texture and hard shapes give off the impression of something more along the lines of a gabled hood, reinforced with buckram or something similar to keep the geometric shapes.

Also, though I couldn’t get a super long look at the faces of their skeletons, they look... weird. The eye sockets are small and the rest of the face looks blank. Maybe the developers borrowed from the Diver’s model, or they’re wearing masks. Either way I’m not 100% convinced they’re normal humans. Jumping off that point, it does kind of weird me out that the ancestors from Abzu appear to be human, at least to some extent. It doesn’t quite make a ton of sense, given how the architecture in Abzu is rather amphibious (yes, there are stairs underwater that would imply they used to be above water, but also, the more “urban” areas (such as the area where you find the bird mural) seem built specifically for exploration above and below water, implying the inhabitants could travel both ways). Than again, magic is a thing in-universe, or at least a rather unusual form of it. Somehow the Godslayer managed to grow twice the height of a normal person and attained a tail and claws, so I don’t think its a stretch that a society might develop where the people figured out how to give themselves gills or something. Or they were never human in the first place and just lived alongside the Isle humans for a while before they were ousted.

It is very difficult getting good references for the characters from screenshots. Since I can’t play it myself, I have to rely on Youtube videos, and even those aren’t super reliable due to basically nobody taking the time to take a close look at the skeletons and stuff, and the constant movement making it difficult to get any clear shots. Even the OST videos, as recommended, aren’t very good because the concept art featured is all either scenery or the Hunter, so while I might have no problems with her, everything else is kinda bust. Godslayer in particular is a pain in the ass because he’s always shot with this low red lighting, to the point you can hardly make out the details of his arms outside of a few blurry shots.

It is implied that the Tall Ones took the physical bodies of animal-headed humanoids before the Godslayer killed them and corrupted their spirits, as evidenced by some stele text and the giant fucking skeletons that are revealed after one completes the different plateaus. I suppose the size of the skeletons would explain why they’re called the Tall Ones in the first place, though I can’t imagine being one of the Isle’s humans, living a normal life, finding out about all sorts of drama off at the monasteries, and then one day looking out my window and seeing a 100 foot tall streaker with a deer’s head carefully tiptoeing over pine trees. I say streaker because the giant skeletons sure as hell didn’t look clothed, and the statues of their humanoid forms imply a rather... limited wardrobe. But then again, if the statues were accurate, then the Eagle Mother and Nimue would have masculine bodies, which would be kind of weird, but they’re not human so I suppose one can excuse them not being super well versed in human sexual dimorphism.

Also, going by the singular lore video I can find on Youtube, I think the Pathfinder had already slipped into being a little crazy before he donned the Mask of Ancients, got his hands on the Sun Sword, and started demanding human sacrifices. Case in point, he had a bunch of his followers sacrifice their lives to set off the traps to get to the Mask instead of doing the rational person thing and just working on the puzzles. Their spirits even say as much. I don’t think he was put in prison for just voicing an opinion contrary to the popular doctrine of the time, I think he was already stirring up a violent cult following before that point; the prison break was just the earliest point in which people really started to notice him. Or at least, start dying.

I don’t think the time period between the fall of the Isle civilization and the Hunter’s arrival was much more than maybe a generation or two. For starters, the Hunter and the Godslayer speak the same language, and don’t seem to have any issues understanding each other despite presumably a long time for linguistic drift to set in. Additionally, the dead, while skeletal, seem to be in relatively good condition (with clothing intact, no less), and while the buildings and such are in ruins in many cases, they don’t look like they’ve been overtaken by the elements like one would expect from a centuries old ruin.

[cant-blink]

Half-Life, Ch. 5

Summary: The consequences of Gigan’s actions makes itself clear.

-

He can’t move.

He can’t see.

He can’t hear.

But he was aware.

He was aware of the terrible pain that plagued his body, so intense that he couldn’t even scream. He was aware of every second the half-life used him for, every second his flesh was gouged and violated. He was aware, that every time he attempted to move even the slightest bit, it brought painful seizures through his entire body, especially of his legs and tails. His feet would kick the air uselessly, his tails have already run dry of their poison gasses but still kept contracting nonetheless.

He was aware, that for the very first time, he was at the complete mercy of everything around him.

His fifth brain has been severely damaged, shredded by the half-life’s tail and made worse through the mating. The same brain that allowed him to control his massive body was now destroyed, and it left that body feeling alien to the dragon.

Never before has he sustained such a terrible injury. It’s not often he received any injury at all, as his hardened scales usually proved enough to protect him from damage. Even in those few fights that proved more serious, it never got this bad. The extent of his injuries were usually torn wing membranes, maybe even a broken neck. Wounds that were always relatively easy to mend. Until that half-life showed up and now...

He felt so weak, and it was hard to stay conscious, much less stay focused on what he needed to do. He still had stored energy left in his stomach; he just needed to tighten the right muscles to free it into his system. But in the process of doing this, he sent another agonizing spasm through his whole body. He couldn’t even cry out, enduring this as it at least released his emergency reserves.

Some of that energy escaped his body, forming a faint barrier around him, red flame-like wisps coming from it. Keeping him safe from the outside world. He honestly didn’t want that energy to be wasted on a barrier, but he had no say in how his reserves were used. His body spent it on a pre-determined list of priorities that his old creators deemed fit.

The first of those priorities was to stopping the flow of blood from escaping his wounds. Blood being drawn is not something he was used to, but here he was losing too much too quickly. His body was in a state of panic, urgent in trying to get itself back together. But his energy stores were limited in how much he can carry; he didn’t even know if he would have enough to fully stop his bleeding, much less repair his damaged brain.

But he had to repair it; he can’t move without it and he needed to get out of here. Fly beyond the cloud of space dust and its atmosphere, to unfiltered cosmic rays. If he can’t, he won’t be able to complete the healing process. And... and...

It struck him.

He could very well die from this.

Bleeding. Humiliated. Disgraced. Defiled. Pathetic. At the claws of a half-life. Surrounded by lesser lifeforms. He’s never imagined what his death would be like, as it seemed like an impossibility. But this? This was not how he wanted his Death to be. He will NOT give this half-life the satisfaction of knowing he did this to him!

Without thinking, he attempted to get up, but his muscles tightened painfully before his legs kicked once more. More horrific pain swamped his nerves from his injuries. Why was his body not paying his damaged brain any attention?! He deemed that more important than his blood!

In his panicked mind-set, he failed to realize that he needed that blood to transfer the healing energy throughout his body. He was already losing too much, and the more he bled, the slower the process. But the thought never occurs to him as he kept struggling against his own body.

It was the burden of agony and exhaustion that finally stopped his attempts to move, his body once more settling into twitches. That violent fit has just undone what healing has occurred, dislodging clots and causing blood to flow freely once more.

He can feel it, trickling down his scales.

He can’t...

He just can’t...

He laid there for another moment, twitching. Enduring. Trying to calm. It’s all he can do; just try to stay alive long enough to see this through to the end. Hopefully soon, he’ll be able to take matters into his own teeth...

Blood still escaped his wounds by the time his reserves ran dry. No, no, this can’t happen to him. He already is going through enough pain as is, was he really going to have to resort to... to...

He didn’t have any real choice in the matter and he didn’t even have time to brace himself mentally before an acute piercing pain came into his chest. It was as if the half-life had stabbed right through him, and he instinctively tried to struggle, only to provoke another seizure that only worsened his situation. He felt no sign of the half-life, no resistance of his blade in his flesh. 

No, what he was experiencing was his own body sacrificing his Gravity Beam sacs, deteriorating the organs and reducing them into the same energy he would become when cocooning into his asteroid. Except this time, it was piece by piece, with his pain receptors fully intact. There was no pleasant numbing to ease the process.

He couldn’t remember the last time he had to go through something like this. At least back then, he was certain he would’ve been able to watch the process and see the results to make himself feel better. Here, he couldn’t observe the progress being made, nor estimate how much longer he’d have to endure this torture. Was this even worth it?

Wave after wave of added torment pierced through his chest, and each one made his focus waver that much more. His heart was racing so fast, from fear and from working hard to transport this new source of energy with what little blood was left. But even that was starting to weaken. It was harder to think, before thought disappeared completely. The pain was becoming dull, including the constant throb of the active chip. Wait, no... The sensation of the chip, the thing that plagued his dreams and life, was gone now.

An irrational sense of happiness flowed through him; the pain was gone, the chip was gone. Have he succeeded in healing? Was this happiness his reward? Was it time to rest from the ordeal? He didn’t know. All he knew now was a sense of bliss as his crests gave him the biggest dose of euphoria that he’s ever felt. 

Before that too faded into nothingness.

-

"Scoli, I need another glass. Right fuckin' now."

"Hello to you too." The centipede grumbled before glancing up. His mandibles opened in clear disgust. "You couldn't have cleaned up better?"

"Not in the mood, Legs," Gigan hissed, taking the glass just as the other kaiju finished pouring his drink. He takes a swig, savoring the taste and letting it work its magic. "Y'know, I put so much work into that guy and this is how I'm rewarded?"

“A bad lay, huh?” Scolopendra muttered in feigned interest.

“You have no idea,” He took another gulp. “Y’know, I had my suspicions that it would be his first time and yeah it was, and wanna know why?”

“Not really.”

“He had NOTHING between those legs. His damn Masters didn’t even give him junk, how fucked up do they have to be to not think of that?!” He continued to vent between drinks. “As fucked as MY Masters were, at least they left the rest of me intact. Even the bastards who did THIS-” He gestured at his own body. “-left well enough alone. But damn, that dragon can’t do shit. No wonder all he does is kill things, he literally has nothing else better to do with his time. Can’t eat, can’t drink, can’t fuck.” He shook his head. "I'd almost feel bad for him if he wasn't such an asshole. But I'd probably be an asshole too if I couldn't enjoy anything. How he managed to live like that for so long, I have no idea."

"Maybe it doesn't occur to you that if he doesn't have those abilities, then he probably never cared. Can't miss what you never had."

"Well, I've been trying to change that. Show him that yeah, killing is fun, but there's more to life than THAT." 

Another gulp and a moment of silence, as Gigan finished his drink and pushed the empty glass towards Scolopendra for a refill.

“Credit though, it was fun at first. Those throats of his, damn.”

“I don’t need to know the details.”

Gigan continued anyway. “He shoots lightning out of his mouth, and I tell you, that kind of energy made him feel real nice.”

“Gigan!”

“But it would be nice to fuck him properly. Maybe I can find a race that has the knowledge to do some surgery on him. Get a proper hole on him so I don’t have to keep making one myself. Heh.” A smirk came to his face. “Imagine that, get him custom-made just for me. Maybe throw in a stomach too.” He chuckled a bit but that died when he saw the look the centipede gave him. It wasn’t one he was expecting, scolding and with great disapproval. He maintained eye contact as he took a sip of his refilled drink. “What?”

“... What the fuck, Gigan?” Scolopendra started.

“What?” he responded with a defensive hiss.

“I asked not to hear about it, but... But what the fuck do you mean ‘keep making one myself’? What did you do?” Well, at last, the damn bug had interest in what he was saying, even if it was with obvious disgust.

“I told you. I made a hole. Between those legs.” The stinger of his tail clicked with emphasis and the look the centipede gave him was growing even more judgmental. It was enough to make him laugh. “Oh, stop acting like you care. If he were any other bitch, I would’ve done much worse. And had a free meal after.”

Scolopendra shook his head. “Would’ve actually preferred if you ate him like the rest of your ‘bitches’. Always made me feel better pretending it’s a legit hunting method of yours.”

“Eh, this job is making you soft, you’ll get over it,” the cyborg continued dismissively. “Anyway, the whole thing would’ve been fun, but apparently, the dragon couldn’t handle it. Damn thing passed out on me.”

“Passed out? Or died from fuckin’ being impaled?”

“Noooo,” Gigan drawled, taking another gulp. “He was still bleeding when I left.”

“Oh, okay, so he’s dying. Good to know, considering he’s the reason I’ve been giving you drinks in the first place. But now that he’s bleeding out...” 

Gigan gave him an unamused look, which Scolopendra met with his own. The moment of silence was thick before the cyborg gave one last gulp to finish his drink before slamming it back on the bar with force. “Fiiiine. I’ll go check on him.”

“You do that,” the centipede grumbled, just wanting any excuse for the cyborg to leave his establishment. “We’re also closing soon, so don’t bother coming back.” He watched the blue kaiju raise a blade in acknowledgement as he left before the centipede pulled out the communicator from beneath the bar. He pressed in a few buttons before speaking in a soft whisper.

“Hey, boss. Gigan, y’know, that idiot cyborg we banned? Yeah, he just left... Mhm... No, I told him to leave but he brought GHIDORAH in here... Yeah, THAT Ghidorah, how many Ghidorahs do you know? Now that monster knows our location, what now?” He nodded a couple of times before- “The Strawberry cloud?” He lets out an audible sigh. “I’ll get things packed up here.”

..............

“Huh? ..... Nothing’s wrong, I was just hoping we’d move to the Pineapple cloud instead... Wait, we can?”

For the first time since Gigan showed up, the centipede smiled.

-

What the actual hell was this?

Gigan glared at the sphere in front of him, and beyond, Ghidorah lying on the ground. He almost walked right into it and would’ve if it wasn’t for the red firey tendrils that pulsed through it alerting him to its presence. He lifted a claw and gave the sphere an experimental tap.

A spark courses up his blade and into the flesh of his arm and he flinched away. It actually wasn’t bad, although probably enough to kill off small species, like their old Masters. But it does nothing to discourage him, as his visor locks on the motionless form of the dragon. The fact that the dragon thought this would be enough to protect him; maybe from those tiny aliens, but definitely not from him. It was enough to push his irritation out of his mind to be replaced with smug amusement.

He’ll show him how useless this was.

Lifting his claw high, he struck the sphere with strength, sparks erupting from the impact. His other claw followed, slashing into the same spot to weaken it. He continues, increasing the amount of force with each blow until he can make out a crack.

A smirk grew on his beak, and his visor began to glow before a blast of his laser shoots at the weakened spot. On impact, the beam scattered into smaller extensions of itself, increasing the area of damage. It proved enough and the shield shattered. The red wisps of energy flung outwards, dissipating into the pink haze around them.

With a chuckle, his eye settled back onto the dragon lying in a puddle of his own blood. At least it looked as though all that twitching from earlier has stopped. Coming closer, he took notice that Ghidorah looked... thinner somehow. Yeah, he was definitely thinner, he can even make out the shape of the bones in his tails. Something was wrong, very wrong.

“Ghidorah, you awake?” Probably not, given the lack of a reaction to his precious forcefield being destroyed. Those six eyes were still open, still glassy and unfocused. Even those crests have lost their glow. He gave one of those faces a light kick with his foot. Nothing.

The damn thing doesn’t even breathe, so he couldn’t use that as a means to check for life. Does Ghidorah have a heart? A pulse to check? If he bleeds, he probably has some equivalent to such, right? He pulled up the files in his memory bank of what his Masters knew about the wyvern, but beyond the origin of his existence and the mind-control chip, they had nothing else. No anatomy, nothing.

It took a moment before Gigan abandoned his efforts to dig deeper, and he decided to test for life the only way he knew how. He kneeled down beside the dragon and with a blade, he sliced a cut through a patch of scales that was still free of blood-stains.

He scanned the wound for a few seconds before realizing, the dragon wasn’t bleeding.

....

Shit.

[strangcrdoctor]

∞So here’s a headcanon that I’ve been meaning to put into words for a long while but have never taken the time to. But I’m going to put it under a cut because it has to do with the details of Stephen’s accident and the medical trauma he survived therein.

This is specifically based off of the 2016 film (which I also think did a spectacular job of justifying the crash, btw - road conditions, model of car, impact points and all), but I’ll toss in a few cents about how comic iterations in previous generations might be different just for shits ad giggles and because I love shit like this. 

First and foremost, especially working from the earliest DS comic canon, the cars were of the age and variety of “screaming metal death-trap.” Seatbelts weren’t required by law in the 1960s, and in fact many cars didn’t even come with them from the manufacturers because they weren’t considered a safety requirement. Granted they were made of hard body steel and could take impacts well by virtue of being fucking tanks, but the tire quality and torque ratios were... not made for the speeds they could suddenly get to, which did top out at 80-110 mph (in luxury models) with suspensions that were not clement for sustaining speed and road grip at the same time. It was statistically common that even non-reckless driving could result in horrible injuries under the wrong circumstances, therefore. Add in a 1960s inflated male ego, and frankly it’s amazing Stephen didn’t just die. Which is the entire plot point, I’ll grant. I also headcanon that in that era (and even regarding modern Stephen’s collector’s dream cars) Stephen would likely have been in a Rolls Royce Phantom or a Cadillac Coupe de Ville. He would definitely have his eye on a Jaguar E-Type (still does), but back in the 1960s maintaining one would have been more trouble than it was worth even by his standards and budget.

All that aside, let’s talk about the crash in the 2016 Doctor Strange movie. First and foremost, the overall accident itself is totally feasible for the model of car Stephen was driving. Lamborghini and other luxury super-car manufacturers have exceedingly specific impact testing, which is focused - unfortunately - more for track condition impacts than civilian driving conditions. In essence, super cars are built to handle rolling and lateral shear impacts to frankly insane degrees. They are not, however, well built for head-on collisions by nature of the priority of aerodynamics in the design. This feeds into why the Lamborghini in particular was undoubtedly an active choice on behalf of the producers. What’s notable about the crash is that in spite of the glance off of the side of the other car, the Lamborghini stays relatively solidly on the road surface which is design accurate. (There’s actually an entire other tangent I could get off on about this, but I will refrain.) Where things go haywire, however, is where that glancing blow hit on the vehicle. Now with many super-car companies, they mount the engine in the “trunk” of the vehicle, which improves traction and opens up space for the frankly insanely large engine blocks that, oh, I don’t know, V12s require. This pushes the cabin toward the front of the vehicle, and leaves the “trunk” space on the front end where most standard cars keep the engine. This makes the front light, but because of air intake and drag it maintains traction via the aerodynamics of the front grille. The back also has improved traction from the weight of the engine sitting over the rear axel, which is a big additive benefit because most sports cars are rear-wheel drive, and in front-engine vehicles this makes the back axel lighter and prone to fish-tailing on tight corners. Not so with Stephen’s Lamborghini. In essence, the weight of the vehicle sits on the axel that bears the drivetrain.

That rear traction is precisely what makes everything go wrong for this particular crash. Because the weight of the vehicle and the wheel drive are all centered in the back, having that portion of the vehicle get bumped is like flicking a coin to get it spinning. The front end of the vehicle, which is substantially lighter and only has the steering column and brakes to counter the inertia of that rear engine, is abjectly disadvantaged for regaining control of the vehicle. Even the most experienced racer doesn’t have the reaction time to regain control on a two-lane mountain highway, in the rain, at night, from an accident that realistically takes less than 10 seconds from impact to exit through the guard rail. In essence, there was zero chance of Stephen being able to recover as soon as the front end of the vehicle impacted the rock wall and put the car’s trajectory onto “death frisbee” instead of “manageable swerve.” 

This is also the second instance where the super-car design seals Stephen’s fate. So because Lamborghinis have an empty front end - again the “trunk” is where the engine is on most other cars, so essentially empty, un-structured, un-reinforced space - head on collisions absolutely crush the front ends. This also explains and in fact makes viable why Stephen’s hands go through the dash in the compound impacts: the front end is getting folded in like a tin can.

Now we get to the dark and scary medical part of the accident. Obviously the accident was catastrophically bad considering the car careened off of a steep mountain slope and impacted all the way down until it reached the river at the bottom of the ravine. But as we saw from the post-accident scenes, Stephen’s injuries weren’t isolated to his hands only. As was made clear from the state of his face, he definitely had cranial trauma - to the point that it seems very lucky he didn’t lose his left eye - which involved contusions at least to the orbit of his left eye and very probably a concussion, and it seems all but impossible that he didn’t also have thoracic and potentially leg trauma as well. Thoracic either from directly impacting the steering column (which I find very likely), or impacting the door (feasible, and does feed into why I think his left hand is worse off than his right, given from the production stills his left hand has eight - five pins and three plates - of the eleven in his hands). He definitely would have had broken ribs and internal bruising or bleeding from those impacts. The leg injuries are also probable for drivers especially because of impact against the dash and steering column.

Now we start getting to the painful part. Yes, just now. So as Christine mentions after Stephen regains consciousness (probably not for the first time but probably the first time cogently), the “Golden Hours” passed while he was in the car waiting for the mercy flight crew to find him. Now, the Golden Hours is actually the Golden Hour - it’s the span of 60 minutes immediately following intense trauma and injury. So not only was Stephen upside down, in and out of consciousness, alone, half-submerged in a river, in a car that could blow at any moment, for more than an hour, it surpassed the hour that was most vital to his potential for nerve recovery. It’s also frankly astounding that Stephen didn’t die from shock, hypovolemia, or hypothermia during the hours it took for them to find him. I will also just mention in passing that jaws of life situations are touchy enough as is with cars, but with someone as injured as Stephen was, in the exceedingly precarious position his car was in, the emergency responders would have had a hard fucking time getting him out alive at all.

But wait, there’s more! So after all of this, he has to get flown back to New York where the actual work of saving his ass begins. And again, I will emphasize that it’s unavoidable that Stephen - who was canonically on the table for ELEVEN HOURS - was not only in surgery for his hands. As a matter of fact, medically his hands would have been the lesser of many priorities. They would have spent some preliminary time trying to make sure his circulation was intact, but to be frank, amputation is a safer, viable option for hands, and they would have openly made that choice on his behalf and prioritized any cranial or thoracic injury. Hell, even prioritize saving his eye, because the trauma of eye removal/optic nerve disruption has a greater chance for fatality than amputation. So Stephen’s hands didn’t just lose the Golden Hour, but would not have gotten operated on for up to three to five additional hours, and that’s under-estimating the complexity his other, higher priority traumas.

Put it all together and what do you get? A man that, by rights, shouldn’t be alive at all. And who, rather than valuing the life that he got to still have, held it against himself that he could no longer inhabit the life he’d had. 

Secondarily, in light of all of the above and the seven consecutive surgeries that Stephen put himself through, you can absolutely bet your lunch money that this man developed an addiction to pain medication. It takes the body up to six months to filter out anesthetic, and given Stephen surely pushed his surgery scheduling to be more quick than advisable for recovery, his endocrine system would have been in free fall. To say nothing of the fact that the only way to deal with that much invasive surgery isn’t just eating healthy and hydrating...

Also please never forget that Stephen’s intern, Billy, was on the phone with him when the crash happened. So Billy was absolutely the one that made the call, and was undoubtedly sitting there, watching the clock as the Golden Hour slipped by and Stephen’s chances of survival dwindled by the second.

Thank you for coming to my Ted Talk.∞

[ciriceart]

OC profiles: the Lawson family

From the now-defunct semi-interactive comic/creative writing projects, “Hunger, Nevada”, “Far From Any Road”, and “Saudade”.

The plot of these three stories cover topics and conflicts such as learning to relate to those around you, breaking toxic cycles, smalltown stagnation and the isolation of close-knit communities, and metaphorical (sometimes literal) body horror monsters that slowly poison towns and families. I wrote these stories from the ages of 14 to 21, and they're all very much a reflection of myself and my perspectives/outlook at those times. I still go back and revisit certain areas, but can't see myself rewriting them in full any time soon. I feel like that would be a disservice to my past self - I used these to sort out and explore my own feelings and hangups, and they served their purpose, but I still draw and talk about the boys more often than I expected I would when I drew my first doodle of Ellis and Lawrence in 8th grade detention. This post is just an infodump about the family of the main characters. I'm not getting into plot details just yet. Though it is worth noting, this was at the height of my Silent Hill hyperfixation, and Ellis and Lawrence began life as the protags of my imaginary Silent Hill fangame for which I made an entire gamefaqs walkthrough because I did not know how to write or draw too well. That doesn't really matter too much now, I just think it's fun.

The Lawson family consists of Francis (or Frank) and Amalia Lawson, and their two sons, Ellis and Lawrence.

Frank is a large man, about 6’3 with green eyes, short auburn hair,  and a beard. His skin is somewhat pale but has a minor farmer’s tan from working outdoors, and there’s a spatter of freckles across his entire face. He sometimes wears rectangular half-frame glasses and uses a walking stick.

Amalia is about 5’4 and stocky, with dark brown, almost black hair cut in the patented Mom Bob(tm) with bangs and dark eyes. Her face is somewhat oblong with round, soft features and her skin is a warm mid-to-light brown.

Ellis ranges in age from 17 to 26 across plots. His facial structure favors his father. He’s about 5’10,  has very light brown skin, freckles on his face, arms, chest and shoulders, dark eyes and auburn hair. As a teenager, his hair reaches to about his jaw with an off-center part, and he keeps it short and parted on the side as he gets older. He usually at least attempts to comb his hair back but half of it just falls back in front of his face anyway. Sometimes sports various non-serious injuries such as scratches and bruises. He’s rough-and-tumble.

As a teen, most of his outfits consist of torn up jeans, skater shoes, and a plethora of graphic or band tees. Sometimes an old flannel stolen from dad, or black canvas jacket. As an adult, he wears mostly intact but faded black work pants, black or brown work boots, a plain T-shirt and often an unbuttoned overshirt with either short sleeves or the sleeves rolled up.

Lawrence also ranges in age across stories, from 9 to 17. His facial structure favors his mother. He has pale skin, freckles across his cheeks and the bridge of his nose, green eyes, and auburn hair in a short, choppy buzzcut that he later grows out to reach past his shoulders as he gets into his teens. As a child, he’s very short and scrappy, and then becomes gangly and awkward as a teenager.

As a child, his wardrobe is typically all childish graphic tees and cargo shorts or jeans, all picked out by his parents. As he gets older, he becomes introverted and shy, always covering himself up in an absurd number of layers – he's often seen wearing a short-sleeved shirt with long sleeves underneath, either a flannel or sweater, and a massively oversized forest green jacket with a red fleece collar. He usually sticks to plain, slightly baggy jeans and sneakers.

--

Frank and Amalia married in their mid to late 20’s and moved to Frank’s hometown of Ansley, [state redacted].

Frank works in a hardware store and as a repairman. Some years ago, Frank suffered a spinal injury, resulting in chronic pain and his use of a walking stick. He still works at the hardware store and takes repair jobs, though he’s unable to work as often or for as long as he used to.

Ellis drops out of high school in the second quarter of 11th grade to work full-time at the hardware store and begins picking up smaller repair jobs around town. Lawrence, being much younger, is not employed but occasionally does smaller tasks such as sweeping up or organizing shelves after closing hours, or tagging along with his brother or dad on repair jobs to help where he can.

Amalia works at a packing and shipping facility in the city. She works overnight, six days a week with Mondays off. She’s usually home about an hour before her sons have to get up for school. Amalia’s pack a day smoking habit and Frank’s temper are the subjects of most conflicts, but they never progress past passive aggressive remarks or heated discussions. The family occasionally relies on financial help from a man named Mike, whose family has been friends with Frank’s for several years, to make ends meet. He’s often the reason that their heat and water stay on.

The Lawsons are a practicing family of Amicists. They regularly attend service at The First Church of the Shoal United in the next town over. More on Amicism at a later date.

Ellis has a lot of pent up resentment toward authority figures and “grown-ups” in general, even into his own adulthood, due to Backstory Reasons I won’t get into here.

James, Marie, Robin, and Brian are Ellis’ friends from high school. They mostly sit around smoking pot and watching bad movies, sneak out to drink at the park after curfew, and attempt to skate in vacant parking lots.

James was held back in middle school and is one or two years older than the rest of the group. Most parents in town still call him Jimmy and think he’s a very nice boy. If asked to describe him, his long line of ex-girlfriends would say “he’s so nice, but GOD he’s so dumb.” Marie was closer to Robin and James than she was to Ellis, so they didn’t hang out outside of the group at all. She thought Ellis was kinda weird, but not a “bad weird” so she never mentioned it or complained. Robin is that sort of midwestern emo girl in everyone’s math class who’s an artist, but all she draws is semi realistic eyes with elaborate eyeliner in her English notes. She regularly gets into arguments with Ellis and James on what genre different bands count as. Brian is the obvious stoner friend who would be kinda chill to hang out with if he weren’t so loud and annoying about how his parents totally don’t even care and just like, totally let him do whatever he wants.

Dropping out of high school to work a fulltime job, having no interest in college, minimal relationship experience, and staying in such a small and rural town leads to Ellis becoming socially isolated and unable to fully relate with people his own age. He slowly falls out of touch with his friends and people he knew from school, preferring surface level interactions with older coworkers, relatives and friends of the family.

Lawrence, as a result of his older brother’s attempt at parenting while Frank and Amalia are working, learns to be untrusting and uncooperative as well. He picks up a smoking habit by age 14, often stealing them from Ellis or from their mom's purse when she’s home, and sneaks out of his and Ellis’ shared bedroom through the window at night.

Lawrence is a nice kid, but struggles to make friends. Throughout all of middle school and into high school, he only manages to befriend two others named Catherine and Donnie.

Donnie is Brian’s little brother. He and Lawrence aren’t actually friends, but they tend to tag along when Ellis and Brian hang out at each other’s houses. Catherine has known Lawrence since they were in third grade, but they never hung out until they got put in the same advanced math class in middle school.

As he gets older, Lawrence begins to neglect his few friendships and social life in favor of fiction; most notably stories and unfiction focusing on the occult and supernatural, as well as a video game series called Sprout Friends, a puzzle game involving farming and anthropomorphic fruits and vegetables. If he isn’t hiding out on the rooftop of the house at night, he’s locked in the bedroom playing one of multiple Sprout Friends titles, or hunting for strange occurrences around town during the night.

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Fun fact: Ellis' middle name is Layne, and Lawrence's middle name is Elijah. I thought it would be cute if their middle names had the same first letters as each other's firsts.