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thefandomenchantress · 2 months ago

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So everyone's talking about the new episode right now. Understandably so, since it had so much new evidence! In fact, I'm going to talk about it as well. However, instead of focusing on the bombshells David dropped or Levi's secret, I'm going to do what I do best: Focus on Ace and ignore literally everything else. /hj

(Spoilers for Chapter 2, Episode 12!)

All joking aside, I'm sure you're wondering what the hell I'm talking about. Ace literally said, like, five lines of dialogue this episode. And yeah, you're right. Actually, that sort of ties into what I'm talking about.

Okay, time to explain. The thing I want to talk about is this: Ace is weirdly...Not as confrontational as usual this episode? Let me show what I mean through examples.

What's so special about this moment? Well, strangely enough, it's what comes after it.

Now, when I first watched the episode I laughed and thought, "Oh, someone insulted Ace, now Ace is going to be angry" and then they never cut back to him being angry. They just said that (admittedly very funny) line and moved on.

And after it happened, I didn't think too much of it. I was far too consumed by the episode's greatness to care too much, and Ace's reaction wasn't necessary for the scene anyway.

These two lines aren't as strong for what I'm trying to say, so I'll lump them together.

But I thought it was worth mentioning that in the first photo, Ace joins in with Nico and Levi on saying Arturo should've been better at his job. But after Arturo scolds the three of them, as well as everyone else by extension, it only cuts back to Nico and Levi. Which is fine, it can be assumed that since Ace's comment was a late addition, shorter, and didn't have too much substance, him not getting a reaction makes sense (I mean he's not the one who got called a whore like Jesus Christ Arturo--).

In the second photo, Hu tells Ace to stop blaming Nico because they have an airtight alibi, and Ace...Just shuts up. Nico complains about being interrupted and they move on to other people's alibis (or more like the lack thereof). Which sorta makes sense, Ace can't really refute her point because he can't prove she didn't have breakfast with Nico. Then again, he could've made a point to say no one can prove they did have breakfast together, since they were in private, but still. Maybe Ace is too scared to seriously argue with Hu after that slap, haha.

It's this last example that actually made me notice that there may be anything resembling a pattern here:

During this part of the episode, I was immediately reminded of J's line about Ace being incapable of being quiet and expected Ace to refute her point. After all, it's basically the same as refuting her earlier point. He just has to say that he's not always spontaneously combusting every 5 seconds like she thinks again. He's not a grenade launcher in a glass house. More like a small batch of fireworks, thank you very much.

But Ace doesn't say anything. This is only made more obvious by Charles immediately cutting off the conversation there.

And this moment made me think something. Keep in mind I could be totally overthinking this an unnecessary amount, but that's what most of theories end up being anyway.

Since the conversation is immediately ended by Charles, DRDTdev could've ended J and Ace's interaction off with Ace trying to insult her back, maybe him going "Listen here, you--" before Charles cuts them off because they have a trial they need to finish. But DRDTdev decided to not make Ace have any reaction whatsoever to this insult, at least not one the audience can see. And based on how loud and opinionated Ace is, I'm guessing that if the comment did make him have an extreme reaction, we definitely would have heard him say as much. But we don't.

I think what makes all this so weird to me is that whenever someone is condescending to Ace, usually he's very upset and it shows. In trial 1, we see him be one of the few to cave pretty quick to the idea that they were wrong and that Teruko isn't the culprit. Yet when Whit says Charles isn't the culprit, Ace suddenly feels very strongly about it, because Whit actively talked down to him about it, (I think Whit said something like "use your big boy words" but I'm too lazy to rewatch the whole trial to find it) and now Ace doesn't want to agree with him (Or at least that was how I interpreted it, he's so petty I love him). So you'd think he'd be more resistant against those who kept making comments about his intelligence or demeanor, but so far, he hasn't.

That could mean two things. One, he's the culprit and is trying to at least vaguely avoid unnecessary confrontation and bringing attention to himself. But honestly, I doubt even that would stop Ace from impulsively insulting people back.

The second option is this:

My first thought and explanation in my head for this connects to Ace's overall arc. Let's recall Ace's secret quote:

"I don't know what to do with myself anymore"

This line gives off a sense of hopelessness. Like Ace has completely given up on everything.

And for some reason, a couple of the moments above made me feel, at least slightly, the same thing. If Charles says Ace is so stupid he's never seen anyone more stupid ever before in his life and didn't think it scientifically possible for anyone to be that stupid? Ace has no response. If J says another line about Ace's explosive demeanor? Ace has no response.

I don't know, something about Ace just not bothering to refute them makes me feel that something is off. He complains that everyone sees him as an idiot and how he hates it earlier in the chapter. He seems so distressed as he does it, it's a full-on break down.

And yet, when people do exactly what he was talking about here, he can no longer muster up a response. It's like he's given up on changing their minds. He knows they think he's stupid, and impulsive, and intolerable, and he thinks there's nothing he can do about it anymore. Blowing up at them will only make them think they're right. So he's given up on doing anything at all.

I suppose my line of reasoning is that maybe small details like this will pile up over time, as Ace, unnoticeably at first, loses some of his fire bit by bit, until inside he's just...Empty. He doesn't know what to do. He's so tired, and he doesn't know anything that can help or distract him from his situation. And seeing as the secret quotes seem to embody a character's mindset at death...That seems to be the place Ace might die at. Perhaps even at his own hands, who knows.

Is that an overreaction on my part? Possibly. Am I overanalyzing microscopic details? Yes. But that's my job.

So anyways I really enjoyed this episode and Ace was great too! Yippee for the return of DRDT, and my Eden culprit idea not being completely debunked yet!

#i can find meaning in anything ace says if i try hard enough haha #i haven't seen new ace content in a year so its not surprising i immediately had thoughts #even if he barely did anything this episode #not a complaint too much focus on him and i'll start worrying he's the culprit (plot twist: i already am)#danganronpa despair time #drdt #drdt spoilers #ace markey #tw sui implied #(just that one sentence but just in case)

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physalian · 5 months ago

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The Dos and Don’ts of Giving and Receiving Constructive Criticism

Some of these should be painfully obvious and yet. They come from experience.

Receiving feedback:

Understand that a criticism of a character’s thoughts, actions, morality, and choices are likely not a criticism of you as an author, unless the character is an author insert

Understand that they are being paid to critique how successfully you told an entertaining story, not pander to your trauma dumping

Understand that critiquing a book’s success as an entertaining story means that how much you yourself connect with or love a character or scene or plotline is irrelevant if it doesn’t make a compelling narrative

You might have written your book for yourself. Your editor is a different person with their own human biases and perspectives. If you just want to pay someone to stoke your ego, make that 100% clear up front.

Stand up for yourself and clarify where necessary if some details were overlooked or if explaining outside the narrative can better contextualize anything confusing or lacking detail.

Stand up for yourself in what feedback you are expecting, and what degree of criticism you’re willing to endure. An editor can let more or less of their own views show depending on what you ask for.

Stand up for yourself if your editor delivers inadequate or useless feedback. You’re paying them for a job, and you deserve to have it done properly.

Try to separate dislike of a book from dislike of yourself. It’s not easy, but the goal is to fix your book that you’ve already spent a lot of time writing, and they’re only trying to help.

Remember that your author insert is subjected to the same level of criticism as any other character, and that you asked for this.

Keep an open mind and be prepared for feedback that you don’t like, because you can’t please everyone. Your editor should be able to tell you whether or not a scene or character, or plotline works separate from their own personal tastes.

Don’t

Argue with your editor over their religiosity or lack thereof and insist that adhering to genre expectations means they “worship the god of [genre]”. (really, argue with your editor over anything like this, e.g. their own sexuality, religiosity, gender, socioeconomic status).

Argue with your editor while still expecting more work from them as if your aggression will in any way positively impact their perception of your book.

Insult your editor’s intelligence for not understanding your jargon and attempts to sound smarter than you are.

Get mad when your editor sees right through your BS and calls it like they see it, specifically your self-insert Mary Sue protagonist.

Insist that the solution to better understanding your book is for that editor to do extensive homework on your niche topic. If it’s a niche book for niche audiences, hire an editor who’s already knowledgeable about that niche topic.

Equate a bad review and opinion of the book with unprofessionalism. These can overlap, but they are not interchangeable.

Forget that your book is probably meant for leisure and entertainment, and your audience is under no obligation to read “until it gets good,” when they can go do literally anything else. Your first job is to entertain, if you write fiction.

Giving Feedback:

Pay attention to your client’s wants and needs and expectations. If they’re more sensitive to bad feedback, do your best and stay as objective as possible. You can’t please everyone, either.

Helpful feedback includes an explanation of why an element needs work and how it can be improved. Saying “I hate this” with nothing else helps no one and just makes the author feel bad with no direction of how to make it better.

Communicate beforehand how much of your own personality your author wants from you. Do they like personal opinions and your personal reactions to the text, or do they want it as impersonal as possible and solely focused on the structure of the narrative? This might avoid a mess.

Remember to leave notes of where things worked well to balance the criticism. Even a simple “this is good” highlighting a line or a paragraph or two helps keep authors motivated to keep writing. I firmly believe that no book is completely unsalvageable.

Make it painfully clear with no room for debate that criticism of a character is not criticism of the author, unless it's an author insert, in which case the author absolutely asked for it.

Make it clear that you are just one person and these are all suggestions, not laws.

Don’t

Let your own personal opinions cloud your judgment of whether or not someone with different tastes could enjoy the book.

Unless given permission, get too personal with the narrative and reach beyond what’s written on the page.

Do more than what you’re paid for. You’re an editor, not a therapist for the writer’s trauma dumping.

Forget to wrap up all your thoughts in a condensed format that the author can reference, as opposed to endlessly scrolling through the manuscript trying to summarize your points for you.

Walk away with absolutely nothing positive to say about the manuscript. Even if it’s awful on every front, the writer still tried and that deserves merit.

This is from my personal experience beta and sensitivity reading, and dealing with other beta and sensitivity readers. We are all human and these jobs are not one-size-fits-all and there aren’t really hardline rules as every author, editor, and manuscript is different with different needs.

Just some things to keep in mind.

But also, for the authors who do write self-insert Mary Sues: You are in for a very rude awakening if you expect anyone other than yourself to adore your book with zero criticism. If you really just want someone to proofread and look for typos, tell them.

#writing advice #writing #writing resources #writing a book #writing tools #writing tips #writeblr #editing #feedback #constructive criticism #how to give feedback #dos and donts

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marzipanandminutiae · 11 months ago

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Rating the Femme en Noir Crimson Peak collection when I should be going to bed (it's not ALL critical, actually!)

no judgment at all to people who like the collection. nothing can achieve higher than a 7/10 because it's all synthetic. let's get into it

Edith Victorian Gown in Ivory

...yeah! that's basically Edith's nightgown copied exactly, so it's a 7/10 from me

2. Lady Lucille Victorian Dress With Capelet In Teal

What. um. What does this have to do with anything Lucille wears? It's blue velvet and it's a dress; there the similarities end. Why is there a ruffly capelet? That's something Edith wears, not Lucille. Why are there leg-o-mutton sleeves? Why is there no trim whatsoever? (that last is to become a running theme.) 3/10.

3. Allerdale Moth Wallpaper Babydoll Dress in Olive

There's a longer version, and were it a natural fabric, I'd be tempted to buy it and alter it into a blouse and over-skirt or something. This one is honestly pretty cute, though I forget what part of the house this wallpaper appears in. 7/10.

4. Edith Victorian Knit Cardigan in Olive

I get that they want to modernize these things for their target audience, but the original being SO much more fitted and sumptuous-looking just makes this one look sad. It's like Wish.com Edith. 5/10 for at least keeping the little velvet pumpkins.

5. Ghost Shoulder Bag

If this were leather, I would buy it. Not a huge fan of Margaret being the ghost on the front, though- I feel like Enola or Eleanor would be more photogenic. Poor Margaret. 6/10 though they're lucky I don't take points off for calling it "vegan leather" in the description. Be honest- it's plastic.

6. Belladonna Maxi Dress in Crimson Red

This is just an existing product of theirs But In Red. Pretty, but 4/10 for lack of effort.

7. Lady Mourning Victorian Gown in Black

It's the nightgown in black with a sash. Try harder. 3/10 and I'm skipping any color repeats labeled as different dresses from here on out.

8. Mourning Victorian Bonnet in Black

You know what? Yeah. Sure! That's a cute bonnet. Good job. 7/10.

9. Lace Mourning Scarf Veil in Black.

You can get a yard of nylon chantilly lace for less than $28, pretty as this looks. 5/10.

10. Victorian Cycling Pullover Sweater in Black

I mean. I guess. What does this have to do with Crimson Peak, exactly? Why is "Lucille" wearing puffed sleeves when, again, her clothing being tight has so much character logic behind it? It's a mystery. 5/10.

11. Victorian Velvet Bustle Skirt in Black

This didn't photograph well, but it appears to have some cool pleat details. I don't like 19th-century skirts getting shortened, but that's more a matter of personal preference than reaction to movie inspiration or lack thereof. 6/10.

12. Taffeta Edwardian Blouse in Marigold

This comes in multiple colors, but I picked the marigold because it illustrates that Wish.com effect once again.

The OG bodice from the movie that they're clearly trying to evoke. It has DETAIL! it has TRIM! It has LUSH FABRIC! And obviously you can't do that with a mass-produced piece, but ye gods, why would you set yourself up for failure by trying? If they hadn't gone for the look of a specific movie costume, their blouse wouldn't look disappointing by comparison. 5/10

13. Wicker Tilt Hat With Black Veil

Once again I feel they shot themselves in the foot here. It's cute! But it suffers by trying to be something that was better in the movie.

Not great by comparison; it's TOO close without going all the way. 6/10 because it is cute, though.

[skipped a bunch more veils and some lace mitts, which were cute but have nothing to do with How Well Or Poorly The CPeak Inspiration Was Executed In My Opinion]

14. Victorian Hands Belt in Silver

THIS IS NOT THE CRIMSON PEAK HAND BELT. THIS IS NOT EVEN TRYING TO BE THE CRIMSON PEAK HAND BELT. DO YOU KNOW WHAT THIS IS?

IT IS THIS 1970S BELT- WHICH, LIKE THE ONE IN THE MOVIE, IS NOT BASED ON ANY VICTORIAN ORIGINAL THAT I'M AWARE OF -THAT HAS BEEN COPIED 50000 TIMES. DO YOURSELF A FAVOR AND WAIT FOR CUTTLE AND BONE TO HAVE ANOTHER PREORDER OF ACTUAL CPEAK HAND BELTS. 0/10.

Conclusion: Not all bad, but I feel like I actually would have gone in a more modern direction with the resources and limitations of this collection. You're never going to be as good as the movie costumes at their own game, not with mass-manufactured pieces. So why set yourself up for failure? Bringing the characters, themes, and motifs to a yet-unexplored time and place (with some Victwardian touches, of course!) seems like it would have been a better way to go about this, IMO.

Also stop being allergic to trim when you're taking inspiration from a movie with oodles of passementerie and beadwork and lace all over everything.

5/10 overall.

#long post #fashion #crimson peak #also for the love of everything can we get some natural-fiber clothes that AREN'T beige linen?#Gothic Natural Fiber Attire When!!!

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sgiandubh · 9 months ago

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The missing link

You do not watch the show or have stopped doing so for a long time.

You don't even like it.

You did not read the books.

You do not like the characters. Or, at least, one character.

You do not like the actors. Or, at least, one of the leads.

This person is probably guilty for everything going wrong in this world.

In your humble opinion, this person lacks talent. You do not understand how this person got any opportunity, in their entire life.

This person lacks intelligence, class, empathy and even beauty.

Them getting a part in a successful production was a glitch in the matrix.

This person is a liar and a crook. You never fell for this person's dark schemes and you tell everyone about it.

This person has no future in their chosen career, because you analyzed every single thing about them and it lead you to this conclusion.

You have never met that person face to face. Yet you somehow feel they personally wronged you.

At the same time, you follow every step and every breath of this person.

You are able to tell, with reasonable precision, where this person is (and sometimes even with who), at any given time.

You make compilations of your observations and keep records and tabs accordingly, for future reference.

You are able to detect this person's presence in rough footage or other people's more or less private reels. You actively engage with these people and sometimes get permission to use those reels.

You post those reels on the Internet for public consumption, without the prior consent of the person featured in them.

You sometimes engage with this person's entourage, asking them private questions, in public.

You post legal documents, publicly available but meant only for private use, on the Internet, in order to make a point.

You are an expert in areas that have nothing to do with your own chosen profession and have adamant opinions on everything ranging from how to properly prepare a cocktail to legal matters.

This person's sexual orientation, as determined by you, is of paramount importance in order to understand and judge this person's professional achievements and ethics. Or lack thereof.

When challenged, or even just questioned about your endeavors, you resort to bullying and victimization.

People doing so have a personal problem with you. They are evil, stupid and paranoid lunatics and boors.

You send hateful Anons to these people on the regular, in the hope you will manage to undermine their confidence and make them disappear.

You use several sock accounts or proxies in order to read and/or interact with the person(s) you feel you have a personal problem with.

You sometimes post music with lyrics expressing your true (violent) sentiments about a particular person or group of persons, but do not admit to it. It is a #coincidence or reflective of a particular #mood.

You regularly make these people responsible for everything, exaggerating their reactions and twisting their arguments.

You prompt your audience to do the same.

You are never wrong and have trouble admitting it.

You did nothing of the above or, if you did some of the above, you did it for the public good.

....

Excuse me, but I am surely missing something, here.

This is not about a particular person and clearly aims to paint a collective portrait. All of the above come in many shapes and forms.

It is what it is.

#fandom #shitshow

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cellarspider · 8 months ago

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14/30 Gnosis, and lack thereof

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We return to the movie that could’ve been a contender, Prometheus. In this episode, a two-year-old poisons a man.

I’m not alone in thinking David is the most well-realized character in this movie. Michael Fassbender was given the most space to act through expression and reaction to others and his environment, which helps create an android character that has much more inner life than his human castmates. He also gets what I’d call the Data bonus: android characters can more easily get away with screamingly clunky exposition or explicitly stating the meaning of a scene. You can give them absolute gibberish if you want to, and it sounds perfectly logical when they say it.

youtube

[Video description: A small selection of technobabble from Star Trek: The Next Generation, mostly featuring Data.]

David is also the easiest to be sympathetic to, because people keep being assholes to him.

Yes, David has received mysterious orders from a mysterious man who’s still in stasis. It’s Peter Weyland. It’s obviously Peter Weyland, this is why David has the dream-reading helmet thing that felt so out of place at the start of the movie. This is also why Guy Pierce, a 45-year-old, was hired to play an infinity-year-old man. Weyland was going to appear as his ideal self in one of these dream sequences, but it was cut from the movie. So instead, we just have Vickers demanding to know what “he” wants, and the answer is “Try harder”.

Peter Weyland, beginning a trend for the company bearing his name, has an obsession with this alien stuff. …This trend was actually begun by Charles Bishop Weyland in a completely different continuity that also featured ancient alien contact with Earth, but hey, details. This Weyland wants results, damn it, and David gets an excuse to kill one of the crew.

Although it’s not quite that simple. The movie indicates that David can’t go against orders from the company, especially from Weyland. He has to “try harder”, and he’s brought back one of those alien urns that apparently nobody cares to examine but him.

It’s got a goth lava lamp in it.

While we don’t get much indication David knows why this stuff is dangerous to organic life, I’ll give the movie a very tiny pass: it’s implied that David has figured out how to read the Engineer’s cuneiform script. He decants a droplet of Menacing Black Goo onto his (Weyland-branded) fingertip, and sets off to find a test subject.

Thank god, he chooses Holloway.

I don’t like not liking characters. I don’t generally anticipate seeing someone’s comeuppance, but this movie gets me damn close to that feeling. In the movie’s partial defense, some of this was probably intended. Mainstream American fiction sets a high bar for what a bigot looks like, and Holloway’s been clearing that. I’m less certain the movie knows everyone’s behaving like a bigot, but we’ll get to that eventually. But Holloway? Definitely.

This creates a fairly interesting scene. One that even reaches towards good. David has the means to kill Holloway. The audience knows this. And we get to watch when he makes the decision to commit to it, and why. And, blessedly, it actually ties into an intentional theme of this movie.

Holloway’s still drunk and miserable–he’d previously muttered that the alien structure on the planet was “just another tomb.”

I, speaking hyperbolically, would consider that grounds enough to off him. He’s an archaeologist who can be sent into a drinking binge by finding a thing made by dead people. An archaeologist. That in itself is such a ridiculous indicator of how unfit this character is for his role.

But no, he wanted to meet his maker, “To get answers.” Sure, lots of people have existential questions they feel are important to them. That is understandable. Even clueless assholes can wonder about that. But it takes an especially hubristic asshole to decide they’re the one worthy of asking someone who might have the answer.

Did anybody notice they didn’t bring any diplomats or orators on this trip? They didn’t bring any cultural exchange gifts with them when they approached the alien structure? They weren’t treating the Engineers as people, just something to discover.

David, someone else they’re not treating like people, asks Holloway “Why do you think your people made me?”, and the answer he gets is “Because we could.” David is quietly but openly disappointed in that.

This is the whiplash of this movie. We have the biggest bunch of shambolic assholes klutzing around, waiting to get killed off by the plot, and then we have David expressing the horror of Valentinian gnosticism.

In brief, because even the wikipedia page says “The theology [...] is extremely complicated and difficult to follow”, the strain of Christian gnosticism expressed by the 2nd century theologian Valentinus believes that the world was created by an ignorant being. They believed there was a benevolent god out there which was/produced Jesus, but the “demiurge” (lit. “craftsman”) who created the world was not this deity. The demiurge was an imperfect, lesser being, that believed itself to be the supreme god of the universe. In Valentinianism, as with other gnostic schools, to be born into the world was to be trapped within a creation of a creature that was prone to fits of abusive behavior.

Gnostic christianity was, at the time, an attempt to square a number of contradictory ideas: the incredibly influential ideas of Plato on the formation of the universe, the growing theology of the new Christian movement, and the examples of divine wrath and jealousy in Jewish scripture, that were hard to square with what early Christians saw as a less violent deity they wanted to worship. There were probably also some anti-Jewish Egyptian myths thrown in as well, depicting their god as a donkey-headed incarnation of the malevolent deity Set. Some may recognize that particular slander from its deployment against early Christians, including our first-ever depiction of Jesus’ crucifixion: a rude bit of graffiti.

In our time, there’s only one remaining gnostic (non-christian) religion with direct continuity to the period, the Mandaeans. Christian gnosticism was deemed heretical, when one of the many different gospels circulating at the time was selected as orthodox in the 4th century, along with an attendant theology. But it remains a fertile ground for philosophers, fiction-writers, and every once in a while someone reinvents bits of it when they hit upon contradictions in christian thought.

The latter seems to be the case with Ridley Scott. He’s sometimes described as an atheist, but his actual statements on the matter show he’s either casually gnostic or a deist, very much influenced by christian doctrine:

“If we looked at the whole thing practically speaking, the Big Bang occurred and then we go through this evolution of millions, billions of years where, by coincidence, all the right biological accidents came out the right way. To an extent, that doesn't make sense unless there was a controlling decider or mediator in all of that. So who was that? Or what was that? Are we one big grand experiment in the basic overall blink of the universe, or the galaxy? In which case, who is behind it?”

https://www.bbc.co.uk/films/callingtheshots/ridley_scott.shtml

Tangent: that question came right after he’s quoted as saying “I think there's no originality [in modern films]. I think everyone is stealing from everyone else and going back to the originals. I usually go in for 20 minutes and then get up and leave.” This interview was back in 2006. The next year he’d direct American Gangster (loosely based on a biography), then Body of Lies (Roger Ebert called it "a James Bond plot"), then Robin Hood (it’s Robin Hood), then Prometheus, the movie I only watched because it seemed to be in dialog with a film he directed in 1979. Buddy, if that was your problem, you were part of the problem.

But anyway. We have a director who had stated interest in a christian-influenced cosmogony: he seems to state a belief that we exist because we are supposed to exist, rather than being a random event. This is a movie where he does seem to be trying to do something with that. He is beginning with that premise, and using Alien as the shared language to express it. He doesn’t know why we exist, but he can imagine why we would make someone exist.

Placing that in amongst these characters is bleak to the point of puerility, frankly. Why would we create a being like us? Well, this one asshole doesn’t know.

David, at this point in Prometheus, has already determined that humans are fallible creators. Hell, he’s decided the Engineers were also failable. He, y’know, witnessed how gooey one of their corpses was. But he’s yet to decide on whether humans are just ignorant, trying and failing to be good–as per Valentinus–or if they’re actively malevolent.

The fact that David doesn’t poison Holloway’s drink until just before handing it over does neatly show that he was quietly given a chance to answer that question. Holloway continues to be a jackass and, when asked what he’d do to answer the existential question he wanted to pose to the Engineers, he says he’d do “anything and everything”.

The movie eventually treats Peter Weyland as especially deluded in his self-serving quest to get the Engineers to answer his more selfish questions, but I don’t think his ego was unique in this movie.

On our journey into the movie this time, Prometheus has attempted to grapple with subjects its script hasn’t earned. Next time, it incorporates imagery it hasn’t earned. It’s worse than this scene, but in a far more subtle way.

If you want a neat look on european and middle eastern mysticism from an academic standpoint, Esoterica is a pretty damn good channel, put together by a self-described “dialectical materialist in the tradition of Structural Marxism”. I’ll happily take recommendations on other academic sources aimed at the general audience.

https://youtu.be/7EwRD6SzXws

https://st-takla.org/Feastes-&-Special-Events/Coptic-Nativity-of-Jesus-Christ-Milad-El-Masih/Coptic-Jesus-Incarnation-Christmas-03-Incarnation-of-the-Word-Book.html

https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Masbuta

https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Drabsha

https://www.deviantart.com/pretty--kittie/art/Prometheus-Engineer-407322241

https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Archon_(Gnosticism)

https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Sethianism

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#Prometheus 2012 #Prometheus (2012)#I've been threatening to go on a ramble about gnostic philosophy since the start of this movie #it's finally happened #I'm not a scholar of this stuff #but neither is Ridley Scott

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noir-fem · 5 months ago

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daisy's thoughts on *that* scene

SPOILER WARNING!! I'M ABOUT TO YAP ABOUT HOTD SEASON TWO, SPECIFICALLY BLOOD AND CHEESE!!

DO NOT READ IF YOU DON'T WANT SPOILERS!!!

the scene itself

obviously, the show couldn't adapt B&C verbatim without traumatizing child actors in the process, so i'm happy that certain changes were made and that the actual murder happened off screen. i still think they could have kept small details that made it so horrific in the books without hurting child actors though.

the problem is mainly within the writing because there's really no build up. there's no scenes of Helaena being loving with her kids beforehand, no slaughtering of guards or bed maids to make Blood and Cheese look scarier, nothing that builds an impending sense of dread. also B&C being confused/low key cartoonish villains didn't help. these guys are supposed to know the Red Keep's secret pathways like the back of their hand; showing how intruders could get into the keep so easily definitely would have made the scene scarier.

also making B&C into a "misunderstanding " and having Aemond be the original target completely downplays the most evil thing the Blacks ever did and further shows that the writers are unashamedly biased towards the Blacks. the main message of the story is that both sides were war criminals who did awful things!! the senseless cruelty of targeting a toddler for something he had no role in was literally the point of B&C!!

i get that maelor doesn't exist yet, but they still could have done "a son for a son" and kept Helaena being forced to choose between her kids. one person on here suggested having her point to Jaehaera in order to spare Jaehaerys (the heir to the throne), but B&C killing Jaehaerys instead. i think something like that would have kept the psychological torture of having to choose and could still have been done without scaring child actors.

overall, if the writers were trying to out-do the Red Wedding in terms of horror, it didn't work. What made the Red Wedding so terrifying in the first place was the psychological aspects of it and all the tiny clues the audience was given beforehand, the small details telling the viewers that something bad is coming.

that being said, the show's adaptation of B&C still captured the horror of a child being murdered in front of his mother without showing it/being gratuitous. they did an amazing job with just letting you hear the sounds and leaving the rest to the imagination.

in conclusion: r.i.p. sweet baby jaehaerys. daemon targaryen, your days are numbered.

Helaena's reaction (or, rather, lack thereof)

i didn't properly understand/appreciate Helaena's reaction to B&C until i saw other people's takes and rewatched the scene for myself.

at first, i would have liked to see some sort of desperation like there was in the books (like Helaena begging and offering her life). HOWEVER, book!helaena and show!helaena are obviously gonna have some differences, especially with show!Helaena being a dreamer. and with her being coded as autistic/neurodivergent, her reaction makes total sense to something that i myself would do.

say it with me: there is no "right" or "wrong" way to react to trauma!! your brain is literally just doing whatever it has to do to get you out of that situation, and that looks different for everyone. a lot of people freeze or fawn! it doesn't mean that they're "emotionless" or unaffected by what's happening!!

now looking at it, Helaena's silent shock and horror were more gut wrenching to watch than any amount of screaming or begging imo. she's probably already seen this happen in her visions and knows that there's nothing she can do to stop it: all she can do is get herself and Jaehaera out of there. her resigned facial expression, her eyes, her quiet little pleas as she's carrying Jaehaera, her literally dissociating in order to get her and her daughter out of the situation and clinging onto her baby for dear life. Phia's acting was incredible and i believe she did her best with what the writers gave her.

now lastly....

the alicole scene

why???? just WHY????

look i'm all for alicent and criston being hypocrites and alicent finally getting to experience pleasure, but having helaena walk in on her and criston RIGHT after watching her son get brutally murdered.... i don't even need to say any more about this. nobody needs to explain why that is a bad writing choice.

my opinions on the show's take on B&C will likely change depending on how they handle helaena and alicent's reactions to it later on in the series. might even dabble in writing fics and drop my own take on this storyline sometimes hehe.

in conclusion, somebody PLEASE take Helaena's pain, quadruple it, and give it to daemon NOW.

#house of the dragon #team green #helaena targaryen #pro helaena targaryen #pro helaena and her kids being safe and happy #anti blood and cheese

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livsoulsecrets · 5 months ago

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Francesca&Benedict Fic

@fandom-free-bingo Prompt from Pride Edition Prompt: Hearts before parts

Fandom: Bridgerton (TV)

Rating: Teen and Up Audiences

Warnings: Discussion of internalized homophobia and period-typical homophobia

Summary: When Benedict accidentally finds out about Francesca and Michaela’s relationship, she fears he will turn away from her. Benedict comforts her the best way he can.

“For so long, I thought there weren’t others like me. I believed something was fundamentally wrong with me. Like a piece of my soul was missing,” she confessed.

Benedict’s face contorted into a painful grimace. “Oh, dear. You couldn’t be more complete if you tried. The human nature is vast, as I’ve learned. Do not trap your heart in a cage others have built for you.”

Read on AO3.

When she was eleven, Francesca once spent an entire afternoon attempting to count exactly how many cobblestones made up the entrance to the Bridgerton house.

She had crouched down, watching the floor closely as she tried not to lose count. Her mom had found her just like that, with her pristine beige dress turned dark brown by the dirt and her tiny hands dancing over the stones as she mumbled numbers over her breath.

In that exact moment, she would have preferred to be back in her home’s entryway, knees scratching against the hard floor, rather than having this conversation with Benedict.

Her brother cleared his throat.

“I’m so sorry, Francesca,” he started. “I did not mean to pry. I believed you were alone when I walked in. I truly only meant to call you downstairs for tea.”

Francesca remained silent, her face growing even hotter at each word out of Benedict’s mouth.

“I did not know Michaela was here and that the two of you were… Preoccupied.”

Francesca hid her face behind her hands, avoiding Benedict’s gaze.

“I shall let you know I have seen Anthony and Colin in much worse predicaments.”

“That is not helpful in the slightest,” she finally said.

She heard Benedict pull a chair to sit closer to her. Francesca could feel his eyes burning into her.

“You must not tell anyone what you saw, Benedict,” she begged, stealing a glance at her brother through the crack of her fingers.

He nodded emphatically. “Of course. I will not say a word to anyone.”

Very slowly, she lowered her hands. “You will not?”

He nodded in response.

“Not even Mama?”

Benedict smiled—his troublesome, crooked grin. “Have I ever told her a secret you asked me to keep before? To this day, she does not know who broke our great-aunt Cynthia’s vase.”

He then pressed a hand to his heart and said earnestly, “May she rest in peace.”

Francesca smiled sheepishly. She didn’t know how to feel about Benedict’s reaction—or lack thereof—after he accidentally witnessed her and Michaela exchanging a kiss, but he somehow managed to make her feel at ease once more.

Francesca willed her hands to stop shaking and gathered her courage to ask, “Are you mad at me?”

Benedict’s eyes widened, and he shook his head immediately. “I can assure you, I’m not.”

She continued as if he had said nothing at all. “You constantly hide behind your charm and wit to avoid conflict. If you wish to share your disagreement, I would rather you do it now rather than pretend all is fine.”

Benedict sighed heavily. “I am not pretending, by any means. I swear.”

She blinked a few times, attempting to stop any tears from escaping. “I do not understand. I recall the way you looked at me when you realized what was happening—like you did not even know who I was.”

“That is not what it was. Not even remotely, Francesca.”

“Then, what was it?”

Benedict remained uncharacteristically quiet for a moment, his body completely still. It was a sight so completely opposed to all her brother represented that it scared her.

“I was merely surprised, sister.” He said finally, releasing a deep breath. “I simply did not expect there to be someone else like me in the family.”

“Someone like you?” She echoed, dizzy with shock. “You are also…”

Benedict cringed at the approach of such a sensitive topic with his own sister, clearly at a loss for words, but her brother was nothing if not stubborn.

He straightened up and pondered for a moment before continuing to talk.

“You see, it took me a long time to fully grasp it, but I came to realize I value one’s heart more than their… Parts, for the lack of a better word.”

He understood how difficult it was to face that journey alone. Perhaps that was why he powered through this difficult conversation, despite the unspoken rules that forbade them from ever doing so.

“It was a very lonely and sometimes terrifying journey. But I had a good friend who was willing to help me through it. I would like to be that friend for you now, my sister. For you shall not fear; there is not a thing wrong with you.”

“You promise?” She whispered.

Francesca felt like an annoying and devoted little sister again, looking up at Benedict and firmly believing he had all the answers in the world.

Benedict smiled, and for a second, he looked every bit like the big brother she remembered picking her up off the floor to twirl around the room. “I promise.”

“For so long, I thought there weren’t others like me. I believed something was fundamentally wrong with me. Like a piece of my soul was missing,” she confessed.

“But it is not safe,” she countered. “I feel like I cannot breathe around the fear of what others could do to us if they knew. My life would lose its meaning if I let her go, and my life would end if my love for her was found out. I can’t win either way.”

“I fear I am not able to negate that. The world is cruel to those like us, and living in secret remains the most secure alternative. However, you do not need to hide from me any longer. I will share the burden of this secret with you, as you will share mine.”

He held out his hand for her, palm up. A silent gesture of faith.

“Can you trust that this will be of some help?”

Francesca took the hand he offered.

“I sure can, brother.”

They were no longer alone in their journey—no longer struggling to keep crucial parts of themselves from each other. Francesca couldn’t picture a greater gift.

“We will both be just fine, sister,” Benedict reassured her, his thumb tracing circles across her hand.

She believed him at last.

#my fics #fandomfreebingo #fandomfreebingo: pride edition #bridgerton #bridgerton tv #bridgerton family #bridgerton fic #benedict bridgerton #francesca bridgerton #michaela stirling

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studyingmusiccarolinasversion · 2 months ago

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Taylor Swift, political endorsements, and criticism

Hi everyone! I’m Carolina, and my favorite artists right now are Adam Lambert, Taylor Swift, Sabrina Carpenter, Chappell Roan, Olivia Rodrigo, and Elton John - the list goes on and evolves all the time.

Today I’d like to discuss how Taylor Swift seems to be held to a much higher standard than other artists in terms of politics and political endorsements, or lack thereof.

I am thinking specifically of the couple of days before Taylor Swift’s endorsement of Kamala Harris. Taylor Swift had been photographed at a football game with Brittany Mahomes, an alleged Trump supporter. This sparked outrage online (especially Twitter / X), with people saying that Taylor had lost all her values, that she had no moral compass, that she was “spineless”, and so on, despite the fact that she had been endorsing Democratic candidates for years. After the presidential debate on September 10th, Taylor Swift made an Instagram post endorsing Kamala Harris. Although many were excited to see this, it didn’t entirely put an end to the “she has no morals” discourse, with some saying that the only reason she endorsed Harris was public pressure, rather than genuine support, that it was just PR damage control. In my opinion, it’s quite obvious that she purposefully waited until after the presidential debate to post her endorsement, as that is when it would gain maximum attention, and thus have the biggest impact. The Harris-Walz campaign also started selling friendship bracelets (Eras Tour-style) immediately after her endorsement, showing that it was most likely planned and coordinated ahead of time.

In contrast, it seems that almost no other artists have faced this massive amount of pressure to speak on their political views. I think the closest would be the reaction to Chappell Roan’s interview for The Guardian, in which she said: “I have so many issues with our government in every way. There are so many things that I would want to change. So I don’t feel pressured to endorse someone. There’s problems on both sides. I encourage people to use your critical thinking skills, use your vote – vote small, vote for what’s going on in your city”.

The same thing that happened to Taylor Swift was now happening to Chappell Roan. What seems to have caused the most backlash was her “There’s problems on both sides” statement. It’s as though all the times she has spoken about her beliefs have suddenly been forgotten. Some even took this to mean that she would be voting for Trump. She posted a video in which she clarified that she would not vote for Trump, and that “actions speak louder than an endorsement”.

It is also worth noting that this type of criticism over political endorsements seems to be reserved for female artists. I have not seen this type of backlash towards male artists for the same reasons, or if there has been backlash, it certainly has not been on the same scale. Right now, it looks like Taylor Swift receives the most hate for doing or not doing something, followed by other female artists, and then male artists, who receive the least criticism.

I find it fascinating that there are such high expectations of artists to talk about who they will vote for. An endorsement from someone as incredibly famous and admired as Taylor Swift probably will have some impact, but it also seems ridiculous to wait for a celebrity to tell you who to vote for instead of just deciding for yourself. Surely, all the people who were furious before her endorsement of Harris were planning on voting for her anyway, hence the anger. It’s not like they were waiting for the green light from Taylor Swift to allow them to vote for Harris. Maybe then it’s more about wanting to see your views reflected by those of someone you look up to.

I think this could potentially be linked back to the idea of the audience as submissive and easily manipulated. The idea that popular music audiences do not possess the critical thinking skills to form their own opinions, and instead rely on the artists they idolize to tell them what to do. I think that the fact there can be this much criticism of an artist shows that the opposite is true. If the audience truly were submissive, there wouldn’t have been any outrage, at least not to this degree. Although those with a platform should absolutely be using it for good and to bring attention to things that matter, it’s still up to each individual to think for themselves.

To wrap it up, here is a tweet I came across recently. I think it sums everything up quite well.

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mariacallous · 1 month ago

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Blissful Blindness: Soviet Crimes under Western Eyes

The most heinous Soviet crimes - the Red Terror, brutal collectivization, the Great Famine, the Gulag, Stalin's Great Terror, mass deportations, and other atrocities - were treated in the West as a controversial topic. With the Cold War dichotomy of Western democracy versus Soviet communism deeply imprinted in our minds, we are not always aware that these crimes were very often questioned, dismissed, denied, sometimes rationalized, and even outright glorified in the Western world. Facing a choice of whom to believe -the survivors or Soviet propaganda- many Western opinion leaders chose in favor of Soviet propaganda. Even those who did not believe it behaved sometimes as if they did.Blissful Blindness: Soviet Crimes under Western Eyes (Indiana UP, 2023) explores Western reactions (and lack thereof) to Soviet crimes from the Bolshevik revolution to the collapse of Soviet communism in order to understand ideological, political, economic, cultural, personal, and other motivations behind this puzzling phenomenon of willful ignorance. But the significance of Dariusz Tolczyk's book reaches beyond its direct historical focus. Written for audiences not limited to scholars and specialists, this book not only opens one's eyes to rarely examined aspects of the twentieth century but also helps one see how astonishingly relevant this topic is in our contemporary world.

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eff-plays · 1 year ago

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Kind of late to the party, but I just skimmed through some of the discussion about Astarion's racism and narrative issues with the gnomes and Gur. Personally, I think it's an area that really should have been explored more post Cazzador. I have a post half-written about it that I can't find the right words for 😭.

But essentially, Astarion's reactions to both those groups of people are easily some of his worst traits. In game atleast. I don't find it fair to hold his data mined EA backstory against him as it was never mentioned or canon even then. What he does and says in-game about them is bad enough and should be explored more.

The thing about both of these groups though is it blends his trauma with his straight from the tap shittiness. For all that he clearly shows he is racist towards gnomes (cool gag bit Larian??) There are also narrative reasons for him to be reacting badly to them given where he is in his character arc. Doesn't excuse it. But he does have flawed perceptions of power and victimhood that he clings to up until the last second when fighting Cazzador. He is not ready to grow on any of these fronts when first encountering the Gur and gnomes.

But Spawn Astarion would have been the perfect avenue for showing his growth and clarifying things to the audience. Taking Spawn Astarion to the Iron Throne and having him very clearly tell Tav they have to rescue them? Maybe with some uncomfortable coughing and whispering it under his breath cause he doesn't want to come off like he cares THAT much. It wouldn't need to come off like he's a Wyll-esque hero. Just a begrudging, "Well, I've kind of committed to this whole getting better thing. God's this is annoying. Why is it so much work?" Kind of similar to when he puts forward rescuing the kid from the hag. Maybe getting really triggered or angry over the kind of tools the Bannites are employing to keep the gnomes in line?

Same thing with taking him back to the Gur camp after Cazzador. There being more discussion. Maybe him being appreciative of the work they do because he hopes that no more Cazzador's take root in BG and Gur are a good force against such things. The bad blood isnt buried, but there's a respect between them. Maybe a bit of repentance in his vibe. But he's still bitchy and exasperated all the while.

I think that having Spawn Astarion have more unique dialogue about these groups would have tied up his narrative with them better- but also would have opened the lid on his character growth more.

Flipside is, if he had more reactions and they WEREN'T positive- it would show that despite the growth he's gone through, Astarion is independently a really shitty guy. It doesn't have to be because of his feelings about power- somtimes he's being racist just because that's who he is. Which I think would let the audience make more informed opinions about him.

Anywayssss

Yeah just saw the discussion and it got my brain going over this again. Sorry this is so long.

I do agree that holding EA stuff that was written out against him is unfair, heck I think Player!Astarion and Companion!Astarion are barely even the same guy.

And yeah, I think him having so little reactivity makes sense from an economic standpoint, but it does muddle his character and stifle his character growth (or lack thereof) a lot. Like I haven't played all of Act 3 (I deleted my first playthrough before I could finish it because I missed a lot of stuff I wanted to include, and then when my second playthrough got to Act 3, the patch came out and the game broke), but I do remember seeing a video of all of the companions reacting to the PC sleeping with Mizora? And he's totally chill with it and jokes about it?

Which always felt really weird to me. I feel like if you do this before his endings, wouldn't he be insecure? Like how he is if you try to bring in Halsin or have a foursome with the drow twins? If it's the Spawn ending, wouldn't he be upset? That you didn't tell him? That you hurt Wyll and Karlach? And wouldn't Ascended Astarion get catty and/or pissed that you fucked someone without him/his permission?

Idk what Larian was going for with his reaction to that at all tbh, like ... "Well he's the horny evil one so obviously he'll be okay with it for shits and giggles" is the vibe I got.

Sorry, that was kind of irrelevant to what you were saying, but it did feel like a microcosm of the issue. I'm hoping once they start putting in more story content (I heard Theo Solomon was recording more stuff for Wyll so fingers crossed!!) that the other characters need, they will also go back and shuffle around some logic for how the characters react depending on the outcomes of their storylines, esp Astarion because of how vastly different he can turn out.

Cuz there are bits of that, like apparently he reacts differently to Lae'zel killing [spoiler character] depending on his ending? And is a lot more merciful or cruel? Would be good to see more of that.

#bg3 #astarion #bg3 spoilers #long post

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cypressmoons · 2 years ago

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afterthought (genshin men)

trying something different with this one :> not assigning the mmc to any character, so feel free to imagine whoever you want! let me know what you think of this format :)

word count: 1k

masterlist ♡ inbox

you’re so attracted to him it physically hurts.

there are definitely better things to do with your time, with your energy, and you know it. yet every moment you’re awake and every thought after you fall asleep, your head is filled with nothing but him.

it’s funny, really, how much he consumed your entire being.

you feel so stupid, letting the presence of a man (or a lack thereof) dictate your emotions for the day. leaving your apartment feels even more of an insurmountable task now that you know the chances of you running into him is low, but never zero. after two straight days of practically summoning him out of thin air in places you least expected to see him at, you have made it your life’s mission to look your best whenever you go outside, even if it requires sacrificing 40 minutes of sleep to perfect your eyeliner.

sometimes you question your sanity and how close you are to losing your mind completely.

surely it’s not normal for your heart rate to spike every time you see a little green dot indicating his online presence in the messages app, right? or to consciously look for him every time you walk through the campus, to pin his little box during zoom calls, or check his instagram profile so much that the algorithm has started to put his name on the forefront of your list whenever he posts a story? you honestly think you might have an illness. on some days it physically makes you sick, the emotions too strong and overwhelming for your body to take.

as time passes, your infatuation with him slowly turns into resentment. don’t get it wrong – you’re still more attracted to him than you’ve ever been with any other man, but the utter impossibility of it all is making it extremely frustrating for you. it’s not even just the fact that you’re too scared to ask him out. it’s everything he does, he says, the way he probably knows the effect he has on you and is enjoying it immensely.

men are simple creatures, and you haven’t exactly done a fantastic job at hiding your subtle reactions to his every move.

and nothing gets on your nerves more than knowing you’ve given him exactly what he wants.

of course, all this resentment can probably just be dismissed as your brain working overtime yet again to put more meaning into the most meaningless scenarios. you wish you could think this hard and critically about all the academic articles you’re supposed to read. men are simple creatures, yes, and he probably doesn’t even mean to do any of this to you, all his supposed teasing behaviour a mere reflection of his already inflated ego.

you’re tired. and no matter what you do, you cannot accept anything less than perfect from your grades this semester, if you want a chance at going to grad school at all. which is exactly why you’re landed in this all-too-small gap between a rock and a hard place. you’re sure you would’ve gotten down on your knees to beg your brain to stop, had it been physically possible to do so. you’ve tried everything: packing your schedule to the brim, overworking yourself to the point of near exhaustion, trying to think of things that give you the ick about him, or even downing more drinks than usual, alone and sad in your little box of an apartment.

you want to laugh at yourself. come on, you’re not the main character of a romcom, no laugh track is going to play and no audience is going to sympathize with you. when your professor called the great depression a “self-induced downward spiral”, you felt like that term is a more accurate depiction of your life than a massive economic crisis.

and it’s funny, because you don’t even know what you want out of this endless pining. whereas in past crushes you were always successful in imaging you and him, happy in a relationship and doing all sorts of corny couple shit in your nightly scenario factory before you fall asleep, you can’t seem to picture you with him. sure, you wanted to touch him and feel him and probably get railed by him sometimes, all you feel is cringe when you try to picture the same fluffy domestic activities you’re all too familiar with.

you don’t even know if you want to date him, really. perhaps it comes from your own place of insecurity, from having never been the object of someone else’s desires and always an afterthought in others’ minds. you see the tiktoks of girls crying about being a “late bloomer”, and the swarm of comments from people feeling the same or empty words of comfort. something along the lines of “you just haven’t met the right person yet!” or “honestly good for you men are trash anyway”.

sure, the statements might have an ounce of truth in them, but don’t they know just how much it hurts to never be at the forefront of someone’s thoughts? for your name to only be uttered in sentences like “…oh and there’s Y/N”, only as a sudden reminder that you existed when everyone else has already had their share of fun and entertainment. you’ve retreated, hidden yourself from the judgmental eyes of others, a learned response to protect yourself. but now it seems you’ve just dug a hole for yourself to crawl into.

maybe that’s why you can’t imagine yourself with him. he’s so cool, so smart, and so goddamn good looking that you know it’s only a matter of time before someone better comes along and he, like everyone before him, will fall for them instead.

but oh, how much you longed to be the one for someone.

even as you’re saying to yourself, “i’m breaking up with him”, in the mirror like you’ve actually been in a relationship with him, you can’t help but feel a little empty inside. like having to donate your favourite childhood toy. you frantically open up a blank document and your fingers work fast across the keyboard, trying to capture as many details from your “relationship” as you possibly could before they all fade from your memory. what are you doing this for? you do not know. all you know is that you’ve invested so much energy and so many brain cells on him, you can’t let everything go down the drain so easily. is it just a pathetic way to console yourself and continue being in denial? probably. but, what else is there for you to do?

it's not like you can just go up to him and ask him out. what a hilarious thought.

because look, as much as you’ve imagined better and cheesier scenarios, the fact remains you’re nothing but an afterthought to him.

#moon's writings 🔖#genshin impact #genshin x reader #al haitham #alhaitham #alhaitham x reader #kaeya #kaeya x reader #zhongli #zhongli x reader #diluc #diluc x reader #kamisato ayato #kamisato ayato x reader #genshin men #genshin men x reader

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ardentpoop · 1 month ago

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spn related - thoughts on deans final death scene?

this feels like a trick question 💀

I’ve talked abt it a little bit before but really my feelings abt the finale are too complicated to concisely sum up in a way that doesn’t have ppl making annoying (usually ship-related) assumptions abt me as a fan. all u really need to know unless you’re interested in my future fix-it-fic-writing endeavors is that I mostly laughed delightedly thru the barn scene bc dabb sucks at conveying emotional weight thru dialogue. and then I of course cried so hard I actually felt sick bc I wasn’t ready to say goodbye to sam :)

I like that we got “it’s always been you……. [loaded pause] and me” out of that monologue for narrative symmetry reasons - only viewers who understand sam’s place in the story and the way it shifted over time (of which there are few) can truly appreciate that piece.

I also like that the intimacy of this scene made ppl uncomfortable even tho it made me a bit uncomfortable as well even as someone who is well-versed in S/D fan culture 😅 like my initial reaction to “I love you so much. my baby brother” was something akin to WUGH . HE WOULD NOT SAY THAT. but that is silly, given the gravity of the decision dean was making in this scene (and it Was a decision).

I like that sam couldn’t leave The Life again (not since stanford, not since amelia) in favor of pursuing supernatural’s idea of “normal” until dean died and instructed sam to let him stay dead. I like that covid restrictions forced them to axe the scene where dean is surrounded by “family” in heaven (which would have felt just as cloying and empty as much of the rest of this episode to me) so instead we just see him driving endlessly in the impala until he’s reunited with sam. I initially HATED that sam named his son “dean jr” but it’s so unintentionally horrible that I’ve come around to enjoying the implications. I enjoy that we got so little insight into sam’s Normal Life Sans Dean because fan writers far more capable of handling sam with the nuance and love he deserves can take this skeleton of an ending and pack on the details that make it feel real and earned and (most importantly) intentionally tragic.

ultimately most of this audience hates the finale for reasons I find aggravating. they paid no attention to sam and they’d grown accustomed by the final seasons to him being a faded fixture in the background, to dean being larger than life in the spotlight at all times, so the series finale suddenly reverting so clearly to the original early-seasons setup of sam as the heart of the story and dean as his foil felt jarring to them. to be clear I do consider much of this show to have failed sam as a character and it’s how we ended up with a conclusion that so many of the “fans” did not understand in the slightest. I won’t elaborate on the D/C shippers’ takes because I don’t feel like sticking my hand in that bear trap rn.

anyway uh TL;DR

disliked the finale as an actual episode/viewing experience, but conceptually I can work with it

me disliking it has little to do with my ship preferences or lack thereof

samndean heaven is a horrific concept and this is beautiful if you’re a tragedy enjoyer

dean monologuing at sam for 7 minutes abt how much he loves him and desperately needed him in his life while sam cries silently and begs him not to leave. and then the fans going this monologue should’ve been about cas / why can’t dean be his own person / EW GROSS why do they look like lovers!!! / (select few) why won’t they let sam speak. is there anything more samndean than this lmfao.

sorry lol you literally did not ask for any of that but you never know what you’ll get when you ask me a question abt this show tbfh <3

#asks #anon #15.20

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lizadale · 2 years ago

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bit of find bleck!au that i still really like. it was a neat concept to play with

yes they were stranded in the middle of the ocean at the start of this warp point, no i will not elaborate

[]

[[L-43.d-Ω : world of pitch]]

When they first arrive in the dimension, they stand there for some moments, waiting.

For a sound, for a smell, for a movement. For their eyes to adjust.

But none of it happens, and Nastasia breaks the silence by clearing her throat. They expect the sound would be startling, or that maybe it should echo into the nothingness, but if anything, it is more subdued—all but swallowed.

“Um, guys?”

O’Chunks exhales. “Yeah.”

“Let’s clear this up right now, ‘k? Can anyone see?”

Four simultaneous answers are the only proof that they remain rooted together in the same spot.

“Nay.”

“Nope.”

“No.”

“N-no…”

The unasked question is: is there anything here to see? It isn’t the sort of darkness of when a light is turned off, where you can still see outlines or the shifting of a hand waving in front of your face. There is nothing but an existence darker than black, a yawning void in which everything is still. They can tell their eyes are open, if only because the backs of their eyelids bring more solace than struggling to perceive.

Mimi sounds the smallest. She fumbles without displacing her feet until her hands find someone. Her fingers close around the still-wet blouse of Nastasia. “Dimmy, take us back.”

“Into the ocean?” he asks incredulously. He sounds incredibly close to the ground, for once, voice steady with forced calm.

Nastasia shivers, having been distracted enough by the sight (lack thereof) to forget her clothes are damp and uncomfortable. She plucks Mimi’s hand from her shirt and lets her fingers scrabble to rest between her own.

There’s a click, a switch turning on and off, and then a narrow, damp elbow bumps O’Chunks’ arm. “Lay off, ye blighter,” he rumbles, though there’s no real bite in it, and he doesn’t move an inch as Luigi tries to get his bearings, feeling his way with shaking hands around O’Chunks’ thick trunk to where he might stand in front of him.

“Dimentio,” he calls gingerly. “Where’s your stupid face?”

A shuffling of feet, and then the soft sound of flesh brushing against flesh. Luigi has found the face in question, clumsily.

“Luigi, please,” Dimentio deadpans. “At least offer me dinner first.”

“Shut up. I can’t even—I can’t see your eye.”

“Yes, I believe—” There is a light smacking sound as Dimentio irritably swats Luigi’s hands from his face. “—that this dimension must not process light in a way that matters to us.”

“To us,” Nastasia repeats. “Meaning what, exactly…?”

“Even if we can’t see, things that live here might,” O’Chunks guesses, immediately regretting it for the whimper it draws from Mimi into the bleak silence that follows.

“…Perhaps.” Dimentio sounds strained, as if this hypothesis was something he had in mine but dreaded being voiced aloud. He wasn’t keen on the idea that beings could see his actions without him knowing they were even there. What is the point of having an audience when you cannot enjoy their reactions?

“Can’t you adjust?” Nastasia asks.

“The fact that I have not means that this world is more likely to involve more than an absence of light.”

She is unnerved by the fact that Dimentio keeps redacting previous theories for new ones. He has no idea, for once—has not come in readily equipped with how to deal with this place, and the stiffness in his usually tailored voice becomes more and more apparent the more they press for answers.

“Let’s, um—” She wets her lips, still stinging with salt.

“We go forward, since we cannae go back,” O’Chunks says firmly. “And find another door.”

•※•※•

It isn’t an easy task, navigating the unknown.

They might be outside, given the soft texture of the ground, but there’s no way to know for sure. The air is stagnant—not necessarily stale, but very still—and carries nothing in it. They stumble forward, close together so as to avoid losing each other. Mimi leaves Nastasia’s side to crawl onto one of O’Chunks’ shoulders, not wanting to risk dirtying or tearing her dress on things she can’t see.

The area is vast and spacious. It takes many minutes of walking a straight line until they toe into a wall made of uneven stone. They keep silent, feeling their way around it; if there is a wall, someone must have built it. Someone who can supposedly see.

“Stop,” Nastasia breathes, as they reach the end of the cobbled wall. “Mimi, can you—can you still see us? Our color?”

“Y-yeah.”

But that’s all she can see, when she concentrates—splotches of moving color where normally they would only be outlines accompanying regular vision. She can distinguish between them, from the tints and shades of their little group, but beyond that—nothing. She can vaguely see them and nothing else, just their souls, floating, surrounded by black.

“Can you see anyone—anyone else?”

“No,” she says. “Since we got here there’s—no one.”

There is silence for a few moments, and no one moves.

“Luigi,” Dimentio says, tense.

Luigi exhales shakily. “I only feel you guys.”

“This whole dimension’s dead?” O’Chunks asks, scuffing his shoe on the wall, keeping their place, some strange notion that if he doesn’t keep contact with something solid the ground might stop existing. “Did it not get spat back out?”

“I—” Dimentio starts, and then stops because he hadn’t really considered it, the idea that although the Void was reversed some dimensions didn’t come all the way back. “This is something else,” he decides on, because even if it were theoretically possible, it wouldn’t apply in this case. It couldn’t be that the light never came back into the dimension, because bringing light into it now doesn’t work either.

They shuffle along again, but they don’t make it very far; Nastasia’s foot scrapes against what might be another stone wall, having just avoided walking directly into it. On the other side of them, Luigi isn’t as lucky, emitting a startled cry as he stumbles. Dimentio makes an equally perturbed noise, having been close enough to be the thing that Luigi instinctively grabs on the way down, and they both tumble in a heap on the ground.

“Only a matter o’ time, eh,” O’Chunks comments, amused. “Surprised he lasted on both feet long as ‘e did.”

“Buy me a drink, Luigi?” Dimentio says coyly, though his annoyance is palpable. “We can go see a movie, if you like.”

“Shut up,” Luigi snaps from close to the ground. “Ow.” There’s that same clicking noise from earlier, click-click, and he huffs in frustration. “Ooh, that’s—O-oh. Um.”

“What’re yeh—?”

“The thing I tripped over—Ow!”

“Let go of my leg,” Dimentio hisses.

“I don’t—I d-don’t have your leg??” Luigi says unsurely. There are several patting noises as one or both of them try to feel their situation out, then a more urgent shuffling as Dimentio struggles to free himself from whatever in the dark might— “Heyheyheyhey, it’s a vine, chill out. Here.”

Dimentio makes a wary sound of dismissal.

“At least I—think it’s a plant,” Luigi says, voice still doubtful. “Feels like a plant, or it was. Dead shrub, maybe—”

“You’re not helping.”

“I mean, since that’s usually how you decorate graves, h-heh.”

“G-graves?” Mimi says shrilly, directly into O’Chunks’ ear.

“Th-think I tripped over a marker,” Luigi tries to laugh off, but it’s a hollow effort. “It’s—stone, but there’s writing in it, y-y’know, like… Uh, there’s another one over here. Maybe you shouldn’t, ah, sit on that? Pretty rude.” Another telltale sound of Dimentio smacking Luigi’s hands away.

“So, we’re in a cemetery,” Mimi says flatly, less than amused. At least they have an answer, though, that makes her feel a bit better.

“Not what I meant by dead dimension,” O’Chunks mutters.

“You know I, uh, I can usually tell, y’know, when I walk into a cemetery, even with my eyes closed…” Luigi swallows audibly. “But there’s no, uh, there’s—Dimentiopleasegetusoutofhere.”

“I do not believe we’ve traveled far enough,” he replies, followed then by the sound of him flipping. It’s less than a second before he flips back, coughing and sputtering, having just wound up under the sea they left behind.

“You can’t see where we can go?” Nastasia asks, unable to hide the twinge of desperation in her voice. “The only sense this place inhibits is sight, but—if Mimi can still see our souls…”

“No, I canno—stop it, you hound,” he rasps around a cough at Luigi, who has tried patting the magician’s back to help force water out of his nose. The rest of Dimentio’s statement is lost among the ensuing mini slap-fight.

“If light is impossible to perceive here,” he eventually continues, “then I cannot—well. No. Ugh.”

“Crivvens,” says O’Chunks. “If he can’ even explain it, we’re doomed.”

•※•※•

What ends up happening is they all settle where they are, except for Dimentio, who drifts off alone to find a plausible area to flip from. None of them like the idea—least of all, they suspect, Dimentio himself—but not having to traverse on the unseen ground is optimal, and should something happen, he could always teleport back to them.

Nastasia crawls carefully over the dry, cracked earth. She pictures in her mind the edge of a desert at night, the caked dirt not yet fully sandy but barren, chilled, and dusty. It doesn’t help that her clothes are still damp, the stillness of the air doing little to dry them.

She finds Mimi first, obvious for her shrill squeak at being touched. Mimi’s skin is cool and unnaturally smooth. Where her fingers bend the joints knob out like bolts instead of bones, and there’s a light vibration under the surface of her, a machine humming. It isn’t normally visible even with light, but the area around her shoulder has a slight ridge where Luigi had reattached her arm, just a small dip that can only be discerned by touching. Her hair is textured faintly like yarn.

Mimi’s hands fumble up Nastasia’s arm until they find her face, shaking fingers relaxing at the shape of the other’s glasses, which are nearly bumped off in the exchange. Printless thumbs press into the hollows under her cheekbones, curious.

“You knew it was me,” Nastasia tells her, fighting the urge to straighten her glasses. Nearby, she hears the clicking again, and her ears twitch. Click-click. Click-click.

Mimi frowns, although she knows it’s pointless. “Sure, but I can’t actually see you, s-so…”

She seems calmer now, not over her fear of the dark but assuaged by the familiarity of the people around her. Still, Mimi curls a bit in on herself, receding into safety, and it isn’t until Nastasia drops her arm and it collides with something warm that she realizes O’Chunks has comforting arm around her middle. (Click-click. Click-click.)

O’Chunks grunts unsurely when Nastasia rests a hand on his arm, feeling the strong muscles there tighten protectively. His skin is warm and rough under a coarse layer of hair, blemishes of almost-scars dotted on the outside while the side that faces his body is soft and fleshy. The inside of his elbow is like a furnace. She must leave her hand there too long because O’Chunks fidgets restlessly, tightening his hold on Mimi reflexively.

“Ye need somethin’, Nastasia…?” he says. He’s on guard, she can tell by the lowness of his voice, and she doesn’t blame him.

“No, just…figuring out where everybody is.” She crawls forward again, over Mimi, and nearly stumbles over O’Chunks’ legs. His free arm automatically catches her around the shoulders. She leans subconsciously into his palm, the warmth pleasantly counteracting the chill.

“Ye’re still wet,” he says, bothered. He rubs her shoulder, where her shirt is plastered to her skin still. (Click-click. Click-click.) “Are ye—Oi!” he throws his voice over his shoulder, “Give it a rest, already!”

“S-sorry,” Luigi says, far off. There’s a rustle of clothing as he presumably shoves something in his pocket. “Nervous tic.”

Flashlight, Nastasia realizes. He’s been absently pressing the button on and off this whole time, as if holding out hope that a beam will miraculously appear.

“Where are you?” Mimi asks incredulously, because Luigi sounds at least a good forty paces from the rest of them.

“Loaded question,” O’Chunks mutters. “Where’re any of us?”

“If I stay still, I’ll fall asleep,” Luigi says, “so I’m, uh…teaching myself braille, I guess?”

“Fall asleep? In this place, lad?”

“It’s dark,” Luigi says defensively, as if no one noticed. “It’s dark and quiet and I’m exhausted.”

“Get over here,” Mimi huffs. “You’re gonna get lost, you dummy.”

“…Are they readable? The markers?” Nastasia asks.

“No,” Luigi admits, obediently wandering closer. “I don’t know what language it is, so—OUCH!”

Luigi hits the ground again, followed by frantic scrabbling and the sound of stone knocking together. They might assume he’d tripped once more, until it’s apparent that there’s another body tangled there with him. O’Chunks starts to stand until Mimi cackles, lessening the thought that it may be an animal or a stranger.

“D-Dimentio?” Luigi barks, attempting to disengage. “Hello??? Can you NOT?”

Dimentio gasps sharply, inhaling as if surfacing from under water. “I hit—a ceiling!” he spits out indignantly.

“What—stop flailing! You knocked over a headstone, we’re gonna get cursed!”

“I flew up and hit my head on somethi—get your hands off of me!”

“I can’t see you, moron, hold still—whoops, my bad.”

“Excuse me!”

“Chunks, sound off,” Luigi says wearily.

“Righ’ here, lad.”

Luigi deposits Dimentio near O’Chunks’ side, like someone might set their garbage by the curb for pickup. He makes a discomfited noise at the treatment and loss of familiarity—O’Chunks lightly bumps his shoulder against the magician to provide grounding. Nastasia, half-sitting on O’Chunks’ legs, finds Dimentio with her foot and lets her leg lean against his arm. She expects him to complain or move away; he does neither. It’s hard to say if the slight tremble of his body is due to temperature or nerves.

“Ye’re wet, too,” O’Chunks accuses Dimentio, nudging him again. “Why not get a change o’ clothes?”

Dimentio makes a tsking noise with his tongue, indicating the brush of a sore subject.

“Three o’ ye gonnae catch cold like this,” O’Chunks says, either not catching on or ignoring the sullen response. He rubs Nastasia’s shoulder again, not thinking much of it, calloused thumb warm under the sleeve of her blouse. She doesn’t find it in her to mind.

“I’m a bit drier than I was,” she offers. “The amount of dust here helps, I guess.”

“If you guys’re so cold, why don’cha just take off your wet clothes?” Mimi scoffs. “It’s not like we can see ya anyway. Then you’re not getting us wet, too—”

Somewhere behind them, Luigi, distracted by the turn of the conversation, trips again very loudly.

“Would ye stop an’ sit down, ye dotty gowk?” O’Chunks snaps, flustered. “Ye’re stressin’ me th’ HELL out!”

Luigi responds by sneezing several times in quick succession, capitalizing on Nastasia’s remark about the dust as his fall has definitely stirred some of it up.

“Ok, ok, where are you,” he capitulates, voice nasal and sneeze-worn.

“Right here, where I been th’ whole bloody time,” O’Chunks growls, clearly having had enough of trying to keep track of everyone without his sight.

Luigi shuffles closer, crawling to keep from stepping on anyone. “Pillow. Who’s willing to—Oops, hi…Nastasia?” he says, having brushed against her arm in passing. “Wow, your skin is soft—”

O’Chunks grunts and roughly shoves Luigi away from her, still viscerally irritated.

There’s a thick pause in which Luigi seems to be calculating how to react to that, or if he should at all. In the end he decides it’s not worth it—O’Chunks has been increasingly on edge and talking about it probably won’t help, so he sits there and meekly says again, “Pillow?”

“Pass,” Dimentio says immediately.

“Not it,” Nastasia says.

“No vacancy,” O’Chunks grumbles, pointedly drawing Nastasia over the side of his leg so she’s all the way in his folded lap.

Nastasia holds her tongue, barely—not necessarily angry at being relocated but rather on the principle of his actions the past five minutes. Every muscle she can feel on him is wound tighter than a coiled spring. She knows it’s because he feels like he’s the one who has to keep watch, who has to listen for danger because they won’t see it when it comes. But it’s not an excuse for lashing out at Luigi’s tendency to babble when he’s nervous.

“Ugh, okay, c’mere,” Mimi says, all ingenuine reluctance, shifting her legs carefully away from O’Chunks and smoothing her dress out over them. “But don’t drool on me.”

It’s obvious that the shove has gotten to him, as when Luigi speaks next it is very quietly and with barely veiled relief. “I do a lot of things in my sleep, but not that.”

Nastasia having been moved backward has removed her point of contact with Dimentio, and she can’t help being surprised when he shifts himself to get the contact back, tentatively finding her pantleg with careful fingers. She reaches out and, thinking holding hands might be more than a bit too much, lays the back of her hand on top of his. He doesn’t move.

His glove is wet— not in the way Nastasia’s clothes are still damp, but more freshly wet, still cold and heavy with it. He did flip briefly back into it earlier, but hardly long enough to be fully soaked again. It doesn’t make any sense until, suddenly, it does.

It must not have been the only time he flipped back into it by accident. He did it again more recently. The fact that it’s happened more than once is a clear indication that Dimentio truly can’t see other dimensions around them at present, and it’s not because of the dark, it’s because he can’t get the water out of his left eye.

It’s a vicious cycle; he must have been flipping back and forth to find somewhere away from the water, only to continually disrupt his own magic by nearly drowning himself every time.

“Um.” She reaches out cautiously, until her fingers brush against Dimentio’s jaw.

He feels like an odd combination of delicate and dangerous, skin soft but features angular. His hair is a salt-swept, bedraggled mess. Past the bridge of a sharp nose, the left side of his face is a framework of narrow scars, like fissures in his skin. Nastasia traces along them underneath the opening of his eye for a moment, noting that the cracks are small enough that she’s never noticed their presence even in the light. Eventually, he twitches slightly and she draws back, understanding that she’s outstayed her welcome.

“Nassy, are ya feeling people up again?” Mimi asks.

“Wh-what?” Nastasia stammers at the allegation. “No, I just—”

“Here,” Mimi says blithely, pawing until she locates one of Nastasia’s hands and bringing it to rest on something…furry? “Feel how soft Gigi’s hair is!”

Nastasia balks. “M-Mimi!”

“What? I think he’s asleep already, it’s fine! You know how hard to wake he is.”

Luigi is asleep, if the steady sound of his breathing is any indication, but that hardly excuses people violating his personal space without permission.

…His hair is plenty soft, though. As expected, he’s a lot drier than she is, presumably since he’s been moving around a lot more.

“…Mimi,” she says slowly. “Where is his hat.”

“Huh? I dunno?”

“Mimi.”

“He took it off when he laid down!” Mimi says defensively.

“If he wakes up and it’s missing…” Nastasia warns.

“It’d be his own dumb fault!” Despite this, Mimi can be heard groping around in the dark for the missing article. “Here! Here it is!”

The hat is pressed incessantly into Nastasia’s side until she clutches it, bewildered. “Why are you giving it to me?”

“You’re the one who’s so worried about it. I don’t want it.”

•※•※•

Time passes—or, at least, they think it does. It’s hard to tell when there’s no frame of reference for time even existing aside from counting the number of breaths they take. Everything is so still, but now there’s almost a thickness to it, as if they’ve escaped one sea only to tumble into another.

O’Chunks challenges himself to sit stiller than the still, so if anything dares move he will know. His ears strain beyond the girls’ prattle for any sounds of something approaching, anything looming in the darkness.

It’s a little easier, now that Luigi has settled and isn’t roaming around blindly, a ridiculous distraction. Dimentio is back from his groping search, sitting stiffly, barely brushing O’Chunks’ left shoulder, and he’s trembling. Obviously, he’s trying hard not to, but he can’t help it. He isn’t afraid as much as he is cold, O’Chunks knows, because Dimentio can hide emotions better than anyone he’s met, but as for physical reactions...

It’s an odd sort of torture. O’Chunks knows he runs hot as a furnace, maybe just his free arm around the magician would be enough of a comfort. But it’s Dimentio. Although his fiercely protective tendencies beg O’Chunks to act, it would be an unwelcome gesture, and Dimentio doesn’t deserve it anyway. Why can’t he just flip into D for a change of clothes?

On O’Chunks’ right side, pressed closely against his side, Mimi is finally relaxed. Gone is the instinct to run full tilt until the light reappears. Luigi is asleep, the anxiety that accompanies his awareness no longer bleeding into the space he inhabits. His head is a heavy, reassuring weight against her legs, an anchor. His heartbeat and the rise and fall of his chest, too, for once slow and controlled under her hand.

“Oi,” O’Chunks starts guardedly, making Mimi jump, as Dimentio has shifted away and removed himself from their pile.

“I will find us a way out,” Dimentio says flatly, from the air, of course where O’Chunks can’t determine his position.

And, to his dismay, Nastasia says, “I’ll go with you, ‘k?”

There is a pause; Dimentio doesn’t say anything against it, which is as good as an admission of ‘I’m okay with that’ as he ever gives.

“Nae, Nastasia,” O’Chunks grinds out through clenched teeth. “I don’ think—”

“You—” Nastasia says softly as she stands, and her hands find O’Chunks’ chin, traveling up the jutting ridge of his twice-broken nose until she has her index finger pressing into the knot between his eyebrows. He can barely feel it, he realizes, his brow so thoroughly pinched with edge. “—need to calm down.”

He nods against the touch obediently, willing himself to trust her, to accept the consequences of it.

•※•※•

“How do you know, um, you’re not just retracing your steps?”

Dimentio waits for Nastasia to step over whatever might be on the ground, until her hand is flat against the back of his shoulder again.

“We are going southeast,” he says, only half-annoyed that he has to keep stopping for her. A slow trek, yes, but not a lonely one this time. “I have not been this way yet.”

And he has tried north and west already; both run parallel to the dimension they’d been in prior, so the hope is that the opposite direction will yield better results. He is sick of flipping into punishing wetness.

There is something less mind-numbing about having someone following along with him. It’s somewhat easier to gauge how far he’s gone, hearing accompanying footfalls, whereas even with an innate sense of distance gliding through the air is…it feels like distance is a concept that doesn’t exist with the absence of light. How can you tell, when your surroundings never change?

“Hold still,” he says, shrugging her hand off. She lets it fall to her side, and he flips into a sky. The atmosphere is cool and too thin, even though his lungs automatically adjust to accommodate his need to breathe. The clouds are dark below him, smelling like a coming storm. A few kilometers away is the ground, what looks like a tall forest dotting flat land.

Not a good place to flip with anyone in tow, but it’s a start, and blessedly not underwater even if it promises to still be damp. A little farther, maybe, will take them to a flip point safely closer to the ground. He doesn’t travel at all to experiment, because then he would lose Nastasia. Grudgingly, he returns to her.

There aren’t enough words to describe how startling flipping back into a lightless dimension is, the way his eye attempts to adjust to something that renders it useless. Since Dimension D is effectively transparent, it depends on light to shine through it—since this place has no light, neither does his dimension.

In hindsight, he could have gone in to fetch clothes just a minute ago, where there was light, but soon they should be out of here, anyway.

“Nastasia,” he says.

“Here.” Her hand fumbles up his back until her grip finds his shoulder again. “…You’re not as wet as you were.”

“Yes. It is nice.”

They carry on. There are columns of trees dotted around them, or something else tall that disrupts the flow of the air, but nothing smells green. A forest as dead as the rest of the dimension, or maybe an odd collection of pillars.

Twice more he flips back and forth; the first time finds him even farther from the ground than the last, so they change direction. Then they must travel too far, for the next dimension is completely different. It’s dry and open, but judging by the quality of the air the others wouldn’t survive in it for long.

Nastasia doesn’t comment other than her initial observation that they must have broken away from the ocean. With anyone else, Dimentio knows he wouldn’t be so lucky. After his third experimental flip (back to the cloudy area, closer to the ground but still too far a drop for Nastasia or O’Chunks), she breaks her silence.

“Dimentio. Can I ask you something?”

This is hardly a question in itself; it comes off more as a warning. Her tone indicates that whatever she’s about to ask will be something he’d rather not answer.

“What are you going to do when we find Blumiere?”

He hums, dragging her along. “Whatever needs to be done.”

She enjoys the answer about as much as he appreciates being asked. Her fingers dig into his cloak. The air around them thickens.

“It seems rather late in our journey to be considering this,” he remarks, forced to stop moving when she no longer follows. “And if you find my judgement inaccurate, you are not entitled to agree.”

She digests this statement slowly, equally disturbed and confused by the intimation.

“If you try to hurt him…” she begins, and he laughs over her, sudden and sharp as a knife.

“Hurt who? You have never even met Blumiere, and you are set on defending him?”

Nastasia squares her shoulders. “He’s—”

“—Already dead,” Dimentio says, voice clipped. “He died the moment he opened the book, when that thing took him. And I will destroy him as many times as it takes for him to rest in peace. Hand off.”

Her hand comes off his shoulder, he flips through and back once more, clicking his tongue in annoyance: still too far from the ground.

“Because he still has it,” Nastasia says hollowly, recalling her discussion with Merlon back before they left Flipside. “The book.”

“It still has him,” Dimentio corrects her. “And if there is no way to separate them, well—” He stops abruptly, and she bumps into him. “Fire.”

“What?”

“Fire,” he repeats tersely. “There is smoke on the wind.”

Nastasia tucks her hair behind her ear, attentive. Faintly, she hears the crackle of something burning. It can’t be more than several feet away if it’s small, one hundred feet if larger.

There is something incredibly, undeniably unnerving about knowing a fire is nearby but not being able to see it.

“We can’t go this way,” she says, tugging him backward, “we don’t know how close—”

Her voice is drowned out by a crash of what sounds like a terrible peal of thunder. The sound is so dense that she can’t tell how close it even is, simply that the scale of it is massive. The ground trembles with it, and Nastasia stumbles backwards, away from Dimentio. Something screams past her ear, loud and disorienting, but the next one doesn’t miss.

Her arm erupts in pain just above her elbow and she cries out. She knows before touching it that something has torn her skin open, the wound searing madly as if on fire—it is, she thinks, panicked because her instinct to cover it with her other hand is halted by the feel of heat radiating off of it. Her skin seems to cauterize itself.

“Nastasia!” Dimentio hisses from somewhere to her left, and there’s the sound of debris bouncing off one of his barriers. “Where—”

“H-Here—” she starts weakly with a groan, only for something startlingly cold to collide with her side—Dimentio has taken off his cloak and thrown it at her. The wet cloth slaps painfully into her injury, but it takes away some of the urgency. The burning sensation is soothed enough that she can focus again.

She scrabbles around the earth, trying to find Dimentio, when from behind them the unmistakable roar of O’Chunks sounds like a battle cry, “NASTASIA!”

There’s too much noise to really distinguish everything happening at once, but it sounds a lot like O’Chunks is blindly barreling through obstacles to get to the source of her pained yell.

“Don’t come this way!” she shouts desperately. “We’re coming back!”

The sound of crackling creeps closer, an increase in temperature, a thick swirl of barely breathable air.

Dimentio laughs grimly, replacing one broken barrier wall with another, hoping it’s big enough to keep Nastasia, wherever she’s fallen, out of harm’s way. “Not dust… Ash!” A volcano. A land desolate of greenery, consisting of cooled lava trails. The uninhabitable grounds of soot and death.

“Nassy!” Mimi cries as O’Chunks heavy, pounding steps approach. “Are you okay?”

“D-don’t come—” Nastasia tries again, struggling to right herself.

Another barrier shatters; Dimentio finds Nastasia and pulls her by her uninjured elbow roughly toward the crackling. “Yes, come!” he shouts, as Nastasia tries to dig her heels in, confused. “Hurry, perhaps!”

“L-let go!” Nastasia snaps. Dimentio yanks her until they’re up against a wall of his making.

O’Chunks snarls at the fright in her voice, honing in on it. Dimentio jerks out of the way when O’Chunks nearly plows straight into him. Close enough now, he presses into Nastasia with his shoulder (one); touches O’Chunks’ shin with his foot (two); finds Mimi, perched on a large shoulder, with one hand (three); touches Luigi, still sleeping, damn him, under an arm, with the other (four)—

All accounted for—snap.

They land in a discombobulated heap in the grass. The rain has finally started to fall, but it’s a pleasant smattering of drops.

It might even have been enjoyable, after all that sudden heat, were it not for O’Chunks’ giant hand closing around Dimentio’s throat. He makes a weak croaking sound, legs kicking uselessly as he’s lifted from the ground against a tree.

“O’Chunks—” Nastasia winces, rolling off of her side and blinking into the shocking light, pupils shrinking at seeing too much now. She’s cradling her arm, still with the cloak wrapped around it, stained red. “Stop it—”

“Shouldn’ta left her with ye, known it weren’t enough tae trust that ye wouldn’—”

Mimi jumps up with a shriek, wide eyed and disoriented, trying to pull O’Chunks’ arm away.

“—can’ believe I let ye—ye touch her ag’in I’ll—”

“Chunks, he didn’t hurt me!” Nastasia barks angrily. “Put—him—down!”

He seethes, glaring the rest of the meaning out, and reluctantly opens his fingers enough for Dimentio to crumple, limp and coughing, down against the trunk. He jerks his arm out of Mimi’s grasp; she barely notices the aggression in it, instead kneeling by Dimentio to help him recover. Then O’Chunks turns around, finally looks at Nastasia, and the angry color drains from his face.

“Nastasia, yer…yer arm!” He approaches, crouches down and reaches out to remove her makeshift wrapping.

She pushes away on her feet, sliding backward on the forest floor until Luigi presses a reassuring hand against her back, having been woken by the fall. “Don’t,” she warns, looking O’Chunks right in the eye, and he flinches.

He stands frozen for a moment, lost.

Behind him, Dimentio coughs so hard he retches.

That gets O’Chunks moving. He turns and walks very carefully into the trees, disappearing into them.

Mimi rises quickly.

“No,” Luigi says gently, peeling the cloak off to look at Nastasia’s wound, and Mimi stops to stare at him. He didn’t sleep enough; he looks exhausted. “Don’t follow him yet. Give him some time to cool off.”

Nastasia pushes her glasses up to rest on her crown, pressing her fingers into the bridge of her nose, wishing it would prevent the headache building behind her eyes. In the process Luigi’s hat, which absently she had put on to keep track of it, falls from her head and back into its owner’s hands.

“Oh,” she says, wondering if she should apologize for wearing it without permission.

“Thanks for guarding it while I was out,” he says around a yawn, stretching out lazily on the lawn, under the gentle rain. “Should probably wrap that.” He nudges her arm. “And clean it.”

His eyes close, leaving that duty inevitably to someone else.

•※•※•

#my writing #find bleck au #i'm sorry the POV jumps around so much i'm too lazy to edit #but i think it reads ok #team bleck #super paper mario

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