#been saying this for years but this is such a great perfect way to demonstrate it in practice

[octavio-world]

via Ben Davis at ArtNet.

https://news.artnet.com/art-world-archives/foreigners-everywhere-unpacked-part-2-venice-biennale-review-2485128

[megistusdiary]

can i interest you all in figure-skating coach!arlecchino?

(longer post utc. no smut, just fluff? - tw slight age gap and also idk specifics on figure skating, i just like the idea 😚)

she's a well-known figure-skater, having gone to the olympics for snezhnaya for several years, each time bringing home the gold for her nation.

she's elegant in her movements yet calculated down to each singular motion to pull it all together in beautiful displays on ice. her outfits are always perfect down to the very threads sewn together.

the way she carries herself at conferences, on camera she's stoic but professional, and pretty enough to have both men and women at her feet when she performs.

that is until the incident.

a chronic back injury she's sustained from pushing her body too far. her coach was always relentless. even when she was miles ahead of her fellow competitors, her coach wanted more.

her coach demanded perfection from all her trainees, yet arlecchino was different. held on a pedestal for all to see.

but don't get it twisted. arlecchino herself would often be found practicing these challenging routines all alone at 3 in the morning. she would be exhausted, limbs aching, and relentless to achieve the cleanest routine.

that back injury changed her life. she disappeared for a few years from the skating world, leaving many of her fans in shock and fear.

luckily, for them, she returned soon after with an apprentice of her own. a younger man by the name of tartaglia with a rather charming theme to all his performances.

unlike arlecchino, he was bolder in his performances. a little sloppy, by her standards, but he made up for it in his flair. she could see even the judges swooning over him, the fans' attention now on him rather than her.

or so she had assumed.

she meets you when her old coach introduces the two of you. she's a good several years older than you, and you still carry that sweet, fresh-faced, joyful look on your face.

as you practice your routine for the both of them, her old coach leans over, suggesting arlecchino take you instead.

she snorts uncharacteristically at the suggestion, watching how your spins are slightly wobbly, the way you look just a tad too small on the ice. she wonders how in the world she could make you a star.

it isn't until she sees you perform with your music, with your passion, that she decides to train you.

she grows annoyed by how starkly different her old coach's methods have become. unlike when arlecchino trained, you clearly haven't been sculpted to perfection. she wonders how, at this point in your career, you wouldn't be there. though, she supposes your smile and demeanor make-up for some of your faults.

she trains you harder, scheduling extra lessons for you outside of your normal hours, watching you yawn and rub your eyes when she calls you in at midnight.

many of her students often leave, saying the pressure was too great. how she was too demanding. she never offered extra lessons, expecting people to bring her talent to work with in the first place.

so why did she give you extra attention?

why wouldn't she just let you leave?

no. she didn't want that... she wouldn't let that happen. she'd rather take extra time to not only make you competent, but a fierce competitor.s

she's even put you in ballet classes. even more remarkable is her own talent in ballet, which you can't help but admire.

the first time she ever finds herself looking at you closer than she imagined. she stands next to you, demonstrating stretches, her hand running up your spine to adjust your posture.

you exhale so softly, almost imperceptibly, but it makes her touch falter, landing just a little too tenderly at the base of your spine before she pulls away. she watches you the rest of the lesson, adjusting your legs and arms to the proper position, her hand trailing up to graze over your jaw.

she tilts your head upwards. "stop looking down." she comments, low and sultry, seeing you swallow thickly. "you're being trained by one of snezhnaya's most renowned figure skaters. act like it."

she gently squeezes your jaw before releasing you. "we're finished for the day." she leaves you panting, entirely embarrassed and internally screaming out.

unbeknownst to you, she sits in the car, staring at the hand she used to touch your jaw, a hardened look on her face. she clenches her hand, a soft blush appearing on her normally dull cheeks as she waits for you so you may both leave the ballet studio.

when you finally do perform at competitions, she finds herself growing much more vocal. oftentimes, she remains quiet, only cringing at her other students' stumbles and deductions.

but not with you.

your moves have become much more elegant, and everyone can see. the commentary surrounds how you seem to emulate the epitome of what your coach stood for herself, but in a much softer tone.

your performance leaves her enraptured, your routine completely clean, garnering you praise and showers of applause.

yet you leave the ice with only one person in mind, your hand brushing over hers when you walk past her to find your water bottle.

and, for the first time, she finds herself wanting more. even when you're sweaty under your glittering dress, hair a mess, makeup starting to smudge. she wants you. her perfect apprentice.

[trombonechurchill]

Cutting Out the Middleman

Taylor Kelly/Lucy Donato, 1,154 words, rated T

Deep down, she thinks both she and Buck knew they were fighting against the current, that their broken edges were causing more cracks the tighter they tried to hold things together. And she's relieved, in a way. Taylor's never been good at lying to herself and she has to admit that's what she'd been doing for a long time now.

Probably since the second Buck kissed Lucy, really.

For the @9-1-1-kinkmeme prompt: What it says on the tin. After she and Buck break up, Taylor decides she wants to find out what was so great about kissing that hot flight medic. Lucy's happy to demonstrate.

Read here or on AO3

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

Taylor should be out celebrating. She just broke the story of the decade about a serial killer amongst some of the city's finest and yet she's here; haunting the same old badge and ladder doing a postmortem of yet another relationship crash and burn. Taylor Kelly, coming to you live from the smoldering wreckage of the last several months of her life. And she can't even really be all that mad about it.

Deep down, she thinks both she and Buck knew they were fighting against the current, that their broken edges were causing more cracks the tighter they tried to hold things together. And she's relieved, in a way. Taylor's never been good at lying to herself and she has to admit that's what she'd been doing for a long time now.

Probably since the second Buck kissed Lucy, really.

"What was it you said to me? 'I'd hate for things to get messy again'? I think you might have jinxed us with that one." As if summoned by some sort of karmic retribution, Lucy Donato swings herself into open seat next to Taylor at the bar.

Taylor fixes her with a tight smile, holding up her glass in a mock toast.

"If you're here to warn me off the 118, you can save your breath, I've learnt my lesson."

"The 118 can look after themselves, I am here to drink," Lucy says, enforcing the casual words with an easy sprawl of her legs. Out of the usual straight laced LAFD uniform or bulky bunker pants, Taylor supposes she shouldn't be surprised at the tight play of muscle under Lucy's jeans as she knocks her knee against where Taylor's are tucked up by the bar. Buck had insane thighs too, it must be a firefighter thing, she muses, taking another sip of her whiskey and polishing off the glass.

Lucy orders herself one of the beers on tap as Taylor considers her over the rim of her lowball glass, watching the smooth line of her throat as Lucy takes a long pull.

"Look, I'm not your enemy, I may have not liked how you did it, but I guess if the story had to come out, I'm glad it was you," Lucy says, apparently catching how Taylor had been eyeing her. She needed to work on her covert surveillance if she was being that obvious. Or maybe cut back on the drinking.

Taylor orders another lowball.

"I didn't say that you were," Taylor says simply, tilting her head and watching as Lucy's eyes follow the fall of her hair as it shifts over her shoulder. Time was, Taylor wasn't so sure if that was true. She didn't like it, playing the jealous girlfriend; feeling small and trapped and found wanting. Wondering what it was about her that pulled Buck across that line.

"You don't need to, your face is doing a lot of the talking for you," Lucy says back with a shrug, taking another long drink but punctuating the comment with a smile. Taylor does her best to school herself back into a neutral expression but she thinks maybe she's starting to get an inkling of what that thing may have been now.

"And what, exactly, do you think my face is saying?" Taylor raises a single polished eyebrow, an expression she's well perfected over the years, and feels a coil of satisfaction as Lucy turns fully to face her, giving her her full attention. Her eyes feel like a heavy weight on Taylor's skin as they trace across her face, down her cheek, her lips, back to Taylor's eyes. Taylor holds her stare.

"I think it's saying that there's something you want to ask me," Lucy says after a moment.

"That's presuming a lot." "Hey, I'm just calling it how I see it." Lucy's grin is charming, Taylor reluctantly admits, she can see the appeal. And Taylor's not blind, she could tell Lucy was attractive even sweaty and covered in soot, but it's different now, having those dark eyes turned on her, the full weight of Lucy's easy confidence and attention.

"So. What is it?" Taylor blinks, caught out staring for a second time tonight. "That you want to ask me," Lucy prompts again.

"I want to know why he kissed you," Taylor says, pleased to see that seems to have stumped Lucy at least for a moment.

"You know, I didn't expect you to actually come out and say it." Lucy scrubs at her chin, abashed but apparently not entirely ashamed for being called out about kissing someone else's boyfriend. Ex-boyfriend.

"I've found it's always better to be direct about things."

"Yeah, I'm getting that. For the record, I didn't know he had a girlfriend until after we kissed. It was all in good fun," Lucy says, still watching Taylor closely.

"No, I figured, which means something about you was worth it," Taylor surmises, leaning in closer. "If I could just figure out what…" Lucy's eyes land on her lips again and Taylor smirks in triumph.

"I'd be happy to demonstrate, you know, for science or whatever," Lucy says slowly, setting her glass aside.

Taylor's barely moved her own before she's stepping forward, high-heeled shoe placed firmly between the v of Lucy's legs as she shifts into her space. With Lucy sitting down, Taylor's just tall enough to be able to tilt Lucy's face up, nails carding and catching in the hair behind her ear as she pulls her to face her.

Lucy's mouth is warm and Taylor feels heat bloom in her stomach as she wraps a strong arm around her waist and pulls her closer, her other hand coming to rest with surprising gentleness to tilt Taylor's face and deepen the kiss.

Taylor chases the taste of hops and saliva as she presses in closer, her own lips already whiskey warm and tingling as Lucy's tongue brushes over the seam of her lips as Taylor opens her mouth for more.

For a breathless moment, it's all Taylor feels, the slick slide of Lucy's mouth, the hot brand of her arm across her back and gentle fingers against her cheek. She sees a flash of dark eyes watching her under long lashes before Taylor finally pulls back, wiping at the corner of her mouth where she's sure her lipstick's smudged and clearing her throat.

"Well, I suppose I can see what all the fuss was about," Taylor says belatedly, forcing herself back and out of the loose loop of Lucy's arm as she drops back into her seat.

They're both quiet for a moment, drinking in easy comradery even as Taylor can see Lucy watching her from the corner of her eye.

"You know," Lucy starts after a beat, "I'm happy to try it again, you know. If you needed to collect more data or something."

Taylor grins.

"I do like to be thorough," she agrees, leaning back in.

[lintwriting]

Disney’s Comphet Episode

girl meets world's legacy will most likely be its total flop as a sequel to boy meets world, as well as the worst autism rep ever lol but I'll personally always remember it for how much it FUMBLED THE BAG because it introduced a stupid love triangle.

why were there so many shows in the late 'aughts dedicated to RUINING their shows with pointless ship wars? star vs the forces of evil, danny phantom, and girl meets world are just off the top of my head.

we have these two perfect best friend characters. surprisingly perfect friendship. okay, more like, veering on homoromantic.

(via @forbescaroline)

and then you know what they do with it? They insert the MOST WHITE BREAD ass love interest ever in the form of Lucas.

his defining characteristic is that he's a dreamy goodboy, and there's nothing wrong with that except that he's EXTREMELY boring compared to the oddballs of the rest of the cast, like Farkle or Maya or Riley.

The one thing that subsidizes his bore factor is that all his love triangle ship drama fuels conflict in the show.

he's the straight man--ha, get it? kys

he's dreamy enough to have these perfect friends in conflict over him.

and it kind of ruins the fun of the show.

like, i don't want to see Riley and Maya fight. and they don't even want to fight either. so they're just sighing sadly at each other, meanwhile im over here WHY WOULD YOU EVEN WANT TO DATE LUCAS??

it's giving "she was a girl, he was a boy, can I make it anymore obvious"

like i appreciate a show that demonstrates that girls in competition over a guy DO NOT need to be catty or mean (from what I can remember), but like, this should have been a 1 episode plot AT MOST GOD

they expand on the plot in the most bizarre ways possible too. like i havent watched this show in years, but i still remember this shit.

The premise of the show is that Riley falls into Lucas's lap on a bus in ep 1, so they're basically an end game couple from the beginning. But they have to introduce a shitty love triangle.

So they then have an episode where Maya "acts" as Riley for a day, and while she's acting as Riley, she realizes that Riley doesn't love Lucas and most likely sees him as a brother. which, first of all, is the craziest shit ive ever heard, and second of all

COULD HAVE BEEN THE MOST BEAUTIFUL scene about comphet EVER in a disney kids show.

the DRAMA. the PROJECTION. "she's confused" "feelings you don't understand"

the contrast between what Riley THINKS she feels for Lucas and what Maya feels for Riley. Riley ASKING MAYA "how do I feel, then, maya?" and MAYA's "just tell me what to say" !!! It's the "Good Luck, Babe" of it all!!!!!!!!

it astounds me that this exists in the show! i remembered nothing else about the show EXCEPT for this scene and the terrible autism PSA farkle episode lol.

they use this to fan maya x lucas flames and some drama about maya becoming riley in the last season, which I have zero clue about because all that exists to me is that one crystal clear moment of comphet.

so yeah, while I don't care for sabrina carpenter's music, im extremely happy that she covered chappell roan's "Good Luck, Babe" because it led to this amazing edit that compiles all these moments lol

what a moment. everything, it all has led up to this 67 views edit.

last thing I gotta say, I feel like the drama of "are you becoming me" would've ATE as drama, especially in a sapphic context. like some jennifer's body type shit. instead, it's poorly executed, one-sided, and does harm to both of their characters, from what I've read. BUT LIKE, there's no way it was one-sided. The envy/self-projection thing nor the love!! THEY HAD TO HAVE BEEN RECIPROCAL oh my god i can't Disney was SO CLOSE to greatness WHYYYYYYYYYYY

[tyttamarzh]

CONGRATULATIONS DEATH FAMILY!!! This is a megapost for celebration. 💗

Today marks one year since the arrival of Chayanne and the birth of the Death Family! And I have prepared a series of gifts to celebrate!!

First in the list… well, I wanted make a special something, so, I decided reunites all the arte that I made about them and create a commemorative video… I thinks isn't a big deal but… I hope you can enjoy it! Really I love this family, really I love them, and I make this whit all the love in my heart. 💕

It was incredible to realize that by putting all this together I could tell a small story, I really feel bad for not drawing more moments with Phil and the children, I think it is very noticeable that my main is Missa, so the song and everything seems to be from its perspective (but that's okay, because there really is very little material focused on him and his perspective).

Now a little remembrance:

That day… the adoption day… when the destiniy unite Phil and Missa with the "D" tickets.

They had to choose an egg to adopt. Missa left the decision to Phil (who initially wanted chose Dapper), who finally, at the crows' insistence, opted for that nice guy with the ducky floatie.

So they had to give him a name, this time, Missa was the one who decided and at the insistence of the Missaurios, he chose the name "Chayanne"

At that moment our little warrior was born, at the same time that a loving, protective and warm family was formed that did not know that it would have to go through a thousand obstacles in their life in the island.

From the beginning, Chayanne was encouraged to become a great warrior by his parents. His father Missa encouraged him to be a protective hero and his father Philza's stories about the legendary Technoblade inspired him to become an invincible fighter. Chayanne has been through great dangers and has had to make difficult decisions despite his young age. That has helped him become what he is now, someone very strong who was able to stand up to his father, Phil, being possessed by Enderking, to save him.

Chayanne has managed to combine his role as a warrior with his love for cooking, a hobby he acquired after spending an afternoon baking desserts with Missa (who taught him how to cook from the first days). His great passion was always encouraged by Philza, who always helped him obtain materials and encouraged him to create various dishes when necessary for a task. Despite still being a child, Chayanne has become the best chef on the Island.

From the first days Death Family became one of the most loving and functional families on the island. Phil and Missa built something beautiful, all thanks to his warm heart and tender, protective fatherly attitude. I know that there have been several bumps in the road, things cannot be perfect, but it has been thanks to the love that they have for each other that they have managed to move forward despite everything and have managed to overcome the obstacles. Thanks to that, I now know that no matter what happens or what problems arise, they will be okay, because it is the four of them against the world.

But that's not all I have to say. I can't celebrate this union without talking about the incredible relationship between Phil and Missa.

When this family started, I never thought it would become an important part of my life and it has all been thanks to the incredible chemistry that the two of them had from the beginning.

No one would have imagined pairing Philza, being one of the most experienced Minecraft players, with Missasinfonia, probably one of the least experienced on the island (but in my opinion the one with the biggest heart), would create this unique, loving and angst dynamic at once. Circumstances have created a panorama that has turned them into the sun and the moon, being a couple that longs for each other for not being able to be together, a couple that constantly demonstrates their love for each other in different ways, who always keep in mind to the other, who fight to defend what they have and who make the most of the few moments they can be together, giving us adorable and incredible moments that are capable of driving us crazy and feeding us well enough to keep us alive, desperately waiting for the next eclipse.

However you want to see it, romantic or platonic, whatever they are doesn't matter. What difference does it make if they have been able to give us moments that have managed to steal our hearts? What they both have is very special and labels don't really matter, the only thing that matters is being able to see them together once again creating unique and fun moments together and with their children.

Today I want to celebrate the birthday Chayanne and the Death Family, but I also want to celebrate Phil and Missa as a couple. THEM, simply THEM. Because their dynamic and their strong feelings for each other have managed to create a beautiful community and have brought us all together here, to toast them and wait for their reunion. Thank You! 💖

[mehilaiselokuva]

Interviewing a beginner Finnish learner

A bit of a different post for today! I have been working with a friend who has started self-learning Finnish. Maybe you can gain some inpiration or tips from this interview we conducted! I have added extra commentary bits to some parts, marked with "C".

PREFACE

Interviewer: Me

Interviewee: @nuniante

Been learning Finnish for: half a month

Previous knowledge of the language: none

1. How long have you studied finnish actively?

A) ive been studying for just about half a month

2. What is your study routine like? do you study daily?

A) i try to write notes everyday about grammar concepts i think will help me advance at my current level (so far really basic stuff). i try but dont study daily. i also use duolingo to learn basic expressions/vocab and try to immerse myself in finnish through making some of the apps on my phone in finnish.

C) He tends to write at least one sentence in Finnish a day in our groupchat to the best of his abilities and will ask if he doesn't know a word. I feel like that's a very good way to learn when you are learning a specific dialect like he is.

3. What kinds of notes do you take? what do you write down? do you always write things down or just memorize things without writing?

A) my notes are basic. i write in the exceptions but i dont really go into detail sometimes. i might skip over something mentioned in the lesson or material im using if i think that a concept they bring up is inferrable. for vocab i try to memorize words i learn because i know so few that theres not much point to writing anything down. i think when ill reach a more advanced level ill start to write down more

C) I think that this approach is great, finding things you know you'll use and learning those first is useful!

4. What was your initial plan when studying? what things did you study in what order?

A) my initial plan for studying was trying to learn the basics and formal language to help me in learning colloquial speech, which i planned to learn from a friend (im talking about you juho). so far ive studied the basic cases + declensions, basic verbs conjugations, demonstratives and conjunctions and im rn learning about the numbers and the plural forms of nouns. i plan to take a break from grammar and learn vocab next.

C) Remember that all this is just half a month in! I think learning grammar before vocab is very good! You'll start picking up core words while doing that and of you perfect those grammar points early on, you will find speaking and writing easier fast.

5. What is your goal?

A) i dont really have a goal, but i think that if i could hold up a real conversation in finnish id feel successful.

6. What has been the most difficult + easiest?

A) i think the hardest thing so far has been consonant gradation or numbers. gradation can feel irrational, what with weird sound changes (eg. k > v) and also how you cant really predict what grade a noun/verb should be in depending off its form. easiest might be vowel harmony. you can decide harmony just by feeling what sounds better.

C) For once, a learner has not only learned vowel harmony but has no mistakes using it and will not forget that it's there. If you are more than half a year in learning and you still cannot remember to apply vowel harmony accordingly, you need to make it your priority ASAP.

7. How would you rate your current finnish level (speaking, writing, reading)

A) id say theyre all low. reading is probably my highest because i dont really consume finnish any other way. juho said my finnish accent is ok so i think that makes speech second. i havent listened to finnish yet so i cant even tell.

C) This person writes and speaks better Finnish than some people who have been learning the language for like three years! He is very careful with congruence which many learners don't consider very much. This means that he is eliminating most of the beginner mistakes very early on

8. Additional comments.

A) i like saying hyvää yötä

C) I like that our groupchat has started using Finnish and picking up words like "joo" and "sama asia" since we speak the language now. I consider it very admirable that this person has not only started writing Finnish early on, but he is learning kirjakieli, puhekieli AND a dialect all the same time!

Feel free to use this as motivation or inspiration! I recommend finding a learning style that fits you, so remember that what worked for this person might not work for you! I could make this a series honestly, are any of you interested in participating?

[pythoness94]

Obscure fanfic recs, the opinion piece, part two.

This one contains relationship advice and analysis so that's like great? I guess? and it's a more serious take then my last one but like. What can I say? this one was darker then the last. So, I hope by reading these you look into the fics yourselves because every single one of these are wonderful. Also, if y'all got a fic you want me to look into like this (which, lets be fr, you probably don't.) let me know and I'll look into it! As always, thanks to @the-aphelion-archives for the recs and let's get into this.

Fic name is "i hate how you’re going through hell, when you’d never let anyone else: by gaysforbyler "

Opening thoughts: Well, this is a fic I’ve read before and starting out. I adore it, this is the EXACT type of Fic I love. I read this fic very often and the author is one of my favs. So let’s GET INTO no?

Fic thoughts: First things first, I love how Will’s mood matches Mike. He’s not perfect but he’s trying and I love that. It matches a real relationship perfectly, it’s not all sunshine and rainbows and I KNOW it’s been beaten to death but coming from someone who is in a three year long relationship COMMUNICATION is the best thing you can do. And sometimes, communication isn’t sitting down and spilling your guts like your partner is your therapist. Sometimes communication is just saying you aren’t feeling it, or letting them know you don’t want to do things, saying that you just aren’t okay. And when you can’t say that, you have to find a way to say that. I:e, what Mike and Will do in this fic using examples. “Rollercoasters and concrete.” Also, communication is a two way street. While it’s also a partner's job to talk, it’s also their job to LISTEN. Which Will didn’t do at first, he kept pushing, and pushing, and pushing Mike until Mike broke. This is what I was talking about: how relationships aren’t all sunshine and rainbows, sometimes it’s one person tugging too hard on the rope while the other is just weakly holding it so they fall into the mud. But it’s the person tugging to hard job to drop the rope and clean their partner up, asking what’s wrong and trying to fix it. This is how relationships work and this fic demonstrates that excellently.

Okay so, this is one of the things that signal that you need to pick yourself up and get your head into the fucking game and outside of your pitying spiral ”. “Fuck you” Mike spat out” Now for Will, this was strange for Mike because, as we all know, Mike doesn’t do that to Will. So it was the perfect thing to cuff him upside the head and go “HEY DIPSHIT SOMETHING IS WRONG WITH YOUR BOY!” Personally, I’ve had things like this with my girlfriend (her getting quiet and snippy with me.) and I’ve been told that one of my tells is me just getting terse and competitive with things that don’t fucking matter. So Will soothing Mike and getting him OUTTA THERE, is good shit. It reminds me of when i get overwhelmed and my girl hands me her airpods. Good shit.

Will is such a good boyfriend in this fic, recognizing that he fucked up and doing his best to listen to him, great stuff. Also, Mike is characterized AMAZINGLY. His depression is portrayed wonderfully (has a person with diagnosed depression, it’s like this a lot for me. Mike is me fr) This is wonderful. The wheeler family…they’re something else. I can ramble all day about their dynamics but that’s for a different post, different time. But I can say that I TOTALLY see Karen doing that, accidently dismissing something really serious due to 80’s bullshit. Mike and Will are SO cute. However, to address the elephant in the room. I love when people talk about the quarry. It’s a…tender… subject not only for me but others in the fandom and I HATE how the duffers brush over it. That kinda shit sticks with you and I don’t like how nobody brings it up. Not only did Mike jump off a cliff, but he did it for Dustin, who was there, and saw him. Honestly? If I was Dustin I wouldn’t let Mike outta my sight. If Dustin was there for season 3 he wouldn’t have let that shit where Mike hit Billy with a pipe and ran at him when he hit Max slide. He would flip his shit and put his foot down so that Mike needs to be more careful. Another reason why I hate it when people make the party hate Mike. That’s not how people react when their CLOSE friends don’t reciprocate another CLOSE friend’s feelings. They don’t all turn on one fucking person, even if they did choose sides it wouldn’t be everybody and their MOM on fucking Mike’s ass, at least SOME would be against Will. Like I said in the past, if you can’t imagine your ST cast being against Will in this situation or ANY situation but then turning on Mike with a finger snap is totally reasonable then your characters are OOC.

I have some great feelings about the ending. Will recognizes that he can’t handle Mike’s issues alone and guides Mike into letting him tell his mom (AKA a trusted adult.) This is what you should do in this situation. It’s not on YOU to help your partner get better, you’re not their therapist, you’re not their mom or dad, you’re their partner. That’s it, and the only person that can help someone get better is themselves and they will never get better if YOU get worse because you’re struggling to carry the brunt of their problems on your back. Will puts it real good at the end here. “Maybe that’s all Will needs to do. He can be here— offer support, an ear, hugs, anything Mike needs. That’s how he can help. If that’s the case, he has a pretty easy job. There’s nowhere he’d rather be.” This is all you need to be. If someone ever, EVER, threatens to harm themselves or is doing something if you leave them, if someone getting better enterally relies on YOU, then call someone. Their mom, their dad, their siblings. If they are threatening to harm themselves, call the emergency line. The instant they start that shit, call it and ask for a wellness check and explain the situation. That isn’t your job to do, that’s the police’s and your partner's family to do. Do not try and talk your partner down unless you REALLY REALLY need to, you’re giving them exactly what they want. If it gets to the point where they are willing to pull that shit on you, then they need help you can’t give ‘em. Period, dot, end of story. Anyways. 

Will is a great boyfriend here and Mike is just so cute, and so real. Will doing his best to coo and coddle his boyfriend was great, made me feel like my girl was in the room with me lmao. It’s good, it’s cute, and it’s HEALTHY!!! Let’s fucking go.

Final thoughts: I can’t really say anything I haven’t already written, so, great fucking food. Byler was hella cute in this. This is my favorite fic, that’s why it’s so fucking long. I can’t promise the others will be this long but y’know? We’ll see how goes. Onto the next one!

[surrealisticduvet]

Album Review: Tropical Campfire’s (1992)

No, that’s not a [sic] in the album title. The original release had “...tropical campfire’s…” on the cover, a snippet from the vivid liner notes:

Somewhere in the great desert ocean the mighty bird stretches her wings. Night is falling and the horizon slowly disappears into the stars. Now she must navigate by the southwestern tropical campfire's mambo raga songs, their sounds rising from the desert floor up with the winds lifting her higher and higher and finally giving her a dead reckon, eastward, to the oasis and her home.

In the subsequent releases of this album, the cover was redone and our beloved apostrophe removed, likely due to the misconception that there was a glaring grammatical error on the cover. 

This album marks the end of Michael’s 13 year hiatus from studio album releases, and also marks the return of Red Rhodes to the recording studio! The tour associated with this album was one of the last things Red would work on, and his presence really takes the band from good to absolutely stunning. This is especially evident in the live performances, most notably for myself this one. I think I experienced a slice of ego death while watching - up until that point I hadn’t really appreciated the album, held back by my preconceptions of music from this time period in general and to an extent my love for the sound of Michael’s early work. Seeing the band live (recorded) in action made it impossible to ignore the dedication and passion the players have for their music - Tropical Campfires is not an album, it is a lifestyle, a convergence of musical styles and spiritual beliefs which culminated into twelve pristine tracks through which we can share in a small piece of that sublime artistry. 

A poll from my wonderful readers indicated that the track-by-track review style was nicer to read than the indiscriminately divisive utilization of favorites/critiques, so that’s how I’ll approach this one. Après vous! 

“Yellow Butterfly” - Any theoretical physicists in the crowd tonight? Referring to the “butterfly effect,” this song is a perfect introduction to what Tropical Campfires has to offer: contemplative melodies, jazzy piano and soft drum evoking the feeling of a warm lounge room, and an extraordinarily skillful guitar section swirling with a tropical breeze. 

“Laugh Kills Lonesome” - Just as someone who didn’t read the CD liner won’t understand its title, if you’re not familiar with the Charlie Russell painting Laugh Kills Lonesome, you might choose to pass this song by. It has a funky swing to it and a riveting percussion section and - not to repeat myself over and over, but the band is so talented. Michael’s recounting of his own experience with loneliness makes this song all the more powerful, and recursive in its truthfulness - who, listening, can feel lonesome? 

“Moon Over Rio Grande” - Drawing on the same gentle cowboyishness that is surprisingly shown not on his early records, but on Radio Wing, this song is pristine in its quietly passionate nature. His voice here is strong and intricately varied, demonstrating his abilities without abusing them. The minor key harmonic blend is strange and fascinating, adding a dissonant depth to a song that might otherwise be too beautiful. I make a broken record of myself at this point to say that Jorgenson is a master of the classical guitar (and others of its kind); and if you ever wanted to simply hear him in action without all those vocals getting in the way…

“One…” - Aside from its being a lovely composition and a bit of an instrumental break, this song certainly foreshadows the sort of music we’d hear two years later on The Garden. It features a tasteful callback to the chorus melody of “Rio,” letting it shine in a way we haven’t seen before, in a new genre. This album as a whole shows how thin the boundaries of style and genre are, in a much classier way than some of his previous attempts.

“Juliana” - Hasn’t it been a while since we’ve heard a pure, unironic love song from him? Unencumbered by youthful pride and folly, Michael sings a confession of his “true heart’s desire” in a way that might seem trite if not for its concrete sincerity. From another artist, this might be just another song on the shelf - but for the man with an extensive history of writing songs about moving on, rolling with the flow, and letting unfulfilling love pass him by, there is something supremely satisfying about the intensity, the slow, thoughtful dedication represented by this song.

“Brazil” - I’m hardly enough of a linguist to comment on the execution of this song, but it sounds lovely, the performance is wholehearted, and he even kills it live.

“In the Still of the Night” - Michael does two Cole Porter songs on this album, and although the second one is good too, no matter how many times I listen to this one, it always blows me away. It feels silly to love so deeply a song that the artist - being a notable songwriter themselves - did not write; but as with “Wax Minute,” it feels as if this song was written intentionally for him to sing. The understated bass-and-rhythm backing does the tenderhearted lyrics well - altogether, this song could not be more perfectly done in my book, save for being a few minutes longer. 

“Rising in Love” - If there is perhaps a weak link on this album, I think it would be this one, although that isn’t to say I dislike it. I very much love the verses, and the choruses aren’t bad either - it’s together that I don’t particularly love them. I think the transition is a little awkward and doesn’t quite achieve what it sets out to do. That being said… for lyrics as strong and sappy as these, I will sit through anything - and the guitar is so sharp and moving that it’s always a must-listen.

“Begin the Beguine” - Howdy again, Cole. I have not heard the original version of this song, so this review banks on the assumption that its style was at all different from what we see here, but I think the arrangement of this song is so lovely. And the way Michael’s voice can be so strong yet betray a sense of tiredness, of longing and weakness, is amazing.

“I Am Not That” - This song reminds me of John Lennon’s “God,” during which he denounces all but his own love. Here, Michael sets the record straight, finding it easier to tell us what he is by telling us what he is not. And in his traditional fashion, it is sung in such an upbeat, tongue-in-cheek way that you can’t tell exactly whether or not he’s joking. If he even is “he”!

“...For the Island” - A continuation of “One…”, “...For the Island” finally gives us some more lyrics, simple as they are. Backing vocals are used skillfully to blend into the existing melody, and although it doesn’t stand out as a song on its own, it is a nice bit of filler, which yes - is sometimes very much appreciated, and even necessary, on an already great album.

“Twilight on the Trail” - Absolutely a perfect closer for this album - in case you’ve forgotten who we’re dealing with, amongst all the genre experimentation we’ve experienced and will continue to see in the future, this is still Michael Nesmith, certified country boy. If you can’t picture yourself riding off into the sunset to this one, you’ve probably forgotten to press play. At the conclusion of the album, Red’s pedal steel features as heavily as it ought to, followed by more guitar, and some tasteful clip-clopping percussion. Really, you couldn’t ask for more.

Conclusion: Jane Austen’s Emma said “if I loved you less, I might be able to talk about it more,” and such is how I feel about Tropical Campfires - and why this review has taken me longer than any of the others (besides my being lazy, etc). When I first listened to it, I was offended by its originality, its audacity to be something fresh and genuine. Now I see that I was only blinded by what I did not understand (now that’s a bit more Mr. Darcy of me - not to mix book references), and so I feel that it is exceptionally hard to critique in a meaningful way. While this album is not technically perfect, it deserves to be noticed and lauded in the same way that we do retrospectively for the First National Band trilogy, if not more. And it’s just so beautiful and comforting! Literally go listen - and then spread the good word!

[superheroauthor]

I’m Alive! Sparky The Superhero’s Story

Chapter One – The Train Journey Home

   The Spark that lit my life lit the world

                        Historical, Great Earth

   Some people call me Sparky, for that is my name. I don’t use that name often but that is my name – in this life anyway.

   I used to be called Parker Maitland. Before I died, that is.

   I have the names of all the people who died to make me. I sometimes use one of those.

   Today I was calling myself Chunky, as that is what I am not.

   Six foot tall and skinny is what I am. My head is a mass of wild black hair, spiking out in some places and flat in others, and at the back in a long ponytail past my shoulders and down my back.

   A leather trench coat I wear, hobnailed boots. I look normal, but I am not.

   I was on a steam train returning from a hunt. I had been killing werewolves in the surrounds of the city of Hex. That’s in the West Country. Now I am returning to the city of The Smoke – the main capital of the city lands, that is.

   As I looked up at the clockwork magic glow-bulbs, floating on the train’s ceiling, I was thinking about my life. This one, my latest one.

   You have to understand, ten years ago I died. I was an engineer, one of those persons who could make anything from anything. To fix things was easy, complicated things took longer and the impossible, well, that did take a very long time but I could do it.

   With those skills I became an inventor in this clockwork world. That was what worked here: clockwork, a little magic and of course steam.

   This was not Old Earth or even Old, Old Earth. This was NEBULON 6, now called Clock. It was different from the other worlds. Very different from Old Earth where we had come from in The Ark. Different even from Great Earth where my ancestors were supposed to have lived.

   Here, the highest intelligence was the Punks, the punkawathas, but they have vanished now. No-one knows where they have gone. They are like a myth. They’ve been gone centuries. Next in the levels of genius were the Gods, or that is what they called themselves.

   Actually, they were Creators. Men and women who messed around making new things. Not inventing like I can do, instead they created new creatures. The werewolves that I had been hunting were one of the breeds of those creatures.

   They were geniuses one and all, the Creators. After all they had made me. This me.

   The best of the creators was Doctor Gory. She was a female doctor of incredible beauty who was totally nuts and liked inventing the weirdest things ever to be been even imagined. Zombies, vampires, dragons, werewolves, hellhounds, killer robots, mummies, gargoyles.

   Yes, she could make them all.

   She dug up corpses and would have turned them into demons and devils but she could not perfect the reanimation process. That process was taking a dead body and turning it into a living creature.

   Not one of the Creators had managed this. It was said to be against the will of the higher beings of this world. However, as far as we knew, here on Clock there were no higher beings. That thing about the higher beings was an old saying, a hangover from Old Earth. Here the people did not really believe in Gods and the like. The closest things to them were the Creators and they could not give life to a dead person.

   This was considered on Clock to be the difference between Gods and Mortals, the essence of life. As no-one here could demonstrate that elusive power, no gods were worshipped.

   We had no Gods but we did have a few cults. The Cult of the Old Ones, the punkawathas. Also, the Cult of the Green Earth who were into growing things. They thought all things living were beautiful and all connected to one another in some mystical way.

   No Gods though. Not on the planet of Clock.

   Now though there was a Creator who could give life. Doctor Gory. I knew this for a fact. After all, she had given me life. Made me from many corpses, adding and subtracting bits until one day I arose. Alive.

   A glow bulb above me blew and I reached up and took it in my hands. I twisted it and it split into two pieces, each piece a mass of clockwork. I span the flywheel and it glowed for a second and then died. The magic in it was weakening.

   I turned my back to the other passengers and touched that tiny little wheel and sparks came from my finger. The wheel span again. The sparks from my finger had powered up the small amount of magic again.

   I twisted it back together again and it glowed with a pearl-like light. I let it go and it floated upward to the ceiling of the compartment.

   Everyone clapped.

   I saw the conductor coming and, after a quick bow, walked to the little compartment between the carriages.

   You see, I could not afford a ticket. You don’t get paid for killing werewolves, you know.

   The price of train tickets these days is extortionate, hideously expensive. Fifteen shillings and thruppence when you could buy a loaf for a halfpenny. That was the price for a trip from one city to another. In my youth, near on eighty years ago, the price was one shilling for a ride from one city to another. Travel two cities along and it was two shillings. The price of a loaf then . . . a ha’penny.

   There was only one thing to do.

   “Tickets, please!” came the cry as the conductor opened the door to this compartment and faced me, shutting the door behind him.

   I nodded at him and he came close. I held a coin and put it in his hand and then I used my power. Sparks flew and he got a jolt of my power, pure ‘tricity and he flew back and hit the compartment wall. I coshed him and rifled the fares pouch, big leather folding thing it was, to hold tickets and the money. It was a lot of money but I rifled his pockets just the same.

   A screwdriver, that would come in handy. Obviously, he did odd jobs on the steam train as many others did. Screws, nuts and washers in a little pouch. Excellent. Some small change, he wouldn’t need that. Handkerchief, no. Kerchief around his neck, no. Keys, excellent. I could use those. Mints, they would help pass the journey.

   Now it was time he left. So out of the door and onto the tracks he went. It was alright. The train was picking up speed. One hundred and ten miles per hour. He would be dead as he hit the ground. All right and dandy. No witnesses at all.

   I could not afford the fare and I would need to eat tonight and maybe get new lodgings, so my need was greater than his. It seemed simple to me.

   Who hunted the beasts to keep the city folks safe? Me? It was only right he pay me back.

   As I passed into the next carriage, there was a food seller. There would be at least a couple on every train. This one was selling meat pies. He didn’t state what the meat was and I did not enquire. On some matters, it is best to be in the dark.

   Oh? I am an animated corpse, do I need to eat? The truth is, not really. It’s more of a habit from previous lives. Not my previous lives, all our previous lives.

   If I eat, I need to eliminate. Urinate the liquids and defecate the solids. It’s a messy business so sometimes I go weeks without eating. Nonetheless I like to eat and drink.

   It makes me feel human.

   Can I die? Fucked if I know!

   My heart beats, my brain works but can I die? I do not know.

   All I know is ‘tricity flows through my body at all times.

   Do I weaken if my blood flows away? Again, I have no idea whatsoever.

   I still have blood, my heart still beats, my brain still works. That is enough.

   I am good at surviving. I have to be, to stay one step ahead of the Creators.

   The first true animated human. They all want me, the Creators that is. To know how I work.

   Maybe they will cut me up into little bits to find out. That is why I stay one step ahead of them.

   I know them all. From a research point of view anyway. I know where they live, what they like to create and what they want to make in the future.

   The fog was getting thicker. We would get to the city soon. Getting off would be no problem. I had my ticket. In fact, I had a whole load of tickets.

   Everything had been tucked away in my long trench coat. A big black leather one it was, that went down to my knees. There were so many pockets in it, I couldn’t count them up. Normal pockets, hidden pockets, clockwork-magic pockets. Even one that needed steam to open it.

   On top of that, my backpack. That too had lots of pockets though it was not large. Just a little pack like walkers use.

   It was dark outside but then it always was from the train. City magic and the rest of the country did not mix. They couldn’t see the cities and the trains, those from the country.

   I saw someone with a music box. Just a little one, smaller than the palm of my hand, churning out a horrible tinny little tune that sounded discordant and annoying.

   Fog was seeping into the carriages now. The floor was like a carpet of gloom. Good, that meant the station was very close. A whistle echoed down the train and the lady put her music box in her long pouch.

   I did not grab it or hurt her. That would be rude. She had done me no harm. She had not overcharged me.

   As we embarked from the train, we queued to return our tickets to the guard and leave the station. As the lady got her ticket punched, I cut the cords to her pouch with a tiny razor blade. The music box dropped into my hand and was in one of my pockets in a flash.

   I was then impatiently waving my ticket about and the guard took it and I passed through. I went in the opposite direction as the lady. I was going towards the Murky Café.

   All was gloomy on this street. The fog made my vision ahead into a haze so I could barely see ten feet. Steam powered trams were rocketing past on the roads making them difficult to cross. The lights were from gas lamps, the poor man’s choice but used by the city to light the area at night.

   Wealthy people, even middle-class people, lit their houses with clockwork magic. A few used this new-fangled ‘tricity that had been invented some years back. Invented but not quite trusted by most. Clockwork magic could light and heat your home at the flick of a switch so why use this untested ‘tricity? It was mostly the flashy new rich that did it. The more steady rich stuck to the old ways.

   The poor, all they could afford was gas and then only for lighting. Heating their little hovels would have just cost too much.

   I went into the café and ordered a Roo pie and a cup of java. The Roo pie dutifully jumped around on the plate until I speared it with a fork. It wasn’t alive, just a magical effect to make the food more interesting. As I ate, I took apart the music box.

   I did not nick it out of spite or even because of the horrible noise it made. It had components I needed. I took it all apart until it was just cogs and gears and bits of metal on the table. The flywheel was rising and dropping just slightly on the table, thus showing it still had magic in it.

   I took out my jeweller’s screwdrivers and a magic battery from one of my pockets. I rearranged the music box and its components around the battery and fitted it to the end of my cosh. The cosh had lines of sparks running up and down it now. There was only a little metal box left of the music box. I screwed this onto the base of the cosh and the sparks stopped. Tapping that box would make the sparks flow through the cosh or stop them if it was on.

   The café was quite large but also dingy. Grease slid down the once painted brown walls, fog carpeted the floor. The wood of the chairs and tables was cheap, indeed the legs of some of the chairs were quite spindly. They would not survive another year.

   There were no table cloths here, just the tops of the tables, discoloured by many years of use.

   I drank some java out of the ceramic pint mug. Suddenly my pie was snatched away and a goon was leering at me and laughing. He crammed the whole pie into his mouth, crumbs and bits of food spreading across his face or dropping on the floor.

   This café was for solitary folk, but sometimes the clients were not the best brought up.

   “Give me money for java, runt!”

   I was no runt at six foot tall but he was no runt either. He had a couple of inches on me and was built like a brick train station.

   I stood up. He just laughed, spitting what remained of my pie on the floor. There was no doubt of it, he was a big man. Dirty, heavy overcoat, big black hobnail boots that might have been from a Crusher. Leather knee britches with patchwork cloth gaiters to cover up his wool knee-length socks. A cap that looked like it had been dipped in oil.

   This man was a roadman. The sort that slept outside under the train arches, who stole for a living and moved from area to area in the city to avoid the Crushers catching up with them. Hard as nails and twice as thick.

   I think this one has been on the guano juice. The guano was a fruit that only insects ate because its smell was disgusting. Its taste was supposed to be worse. If you had the stomach to drink its juice though, it had a psychotropic effect, as well as getting you pissed in one second flat.

   “I need money for java, runt, and so you got to pay.”

   You never showed your purse to a roadman. He would steal it the second you went to give him a coin. He would then punch you in the mouth to say thank you.

   “He won’t leave!” complained old Tucus, the owner. “He leaves and you eat for free for the night. He never comes back and you always eat for free.”

   I understood what he meant, though the roadman probably had not.

   Get him out and eat my fill, kill him and I would always be fed here.

   Old Tucus was the owner of the Murky Café. He was in his fifties, old for this part of the city. He was as fat as a porcine, a good thing for a cook. I never thrusted thin cooks. He was always sweating but then it was hot back there in the kitchen.

   He was a good man Tucus, a man you could trust. A man who had fed me for nothing on more than one occasion

   I pushed my head backwards and it tapped my neck support. Though it was not really a neck support. I pulled the piece of metal at the back of my neck and as it slid upwards and out, sections of metal dropped down to form a crossbar. As it slid totally out more sections dropped into place and there was a sword. A good sword. One of my own design.

   I shook it to make sure it was rigid and all the bits were in place. The handle was long so I could use with a one hand grip or two. By the looks of the roadman I would need two.

   Now he was looking at me with apprehension. Roadmen are bullies, plain and simple. They get out of their heads on guano juice and bully all around them to get their food and drink. The only ones they didn’t bully were café owners. They needed places for shelter in the day, hot food and drinks so café owners were safe. Hurt one and the cafés all across the city could ban them.

   Worse, the café owners could get Crushers to guard them.

   I swished the sword through the air. It cut through the air with a satisfying breeze.

   The roadman was no fool. He slipped on a metal gauze glove and pulled a knife. The glove was to grab bladed weapons, the knife to cut me and make his point.

   “Leave naked or don’t leave,” I told him to wind him up some more. His whole life would be in his pockets. He was a roadman.

   I stood there, breathing easily but doing nothing else. Tucus was hardly breathing at all I saw.

   A flash of movement and the huge man was charging me, one hand out to grab the sword, the other hand held back in readiness to thrust deep when my move was exposed. I did not move and, hardly believing his luck, he grabbed the blade . . . and I let the sparks flow through me into that sword and from the sword into that metal gauze gauntlet.

   Cooked flesh, smelling like porcine, wafted its odour through the room as the man screamed and snatched his hand back. The blade swept through its arc and the roadman’s head came off clean. Blood spurted like water from the neck in a fountain. One second, two, three, four and the body fell, spraying blood onto the tile floor.

   “Sparky, you excel yourself!” Tucus seemed exuberant, maybe too happy to just have rid himself of a roadman. Maybe he actually cared whether I lived or died. “You come back later and your old mate Tucus will lay on a feast for you. Porcine with ogre-berries, you like that. Your favourite, yes?”

   “If the Crushers come in, it was Chunky here tonight, not Sparky.” I gave him the stare to show how serious I was.

   He looked a little lost for a moment and then caught on.

   “Chunky, the fat boy, yes. He carries an axe. That one?”

   I grinned and left the café.

   I was wary of Crushers.

   What’s a Crusher?

   Like a policeman. I think that’s what your word is. Securiza they were on Old Earth and on the Old, Old Earth world, I am sure it was police. Or was it polite?

   Our Crushers are nothing like polite. They are seven foot tall with huge feet in hob-nailed boots. The Magistrate is in charge of them but they follow no rules.

   It is their job to stop trouble. If they see a theft, they catch the wrongdoer and give them a beating that puts the culprit in the wellbeing clinic. If they see a criminal beating on someone bad or killing them, the Crusher will kill the culprit, just like that.

   I once heard of a word called Law – there are no laws here. You live with each other peacefully or a Crusher beats your brains in.

   I left the café and hit the fog. Night-time fog was the worst. Soot covered buildings reared out of that mist, trams flashed by on the roads, hardly to be seen. Paths always full, people busy from dawn to midnight. Everyone being careful not to be pushed into the road. The trams would not stop. They were going too fast. Fall into the road and you were probably dead. The tram would ride right over you.

   I hit the shadows for two backstreets and then saw my room from the rear. No light. The curtains looked to be open but in the dense fog it was hard to tell. The streetlamps were not bright and could not cut through the fog, they made patches of light and gloom with the odd patch of good vision up to ten feet away.

   I shinned up the drainpipe. Nothing. I hung over and peeked in. Nothing. I slid from the drainpipe onto the window ledge and carefully eased up the window. I heard a pin drop, which was good. No-one had entered this way.

   I flicked a spark from my finger to the globe above my bed and it lit up my room. Empty. In I went and rushed to the door. I checked it. Yes, there was the wedge in the bottom, there was the wedge in the door-crack, there was the pin at the top. No-one had been in here.

   Every month I put money in the landlady’s safe. I opened it without a key and locked it after. The coins were always in a blue cloth pouch so she knew it was I paying. Just to be sure.

   For that, she rented the room and did not pry. Which was good. Anyone opening that door would get a crossbow bolt into their body, aimed for the trunk, not the head. I never used the door, only the window.

   I stared at the glow bulb and drifted off into my thoughts.

   First was The Ark. Praise be its name. Don’t know what that means. They taught to me in school in my real life, over sixty years ago.

   Here’s what I do know. A planet called NEBULON 6 (now called Clock) was to be colonised. Great Earth was overpopulated and had problems with something called solar radiation.

   The Ark came here many years ago: some say an age, some say two or even more. Hundreds and hundreds of years, maybe thousands, no-one really knows.

   The Jezel Ark had been carrying the ten thousand new inhabitants. Instead of the smooth landing it had been supposed to fulfil, it crash-landed. All of the scientific equipment was damaged. It was in the rear of the ship and that part blew up.

   After that, life was basic. There were two factions. The modernists who thought they could somehow bring all the technology of Great Earth to this world by building it. Opposing them were the veterans, the armed forces that was supposed to protect the others in case of hostile beasts. The veterans wanted a basic existence, hunting and fishing. Farming for all who would not hunt.

   The veterans won. They had the weapons and the skills to use them. They went out of their way to kill all scientists and modernists so there could never be an advanced society.

   The air was breathable, there were beasts to hunt for food, fruit on trees and the grain was plentiful. The planet had been selected as it was a veritable Eden.

   Unfortunately, within a hundred years, the thing called science was near enough forgotten, it had become myth.

   Life was very primitive . . . until the punkawathas came forth. The punkawathas were the true inhabitants of the planet. Something that did not appear on the checks before colonising this planet. They had their own city. One that was shielded from scans or even Neo-Earthling eyesight. Unless it was shown to you, then you could not always see it.

   It was a city of clockwork and magic and steam.

   The punkawathas showed this city to some of the brightest men they found. A thousand men and a thousand women were selected.

   I can only tell you what the punkawathas looked like from the myths that have come down from generation after generation. They were twenty foot tall and looked a little like baobab trees. A dull purple flesh with green rush like hair. The masses of green hair surrounded the purple body so it could hardly be seen. Seven arms projected from under that green hair. Each of these arms had hands that seemed to have a dozen fingers. Long delicate fingers with many different joints in them.

   This is just the myth, of course. They could look like regular human beings for all I know.

   The punks, as they were called, taught the chosen people, men and women alike. They showed them how to use these things of the city, how to make them. How clockwork magic was better than any technology or science. They taught these select people how to live in the luxury of the punkawatha way. The humans mastered these skills with the teaching of the punks. It did not happen overnight. It took over a hundred years and the human numbers increased fourfold.

   By then other cities had been built and connected up with the steam railways. The  punkawathas smiled on their efforts and then just vanished. Maybe to another city like the first one or maybe to another sort of civilisation altogether.

   The human numbers grew. They stayed in their cities that the Veterans could not see. They made another city and another, linking them up by steam railways that had clockwork magic to make the trains invisible to the outsiders.

   Years passed and now there are now thirteen cities. Each about a hundred miles apart.

   I awoke. I must have dozed off. I had arrived in the city on the train in the evening. It was now night. About three at night on the ten-hour clock.

   Our clocks are ten hours in the day, from dawn until dusk. Ten at hours at night when the third moon joins the other two. When the first moon goes down, that signals daybreak. It is odd to some but anyone hunting werewolves was cool with it.

   Three moons, two suns and glorious weather, only raining at the weekends to help the crops grow.

   Out of my window I went and onto the ledge. I felt out to the light globe and the spark returned to me and the light went out of the room. I was then closing the window and sliding in a pin.

   Down the drainpipe and sliding through the backstreets quick as a warehouse rat.

   The one constant on all inhabited planets in the Universe – rats. All planets seem to have them. Ours were grey furred and about eight inches long, another eight for the tail. Those were city rats. The ones outside the cities came in all shapes and sizes.

   Like crocogators, they are supposed to be on all the planets too. I had never seen one but they were supposed to be on Clock.

   I did not enter the Murky Café immediately when I got there. First, I stared through the window. No Crushers. I opened that door a bit and slid through without the door even hitting the bell at the top.

   Tucus was cooking and had his back to me so I sat down, quiet as a sewer rat. When he looked around, he near enough jumped out of his skin.

   “I bribed the Crusher,” he informed me. He was grinning. He had good cause. No café owner wants a roadman setting up residence there.

   Crushers making up their own rules cause people to be nervous of them. People will always report a robbery to them or suchlike but never want to socialise with them. The Crushers get fed at the cafés. They sleep at the boarding houses. They get booze at the public houses.

   And they never pay a ha’penny.

   If a Crusher eats in your café, he will guard your café, he will hunt anyone who makes mischief in your café. Same for the pubs where they have their own private little room.

   Crushers, though, are always open to a bribe.

   They are huge men with massive strength but is said when they retire, they shrink down to normal size and then have all their wealth to keep them going in their old age.

   They retire at forty. It is a risky life being a Crusher. Most do not make it to thirty.

   “How much?” I asked, meaning how big the bribe had been.

   “Ten shillings.”

   I offered it and he nodded.

   I took four half crowns from the purse in my secret pocket and went to his counter and offered them to him.

   Ten shillings was a lot of money when a loaf was a ha’penny. I paid two shillings a week for my room and though not large it was a tidy room with no leaks or damp patches.

   “No, you don’t pay me, Sparky. I feed you. That was Tucus’ promise, remember? Crusher Bill took the bribe and the body with him. We both knew the roadman, Crusher Bill and me. He has been causing quite a problem down here in Whitechapter. Best him dead. Tucus will gain more customers now without that ‘un hanging around scaring them.”

   He pulled a plate out of his magical oven. The food would be hot, the plate cool. On that plate was a mountain of porcine meat and ogre-berries.

   “You eat here now, heya? Nowhere else. And you eat free. When you here, you guard old Tucus. When you are not, no matter.”

   Tucus was no young one. He was getting on in years. He was a tubby man, portly, with a sweaty face that no-one could call beautiful. On the other hand, deep down, he was beautiful.

   It was said after work he took food down to the ‘street rats’. They are the homeless kids that survive by thieving. Most nights they were hungry, maybe ravenous if they had not got a mark in a day or two. They were all around the city. Tucus had food for any who were at Grim’s warehouse, a decrepit old place that had shut down years ago.

   He never had to worry about being mugged on the way home. Crusher Bill escorted him to the warehouse and home. Tucus made him his favourite meals as an exchange. Whatever was on the menu. If Crusher Bill decided he wanted frog burgers then that is was he got. Or flayed porcine stew.

   (The porcine was flayed just before it went into the pot, not while it was still alive.)

   I tucked into the food, a mug of steaming hot java was handed to me to help wash it down. Tucus was busy making sandwiches. He then popped them into poly bags. Each time the poly bag sealed itself to keep the food fresh.

   Poly bags are made of a thin, blue, almost transparent material. Sometimes they’re big and used as shopping bags: they don’t seal but are very strong and will never break, not even if you put broken glass into them. The smaller bags sealed themselves when tapped and are for preserving food. Years could go by and the food would still be fresh.

   “Onyx eggs and pepper sandwiches.” Tucus wiped trickles of sweat from his brow. “For when you go adventuring again.”

   He looked at me and I knew what he was after. Souvenirs. I sold them sometimes or used them to make things with.

   I patted my pockets until I found something. It was not big. I pulled it out.

   “This is a werewolf’s tooth,” I explained to Tucus. “You can only get them while fighting the werewolf while it is its wolf form. A few days a month and they have to be alive when you take the tooth. After they die, they revert to the human the Creator made them from. This was from a werewolf who was humanlike. He was as tall as me. Saberfang, he was called.”

   The tooth was three inches long and an inch wide. There was a strange blood red patterning in this fang. The crimson marking running through it made it almost look alive.

   “I think this werewolf was made by Lady Molly, her who lives up in Castle. I could be wrong. There was a whole pack of them both in and out of the city. How she got them all from Castle way up north down to Hex in the west I do not know.”

   “In cages?” he asked, loving the stories as much as the curios. “Or maybe she used one to bite humans and turn them?”

   “Werewolves cannot make other werewolves by scratching or biting,” I told him. “That is a myth. When they die, they turn into the corpse of the human that were used to make them. It depends on what Creator made them and how. They can turn into the corpse of a wolf. This will be much smaller than the werewolf who is a huge thing, ten foot long and massive in bulk. Mine was smaller than that. A different type from the norm.”

   I then added more explanation. All of this he would relate to his customers when he showed them the tooth: “The moon is actually full only for a brief time, seconds or minutes. It appears to human sight though to be three days. That is how long it is for the werewolf who turns when seeing it. They do not turn back until the full moon is totally gone three days later. Sometimes the moon is still visible in the day. The moon does not go away; merely our perception of it in daylight is affected. It is always visible to werewolves. They change at night, have a day and a night and then another day and a night and change back at dawn. They are then completely normal for the month. There is no way of telling them from normal humans in the month. They always know what they are, after their first change.”

   “You know so much.”

   I was grateful for his praise. Hunting werewolves was a thankless task.

   “I have to, to hunt the beasts. It is said there are werewolves on all the planets. Can you believe some planets have only one moon?” I shook my head. It was hard to believe. “The werewolves around here are triggered by the rising of the green moon, Leaf. When that is full, they cannot help themselves. They have to turn. They have no control of it.”

   He tried to give me a sovereign for the tooth, a gold sovereign that was worth one whole pound, twenty shillings, no less. That was ten weeks rent for my room.

   True, werewolf’s teeth were rare and this one was a beautiful one at that. No use trying to take them after the creature had died. By then they had gone back to the original human they had been made from by a Creator.

   “Trade you.” I ignored the money and continued on with my story: “This one was different from usual. Normally they move around as a wolf, sometimes they fight that way too. They can assume man shape, a bipedal shape, which is only natural as they are men or women for every night of the month bar three. This one was pretending to be human in the city. Big heavy overcoat, muffled across the face, top hat and in the foggy lamplight he could pass. He was moving towards a music hall and there were too many people in there so I had to fight him, right then and there. He did not become the beast at all, just fought in his human form, his face a mass of fur and teeth with two long fangs sticking out of its mouth. One of those two was knocked loose by the butt of my sword before I beheaded it.

   “I think it was the leader of the pack. More than that, he was trying to achieve something. Not just tracking a victim but up to something. Maybe for his Creator, maybe for himself, when he was human. The rest of the pack were outside of the city. When they feel the moon start to rise, they rush out of the city. They want to be in the wilderness when they go wolf. They love to run as wolves, hunt as wolves, be part of the pack.”

   Tucus was hanging on my every word, rapt, drinking in all the information he could get. So he could gossip about it and appear knowledgeable to his other customers. I knew this.

   Why not? He was always good to me!

   He bought a little globe lamp from under his counter. This one did not glow a pearly white or even a true white. This one glowed an eerie green. Its glow seeped out to encompass the room until I swear you could see bushes moving on the walls.

   “This is a momo globe!” he told me and I just stared at it. I would give all my stolen earnings for that thing. They were very rare. I had never seen one before. I would love to take it apart and see how it worked. It was rumoured that there was no clockwork or even steam in them, just a different sort of magic.

   On this planet there was only clockwork magic, that sometimes was linked up to steam.

   “The person who came in with it called it a Terra Orb, but that’s just a fancy name for it. I knew it was a momo globe.”

   Most Terra Orbs did use unusual magic but at their heart was always a flywheel. Momo globes did not have them. No clockwork at all, no metal at all.

   “Who were they, the person who bought this in?”

   “One of those Cult of the Green Earth freaks. You know the type. They say everything is connected, all throughout the whole of the planet, the universe even. They like to grow their own food and everything is wonderful.”

   “So, they grow their own food, do they come in for java?”

   “It was a little missy. One about your age, early twenties. Her hair all braided up with multicoloured ribbons. She was as pale as a ghost. Looked like one of those zombies you told me about. Turns out their harvest failed and the whole group of them down at Sewerditch was starving. This was their prized possession. They knew I had a hunter who came in.” He nodded at me and smirked. “One who changed things from this to that. A tinkerer, she called it. She offered to trade it for food or money.”

   “How much did you give them?”

   “Two sacks of rice, one small sack of salt, three of flour. They don’t eat meat, see. Meat is murder to them, everything being connected. A sack of tung beans and a sack of cobza corn. It seems a lot but all those things I buy wholesale by the cartload. She seemed very happy with the deal and got her hairy friends to take them away. I did warn her my hunter would not be pleased if this was clockwork magic. He would stalk them all. She just giggled.”

   “Giggled, you say?”

   So, either it was false and she did not live with the other Cult members of the Green Earth down Sewerditch, or it was true but there was something else going on.

   He had paid a lot for it, whichever way you looked it at it. Sacks of food. He just laughed and said the golden sovereign he had offered me for the werewolf tooth was more.

   We haggled. Him starting out at one werewolf tooth for the momo globe. We finished up him getting the tooth and five bob in two half crown coins. I had haggled him up not down. He could have sold that globe for a bag of sovereigns to any one of the Creators or even one of the mystics down at Bankside.

   Bankside was where the rich lived. The mystics down there were the top of their trade. They had made their money and went to live with idle rich. After that they tended to research magics, especially any magic that worked without clockwork parts.

   I was getting tired, my eyelids felt droopy.

   Hey! I did not get tired. I did sleep but only to let my brain process all that had gone on. Not because I needed recovery time.

   I put a shilling on the counter and took down a glow globe from the ceiling. I twisted it open and the glow stopped. I put a finger to its flywheel. A spark seemed to naturally flick across to the flywheel. It span faster.

   I was not tired.

   “Sleep, there is much to do tonight,” I heard and I looked around café. Nobody but me and Tucus. He was using a poly bag. He folded it just right and then put the werewolf’s tooth in it. As it sealed itself shut, it looked like a small display case.

   Who was the one speaking then?

   “You know who it is! You sleep, I will work.”

   I had only been Alive for about one year and bits of that were still new to me. This magical body for a start. I was learning things about it all the time.

   Was that a Creator speaking to me through the ether? I hated Creators. They all had to die. If they did not, they would hunt me down. I was the first being with artificial life. The first monster, if you will.

   Many things can be done to living subjects but none can be done to the dead.

   Dead is dead, that is the rule. Until Doctor Gory raised me.

   Every Creator wanted to know her secret but she would not tell. Creators did not mix. They were secretive, dangerous people. Geniuses that were more than a little insane.

   I did not look like a monster. Apparently, I had been hideous before I came to life. Lots of bits of bodies all stitched together. The second I came to life though, I looked like any other human. No scars, no stitch marks, no blemishes, just a couple of blood marks from when a vampire tried to bite me and got herself electrocuted.

   “Sleep, peaceful sleep, no nightmares, no ill omens, just peaceful sleep.”

   You did not get peaceful sleep much when you were on the run from the Creators. When you hunted beasts and dark creatures of all kinds.

   It sounded so promising. Even a normal dream about my last life would be good.

   “I promissssssssssseeeeee,” I heard, though there was nobody to say the words but Tucus and now I could hear this was a woman’s voice. I could not recognise it but it was a woman’s voice.

   I nodded. I took the sandwiches from Tucus, telling him tomorrow I would be going out for adventure. I doffed my cap at him and left.

   I entered my room the same way as before, not trusting the place until the pin dropped and I had gone through the room and checked the door.

   Without lighting the globe, I stripped and got under the moth-eaten bedclothes and went to sleep.

© COPYRIGHT Michael Sheppard 2024

reblog for next chapter

[diediegamchicothdie]

Round and Round

[Pelle and Quorthon]

I hate you so much that i need to fuck you.

Fanfic based in glam/hair metal songs.

Also available in AO3!

He thought the quiet days of spring in March '91 were eternal, with their aura of tranquility consumed in a rampaging, passionate romance, those that lift you up and shake you from within, leaving a body with a pleasant pain that eventually was perfect. He seemed to have all the cards in his favor, for the daytime was short enough to work on his music and the long nights to celebrate his overwhelming success, Great celebrations to his ego where he loved to fill his blood with alcohol leaving finally rest his brain off for a few moments; in the end he had achieved his goal: Bathory was totally and exclusively his own, that truth made him writhe of happiness. The total creative control of his beloved band was a delicious delight. Power made him feel so fulfilled, a feeling that not everyone understood, much less understands, his earthly orgasm. He had everything he ever wanted, so his '83 child self had been struggling, something of his own, own, possessing: a successful band, enough money to support his whims, lovers of all kinds and friends who will cover his back, a milestone, an enviable life, at the very least desirable, he had nothing to complain about, by 91 he had achieved it, at his mere 25 years he could safely say that his life was good, simple for a metal star, respectable and imposing, where his reputation preceded him, his name carried a great weight, his words were constantly asked for good advice, he could make himself felt without attacking, because indifference was a powerful weapon and he was not a troublesome type nor much less, his band was his business, his life and to some extent his lover, he preferred to keep it quiet, simple, on the sidelines, not needed a great demonstration to remain a legend.

It was Quorthon, leader of Bathory, a project both dark and proud of its Nordic roots, drinking from the use and custom of the Scandinavian peoples, their worldview, acting, heritage, combining with tradition, but especially the Viking roots. His historical heritage gave him a warm embrace on the back that only grew when he spoke of the strength of the Nordic blood. Always running in circles about how they were forced to abandon their origin and bow down before an alien God, for he could not help but run in circles about the same thing. Finding a thousand different ways to talk about the same thing, mutating in different forms, that was its essence, that was all its work, its soul crushed in the feeling of fervent nationalism before its ancestors and traditions. Thomas Börje Forsberg as his own person, had his own cross to bear, he could not deny it, was a nerd, not of those who know about numbers and long algebraic operations; hardly had finished the institute by pressure from his father. He was a history nerd, especially the history situated in the later epoch of the Germanic Iron Age understood in modernity between the years 793 to 1100 and clearly its corresponding mythology. With this fact already covered, it was obvious to infer that he could spend hours talking about every historical event. The emotion that he displayed in his body every time he was able to vomit historical labia about life in ancient Scandinavia. No one would fully understand how he ecstatically explained the opera of the Valkyries of Wagner to anyone who would listen, but, being totally forced to be honest again before himself: nobody wanted to talk about things that the crowd (including their own fans) didn’t really care that much. Although that truth was a kind of stab, he could live with it, he could still talk to the paper, the pen and his collection of books by Peter Foote and David M. Wilson. He knew at one point that loneliness was a good friend, something transient but very bearable. For the sake of his body and soul, Thomas, he would not bother to beg anyone to listen. He had to admit that his pride was his greatest flaw, but he wasn’t so lethal or unpleasant in his own eyes he deserved to be proud, he was a young man, talented, handsome and a musical genius, he had something to brag about, he didn’t feel ashamed of himself, nor was he hiding behind false identities. That’s why he knew, it’s more, he didn’t even know. He buried under his skin the memory made presence as if it were a spectral entity, giving honor to his pale skin, where his bluish veins stand out like thin ropes that tied his slim body in a natural bondage. All this meant the presence of that raven which brings omens, of death, as he liked to call himself, who had only come to shit in his shop, at work. He was waiting for it, in his mind had imagined this day with so much insistence, in the deepest part he recognized the moment of their reunion because what goes around, goes around, even more strongly.

In his silent retaliation he bit the cigarette between his lips, reaching his mouth of the unpleasant rest of tobacco swallowing large pieces of tobacco and more shit, swallowing scraping his throat, in any other case did not give importance to his enemies, because no matter how much he hated that concept. He had to admit that it was a real enmity between bands or members of the same band who just ended badly, preferred not to pay attention to those childish fights that so burdened him, but this case was totally particular out of any logical understanding as a chloroform dream. Didn’t want to go around in circles again, but in the underground metal industry it’s easy to get yourself a lot of enemies. Fucking crazies scumbags, fed by the bastard who called himself death when it was just a pathetic attempt of a man who could not even fill his own clothes. There it was, the myth, the figure, the legend full of shit of Per Yngve Ohlin. He was so stupid and brazen, without a shred of shame in spite of his past, ignoring his guilt that he should carry as a sad stain of shame. Certainly not, because knowing his show of crap in mayhem knew very well that he should not have the slightest respect for himself or others, and especially before him. Finally, the laser gaze that followed him through the shop took effect and his much-acclaimed wish was fulfilled. Their eyes connected, the blue of their irises clattering, eating each other in a silent, anxious dance, that they both thought they could kill themselves by just looking at each other. He round and round again, felt no need to explain it again, preferred to ignore it before all in a game of power and humiliation. He preferred to think that he never met him, that he never touched him, that neither his words nor their bodies ever coincided, but before the fullness of being alone in front of the records, t-shirts and other merchandise of varied genres of metal with the music of "RATT" in the background. Furthermore, he found no reason to keep silent, because he was a rather relaxed guy, but he had his limits and the mere presence of Per already crossed all his lines, but he also liked crossing lines.

— What are you doing here? I thought you weren’t good enough for the store of a mediocre and average rock star in the city full of aspirational posers like Stockholm.

He let go amused, biting his tongue with the last sentence. To his surprise, the young ghost before him remained indifferent. His feet moved loudly, walking a couple of steps around the tent. "As if he were taking over my space," thought Thomas, striking the soft brain muscle inside his skull. So early in the morning, just like last time, the brat from Västerhaninge became a damn nuisance. He could see him, thinner, with worse posture and a face of a finished man, a pathetic portrait for someone so young, but he had asked for it, that was what bothered him the most.

— You are in my shop, and you are not able to answer — he muttered even more annoyed. Everything about him irritated him, his bad posture and only repulsive smell that revealed his poor hygiene, and the body he had once found fascinating, so worn out, turned to see it, dismayed. - What do you want?

— Today I come in work of client. Are you so rude with your clients always?

The question fell like ice. He refused, lowering his head. It was almost funny, a bad joke, to see that arrogant brat, who had provoked him, shaken him as if he had horns and was pushing him like a juvenile goat. Sigh, this time, turned his gaze to him holding it, watching as he took a pair of discs from various sections, strutting as if he knew that place from memory and then approaching the counter.

—You really don’t come to tease me?

—If I wanted to do it, I would have pissed in the window outside while you were lost writing your stupid lyrics.

He could only remain silent. He looked at the long fingers of the man in front of him, battered, scarred and malnourished to the point of absurdity, he might be mean and say they were like chopsticks, but being more honest with himself, they seemed to be rose stalks with broken thorns. Surely in that same state was his whole body, possible scars that did not care to know at the time, that impact was like bitter bile in his mouth, How could your inner circle or fans say they loved or admired you when they enjoyed watching what you were doing to your body? He felt sorry for the dead, and as his eyes had no hope, he made him reconsider his hatred, but not enough to prevent him from being a bastard like the other.

—Cinderella, excellent choice, "long cold winter," is one of my favorite records until you learn some music, huh?

The soft laughter came out as a declaration of victory on his part, a way of saying "I have won," but Per did not seem angry at his provocation, his eyes revealed their truth, he really looked dead, his pale blue orbs were tired decorated with dark and yellowish spots around him, had he passed through a spiritual death? He did not have the will to argue.

—It’s for my sister — he muttered in a low voice, his voice was different, as if hid breath possessed a cold air, totally icy, you could tell that she didn’t want to talk anymore - she has always liked this kind of thing.

—Then she has an incredible taste -—pity that this was her territory, the territory of Quorthon who only lived for his own hedonism, by consequence only his will would be fulfilled — I did not know you had brothers.

— We didn’t talk so much that you would know — I explain quickly a little exasperated, but equally defeated — I don’t like to bring my family together with this, I guess it’s a bit embarrassing for them, you know all on the scene are a bunch of idiots and fakes, started with jokes about my mother, I don’t want them to go after my brothers.

The understanding of those words made him make a grimace on his face; it was not entirely a smile. A gesture that made him feel, not so smug, something inside his confused consciousness incited him to act out of himself. If it was anyone else, he would have told him to fuck off, laugh in his face and spit if he could, but he wasn’t just anybody. He took a breath, moved a few centimeters away from the counter, then made a head-shake as a sign to go next to him behind the cash register. Per looked at him somewhat puzzled, he also understood the behavior of the old man, who shared his own disgust. He knew full well that he might be walking into the mouth of the wolf, but he was not a man of common sense, a living being who had no appreciation for himself. He decided to obey like a dog, recognizing his old master. This time he was sitting next to them, on top of a wooden box full of imports covered with a Swedish flag.

—You’re a good brother...

He acknowledged with a conciliatory tone of voice that led Per into a bitter, febrile dream which he chose to ignore.

—I’m not.

He quickly clarified, without wanting to give rise to any confusion.

— You seem to be — he pointed back turning to see him, took his can of Pepsi and gave him a sip swallowing the liquid to clean his mouth as to give himself strength before coming back to speak, even without knowing how to handle the situation with all his abilities — I followed you — Admitted removed from the penalty and then justify himself — although it is impossible not to do so with his scandal, you had been achieving in Norway why have you returned?

The question remained in the air, like a riddle, a doubt that even though the minor wanted to answer it, he did not know how to approach it.

— Because I’m not a good brother.

He concluded in a blunt manner, a conclusion that sounded so simple, but so biting at the same time, a phrase that was forced to drink a long sip of that sweet oil-colored liquid that he hated so much "but at least it’s not coca-cola" Per consoled himself by swallowing as if his life depended on it, his first food, he denied by leaning his face against his hand.

— Is that all of it?

Genuine curiosity filled the tense air, as if it were a fishbowl flooded with the feeling gathered by the pair of Swedes who could barely speak without jumping to their jugulars, Per shrugged back in response, as if that covered any doubt.

— If you think I failed in Norway, that the time I spent there was a futile struggle, totally sterile and did not get anywhere... You’re right, I’ve been wasted four years, that’s all.

— I wouldn’t say it’s a failure, at all, those idiots who find taste in whatever they’re doing, they adore you.

— I don’t want that, I don’t want to be worshiped by idiots.

He said, looking at the ground. Thomas on his side, he bites the inside of his cheek, playing with his fingers in the dressing room, his dominant posture: straight back, but relaxed against the finely detailed black wood, with his long legs covered with latex that melted into his flesh, with her elegant appendages crossed one in front of the other, with sunglasses over her totally smooth and shiny light brown hair. A well-polished and planned image contrasted too much with the defeat of the man who was once called the sad Norwegian black metal scene.

— How long do you plan to stay?

A faint sound of doubt escaped down the throat of the minor who didn’t know how to respond to that, his skinny hands traveled to his blonde hair, not very well cared for, he was greasy and battered by the ravages of his act, Yet I play quite amusing with the golden fibers between his fingers. For a few moments the repetitive movement took him to a kind of trance so peaceful, the look lost, I could not see it.

— I don’t know, I haven’t thought about it enough, maybe forever? , not in Stockholm, I don’t like Stockholm, this city makes me feel sick, like, I don’t know, I feel dirty, like when Øystein put on Tangerine Dream in the morning.

— Tangerine Dream?

Murmured somewhat incredulous at that revelation, never thought that someone of the nature of "Euronymous" will enjoy a band with such a corny name, but much less imagine that Per will reveal it so easily, it was obvious that the boy had come back stabbed, with the bleeding wound opening to let go of everything he had ever kept exclusively for himself, with his cold gaze rising before him, that silent statement "you know me from the beginning" clear, he did, knew his disgust, but not the sensitivity of his soul.

— It’s, um, you know, an electronic project, I hate electronics — he hesitated in his speech, the look of Quorthon on his pale face that showed his clear discomfort when talking about that music, always making him cross lines — It’s like, you know, movie soundtrack and stuff like that, it makes me feel like I can play colors, he used to put the "Wavelength" soundtrack in the morning, I hated it, from "Alien Voices" to "Mojave End Title Reprise", I would also insist on seeing those silly movies with philosophical message and undecipherable background, I do not understand them prefer the blood, he liked "Blue Velvet" would insist on seeing that tape again and again, it hurts my eyes, And the soundtrack? , It’s a mess!

He muttered with his eyes, a pair of wells sunk in his white skin, what sand, Thomas understood that he had not before death, but a ghost, but what goes back, and much stronger.

— You hate it so much that you seem to know every detail.

At that moment that face inexpressible released a spark of life, understanding the severity of that stab, but does not back away, at all, nodded his head higher — to hate something must know it, I hate Tangerine Dream, Pink Floyd, the stupid filmography of David Lynch and all the synthesizer crap, makes me feel dizzy.

— You always hated that they had power and control over you.

He pointed out quite jokingly of his words, again adopting an attitude of shit, but the blond this time was not content to spit at his feet. The boots of the elder were filled with liquid saliva without a drop of thickness in a gleaming yellowish shade, coming out of the cracked lips of the younger one, who, annoyed, got up to go out, not wanting to give more or to be more precise, to give him further explanations.

—You’re running again?

Quorthon questioned, now defensive to Per wishing to kill him on the spot, but not wanting the other to leave, not like that, not so fast. Per, he had no more desire to talk. Thomas' conscience was beating in his stomach to his brain, it was his fault, he knew it, he was so proud to see him open up, as if he were still that nervous kid who had appeared that night at "Heavy Sound Shop" just four years ago, and he had just closed it again, like an idiot.

— I don’t hate the power over me, if you think I do it you don’t know it, you know well what you did, you don’t know me, right? , no, not at all, but you always open your mouth and fuck everything up, you couldn’t treat me like a customer — mumbled between teeth, really upset, but Thomas was delighted, because he saw something more than death in his eyes, because he preferred it furious, irritated as a demon rather than cold as a dead — No, you can never be real like all the fucking fake ones that you protect.

— What did I do? What did I do? Tell me, if it was you who came to me with all those sweet words and then sent me to hell like a bastard, am I the bad guy here? — asked indignantly, finally the weight of the past falling like thousands of needles on their thin pieces of metal that were buried under the muscles, which had so much avoided had finally returned, so it goes back and much stronger — I really thought you had an interest in me, not what I could give you.

The revelation startled the blond man, who struck his hand hard against the wood and made it tremble. Quorthon’s look was up to his tense face, constricted in a mere expression of frustration, red with anger, bright as a Christmas light bulb. After all the exchange, his comings and goings, running around in circles had finally reached him, like a burst of salty water that went into his lungs, choking on his own words, choking on fellow countrymen, until he could finally vomit on him, the poisonous words accompanied by splashes of saliva on his face.

— ¡You think what I did that night was to get something out of you! You’re a fucking selfish pig! — Per’s hands trembled with pure rage produced by the pure hatred generated by that revelation which knew him as pure poison — You think I let myself emasculate because I thought I would have something of you!

The claims were spilling out into the room that now seemed to be airless, filled only with the endless insults of the younger man, that desperate call to Thomas’s brain who could barely process what was happening. He bit his lip, feeling the shame that it concealed in his gut, going from stomach to esophagus, sticking himself into his throat, had really crossed its limits, but how would he knows if his word had been law, if he had never heard the version of the blond that now crumbled and rebuilt which phoenix before his eyes.

— I, I never expected anything material from you, I was just so happy to meet you that my fanaticism clouded my vision, but you are disappointing —accepted before the truth of phrases, as if you tore apart from the esophagus —You are always disappointing! A mediocre and average rock star, a daddy’s boy who doesn’t know how to earn things for himself, because of you I had to go, you threw me into misfortune, if you had signed "Morbid" I would not have had to settle for the hell that is Norway!

The sordid accusations were no longer needles, they were daggers that only tore his conscience, the coldest eyes of the thinnest man, his weak figure was soaring. Per, with the rage of a broken man, spat again, but this time falling his face of Thomas, who closed his eyes, clenched both his fists and teeth. Now, Per was ready to fight, he was looking forward to it, he had been looking for it for so long, he fantasized about this moment. He had not come as this one had wished, when he was on the top and all recognized his name, he would return for Quorthon, take him by the horns and drag his head against the ground, make him kiss his feet and put him in his place, at the mercy of true darkness. Now, under the shadow of his failure, he did not care about his wet fantasies of revenge, the eyes of Quorthon on him excited him, taking him to the primitive state of the brain where only the response of fight or flight remained, and he was already tired of running away, his lips clenched with a frown, but the older one just walked away turning around, looking for a tissue to wipe his face, again disappointing.

— I’m not going to do this, have you even looked at yourself? — He asks laughing at the confusion of Per before his reproach, putting things to a strange level, he did not need as many words as the smallest to get hurt — you look like a corpse, do you have at least a job with which to solve your bones?

Per slowly denied in a burst of confusion before the wave of information without understanding why Quorthon, the doubt before his acting was so great that it seemed a shadow like Nosferatu —No, I have nothing for the moment, I thought to stay for Easter, but now it’s final, I’ll find something to do... What do you care?

— Do you have any additional studies? Any after-school technician?

Questioned shocked by the new negative of the minor who only shrugged his shoulders, not knowing very well what to answer, people did not use to question how well read he was, the scene was not interested in these things, just assume a level of study. Usually they said he was smart, personally preferred to say that he only had personality, at that moment he again took a docile act leaving his defensive posture, Per adopted the curious look of Quorthon.

—What do you get?

—How did you plan to buy the albums?

Per himself shrugged again, like a kind of body tic, followed by another and another, blinking repeatedly as fluttering butterflies and then bit his tongue a little bit playfully, he was not going to hurt — I have some money saved, Well, just right, I wanted to give them something nice as an apology, and well, I asked a friend to come see the prices and adjust that…

He muttered shyly. Thomas nodded feeling strange, a mixture of sorrow and tenderness, sometimes he forgot the nature of the kid, certainly was very hard on him, he knew it. In his defense, there was something to push him and see his reaction that attracted him, his anger was somewhat intoxicating, a kind of almost addictive pleasure to watch him rage, but now his face seems more innocent, naive, like the first time he met. His pale sad eyes, full of doubts, so tender that he could not help the laughter that came out of his lips as much as he tried, was not malicious, just a natural reaction to seeing him in that way.

— Per, how about you come work here? I’m busy with the band and I need someone who knows music and can handle all this, do you think you can handle it?

The question remained in the air for quite a while, Per looked down at the floor and gently slammed against the counter as he hit the floor with his dirty shoes in some sort of strange dance, would you?, He didn’t know. When Øystein spoke of Helvète he was not excited, not at all, he could not look like the right hand of the Norwegian, no more, he did not look at himself cleaning shelves and being in endless talks about the scene, he was tired, so tired. Quorthon’s shop was not like inner circle, at all, it was a place for posers and beginners in the metal world, very relaxed, no one would recognize it, what most wanted, to disappear into the metal world as a kind of urban legend. If he was mistaken for the false ones, other idiots would simply forget him, could even exclude him and remove him as a dirty traitor, that thought was a relief, then decided took the records, He looked up at the man with brown hair who was still restless waiting for his answer.

—So? What do you say, Per, are you in?

— I suppose if you’re going bald from stress, if I were you, I’d check those entries — he pointed shamelessly while holding the albums to his chest as if trying to melt plastic with his body, Thomas’s face filled with blood so quickly that he could not control it by touching his hair at such a sign, but he could not respond, for Per was already ready — When do I start?

— Tomorrow, I want you here at 9 o'clock, the working day is regular, you will be given all the benefits of the law along with the minimum wage, do you agree?

Asked ironically, because I knew that the other had nothing else, not that jobs fell from heaven, more for someone like Per. For whom he nodded backing up with albums even against his body as if they were to be snatched at some point, Per whose thin lips only a noise like a "Tomorrow see you" left his body as a last statement before leaving the place as ghostly as he entered. Only then did Thomas understand that he was still a cheeky, in a dream that only alarms that sounded like rumblings could wake him up, his body jumped even confused by what had just happened, quickly turned off the alarms and then denied with his head that he was staying a little in the clouds. He didn’t even know what he had done, he wasn’t even going to question the reason for his decision, but whatever it was, he had to prove it now. It was time, he had to retry the analgesic effect of joining his body with the psychotic dead man, it was all, he had no more comfort, only "RATT" at full volume through the speakers in the store understood their feelings.

[falmerbrook]

Clockwork City DLC Thoughts

TLDR: I liked it very much! One of my favorites! The aesthetics were amazing! Lived up to the hype. However, while I overall really liked it, I have some minor worldbuilding gripes and I think it also highlighted some issues I have with ESO's worldbuilding in general.

So first of all, I LOVED the aesthetics and designs of this zone! The music was great and moody and eerie at the right times, and all of the clockwork noises were perfect. I especially loved how whenever you were outside you could hear the groaning and rumbling of the whole city structure softly wherever you went. There are also a lot of little details in the environmental designs that really sell the setting, such as the the interiors of certain laboratories having unique interiors, the way they organize and keep books, the elevators, the factotums, etc. The interiors feel adequately chaotic with all the machinery with large gears and machines in the periphery, and the exteriors feel grand and impressive. I also love the colors and general sunrise/sunset feel of the Radius. The nights are particularly gorgeous with the lights of the structures and stars in the distance.

I also really dig the dystopian utopia vibes where the Clockwork City is built to be a perfect recreation of Nirn, but it also kinda hellish for (some of) the people living there. I actually wish they leaned into that contrast even more. I like that Sotha Sil also get's to have fucked up things going on under his leadership like Almalexia and Vivec.

I enjoyed some of the important characters too, particularly Luciana and Varuni. They (and Divayth) all provide such interesting contrast in the ways people view Sotha Sil and worshipping him, and even beyond them I like the wide range of perspectives we see with the NPCs. Many have a sort of religiosity alongside a traditionally secular mindset and I enjoy seeing those usually conflicting traits paired together.

Other miscellaneous things I liked:

The crows. They were very fun

The Precursor. They were cute and it made me sad when the Apostles were mean to them :(

I liked the factotums. The voice acting on them was great and I liked the way they talked and the phrases they'd say when processing information. It was intriguing then learning that they are like that because (allegedly) Sotha Sil probably used part of his sister's soul (or at least her voice) to make them. THAT'S NUTS!! I love it. That's the kinda fucked up shit I was hoping for from him. (although I do wonder how the hell he did that. like, she'd been dead for at least hundreds, if not thousands, of years by the time he did that)

I liked pretty much all of the side quests. They all provided such interesting worldbuilding

I really liked Sotha Sil's voice and voice acting. It fit him well

Now to the parts I was more critical of (I'm writing a lot, but know that it doesn't mean I had a lot of issues, just that I have a lot to say on them!)

I liked the idea behind Slag Town/the Tarnished, that there is an underclass and a slum of folks who can't advance in the hierarchy of the city (or aren't interested in doing so) that demonstrates the way Sotha Sil and the Apostles neglect the people of the Clockwork City in service of their studies, but I don't think it's executed well because that idea feels too underdeveloped. It feels like a slum we'd see on Tamriel rather than something that would be unique to the culture of the Clockwork City (this is foreshadowing for my biggest issue). It and the prophecy quest focused on it just feel aesthetically and narratively not to fit to me. Like, how did a slum like this come to be? How did the folks there get into that position? Why isn't Sotha Sil or the Apostles doing anything to help them (or get rid of it in a more nefarious way)? Are they people who were born there but couldn't measure up to or didn't want to be apostles, or are they people who just wandered into the city? These questions aren't me criticizing the concept, but rather they are questions I wish were answered or explored. Additionally, the structure of their society has too many normal things like normal cloth clothes and woodworkers and travelling merchants and a stablemaster and other jobs that to me feel like they shouldn't actually be in this setting. I feel like their society would just function differently (and a part of this is that we are stuck in an MMO world and the devs "have to" include those).

This brings me to one of my biggest points about ESO's worldbuilding: it keeps introducing interesting ideas in side quests but not really exploring the conclusions of consequences of them as fully as I'd like. I'm always left with a ton of questions, and not necessarily fun ones, but rather "wait, how does this work? Wouldn’t this change how their society works?" For example in this DLC, how does the food work? I am told everyone eats this nutritional paste for food, but also there is a side quest where you learn about a guy growing actual food and how he distributes it to the people of the Clockwork City once a year. What happens to that food? Is it what's used in the paste? Is it not and the people just want it as a supplemental thing so they aren't stuck with paste? The idea of that side quest is very interesting but I just wished the pushed it a bit farther! These interesting implications of the setting(s) are often introduced but also completely contained with in one side quest. And I feel that way about a lot of little things throughout this game.

Another example is a feel like they are a little wishy washy with how folks get into and if they can get out of the Clockwork City. So people just randomly stumble into it? Is that common or are we, Neramo, and the Vanos siblings an exception? We need a sponsor to become an Apostle or else we are stuck in basically poverty and can never escape but if that is the case why not make it so folks have to have a sponsor to even come to the city in the first place? Why would they waste their resources on people who don't even want to be there? Once again, an interesting concept, but I feel like it didn't get fleshed out enough for me and doesn't make a ton of sense. Can the Apostles leave? If so, in my opinion, that's a little lame. Takes the consequences and stakes out of being in the city in the first place, and if that's the case it feels like it's only there as an excuse for why we, the player, can leave. If they can't, then why can we and the Vanos siblings leave? I know they need to come up with an excuse for why we as the player can leave, but aren't the wayshrines enough? or maybe the fact that we came in with Divayth? Maybe he gave us a secret thing to get in and out like Barilzar's Band? I don't know why this bugged me so much but it did.

Ok on to some more minor nit-picks

Almalexia, oh Almalexia. Why are you thrown to the side so much? I could chalk it up to her just being written shallowly in the base game before the writing got better, and that she has the bias of being the most hate-able Tribune in Morrowind (the game), but while Nerevar, Vivec, and Nall get their own little plaques in the Elegiac Replication, Almalexia doesn't (she appears in the hologram alongside Sil for the battle at Mournhold, but doesn't get her own space) and that bugged me a little. It also highlighted a writing quality gap between how Sil is written in this DLC and how Vivec and Almalexia have been written in ESO (not a criticism of this DLC though, just an observation). Sil is just so obviously written better, which to most of the fanbase makes him a more compelling character when I think it really comes down to the writing quality. This DLC just made me wish the other two had this much love and care put into their dialogue too. He makes them sound half assed by comparison lol

I'm confused by the motivations of the Daedric Princes in this arc. I'm holding off on actually criticizing this because I know there's a whole 'nother chapter to develop this but right now there's 0 explanation as to why they are here. On that note, if the Princes involved are Nocturnal, Clavicus Vile, and Mephala (I've been spoiled on that one), and the folks they're targeting include Sotha Sil and Vivec, wouldn't have been more narratively interesting for Mephala to target Vivec? Once again not an actually criticism, just spit-balling. I don’t know what’s gonna happen in Summerset. They could've also leaned into the whole Mysteries and shadows thing with Sotha Sil and Nocturnal.

Finally, I've mentioned this before, but I think the Fabricants should be weirder.

Anyway, most of this is probably a matter of personal preference rather than actual criticism, but oh well I like getting my thoughts out of my head!

Looking forward to Summerset. It’s commonly called the best Chapter.

[whoiwanttoday]

So I pre purchased tickets for Love Lies Bleeding for a few reasons. One, it's getting great reviews and has been since it first screened at SXSW. I already liked the idea of it but knowing it works is hugely exciting. If you don't know, Film Noir is one of my favorite genres and every November my friends and I do Noirvember which started a decade ago with them going, "Film Noir seems cool but I don't know anything about it". Well guys, I did know about it and it was about time to put that education to use so that first year I chose 5 movies that I felt would help demonstrate the characteristics of the genre and wrote essays about each one with what to look for and what identifying tropes of the genre were there. Since then I have put in far less effort but every year we try to grab some movies that are significant for various reasons to the genre. My point is, I love Noir and really appreciate French film critics for inventing it after the fact. So Love Lies Bleeding is not a Noir, it is a Neo-Noir but for obvious reasons it's a genre that always interests me for obvious reasons. It's a Neo-Noir because you can't make film Noir anymore, part of what makes it film noir is when it was made and that no one has ever set out to make a Noir, if you are you're making a Neo-Noir. But I love them, too, especially sun soaked ones. Thirdly, Kristen Stewart. First of all, I think she is a tremendous actress who just does great work and her projects just get more and more interesting. They don't always work but man, I want big swings rather than boring. There are so many safe movies I give higher ratings to than interesting failures but those safe, bland mediocre movies all fade into the background, I still think about the interesting failures. So I love that she tries cool projects and the truth is most of her work. She always works in them. But the thing is, when I heard she was doing this I just knew it was perfect. My favorite Noir figure is probably Humphrey Bogart. That's not an out there selection, the guy was undeniably cool. And I was like, yes, let Kristen Stewart be Humphrey Bogart. I think she could 100% pull off that. I mean, I don't think she is in this movie, she's playing a different kind of a mess than the cool character who keeps getting in over his head but when it comes to vibes of someone who can be my favorite sort of Noir protagonist it's her. Which is a long way of saying I have tickets to go see the movie and resisted posting Kristen yesterday cause my brain was like, "We'll post her after we see the movie". Welp, I didn't make it cause she has been all over the place and looking very good. So I caved and made it exactly one day. Today I want to fuck Kristen Stewart.

[three--rings]

So it turns out there were a lot of things from S2 I was waiting to pass judgement on until I saw how they played out and...I ended up not thrilled about. And it's all these little things that keep bothering me.

Things I'm not happy with in OFMD S2:

-Jim and Olu feel retconned into not being in love. Like I know we want to talk about happy polycule but it feels like they aren't even very close this season? They were even more of a secondary ship than Lucius and Pete in S1 but we got essentially no good Jim/Olu stuff in S2. Instead we got the Olu/Zheng Yi Sao romance which on paper sounds good, but lacked chemistry. Especially from Olu's side. I feel like they kept repeating that "break in your day" thing cause they didn't have anything else. IDK weird weird decisions were made. I don't mind the Jim/Archie stuff at all but that was also not given any real romance time. They kissed and then I guess that was that?

-While on the subject of Zhang Yi Sao...why was she there? Like, don't get me wrong, I love her character and her inclusion in the show, but while the build-up in the first few episodes was great, then...they did basically nothing with her. Her entire plan was foiled by a moron in a split second and then..IDK she's now just riding on the Revenge and not even in charge? She's come way down in the world and I don't like it.

-Izzy dying. I don't mind the death scene itself, (though i wanted Izzy's friends on the crew more involved) but I think having him die shifts the genre and is disappointing in a way that feels unlike this show. more to be said obviously but not in this post.

-Speaking of that scene I grow more and more annoyed with Izzy saying "they love you, Ed." Not because it's not a great sentiment that would be narratively meaningful, but because it's NOT DEMONSTRABLY TRUE. Who loves Ed on that crew? Maybe Fang? There was absolutely no moments between Ed and crew after ep 3. They tolerate him for Stede's sake is all I can say. They love Stede. They love Izzy. And then Ed just leaves them and they are probably relieved.

-the way the central problem the whole season with Ed and Stede was communication but they never actually do anything about that, just declare victory.

-the way there was no climax or resolution with any antagonist in the last episode, they just barely escape, swear revenge like they're gonna head into battle, and then retire. Which makes ZERO sense and it bothers me SO MUCH.

-The lack of Stede and Ed costuming. IDK if it's because I've been writing a fic for a year centered around the clothing but like the show feels incomplete if they're not getting to dress up. I was looking forward to Ed wearing more than his leathers and we got a rice sack. This is entirely a personal gripe and not important but, yeah.

-Zero focus on the crew and no new info about any of them. I was really, really looking forward to getting more backstory, more personal info on characters like Roach, Frenchie, Wee John, but no.

And yanno, the thing is that I'm not unhappy with what S2 GAVE us. I like most of it. I love eps 1-6. Though 6 is showing the pacing issues badly. But what I miss is what we DIDN'T get. None of the stuff on screen was bad per se or couldn't have fit into a very excellent, cohesive season of TV. But I feel like all the connective tissue, all the thematic resolution, all the stuff that would have made it shine was missing.

Like they had a bunch of notecards of great scenes and filmed them but forgot to write the parts to connect them in a meaningful way? IDK this season feels a little like a first draft?

Not eps 1-3 though. I feel like they were perfect, and then they ran out of time/energy to polish the rest. (4-5 were also great, but they could have fit in with the rest better ultimately.)

I feel like people who are happy with this season are like 'we got this moment and this scene!' and that's great and cool and I also love that moment but I'm still left unsatisfied by the whole, yanno. Sigh.

[sadnesslaughs]

The worst thing about dying is talking to HR the next morning.

(A response to a writing prompt)

“With all due respect. I didn’t intentionally miss the meeting. I died yesterday. It was on the news and everything. I even texted our boss after it happened, so he knew I wouldn’t be able to make it into the office.” Garth pleaded, not wanting to lose his comfy office job. It was hard for immortals to find work, mainly because most companies either closed or got suspicious of their employee that had been working there for over a hundred years.

That’s why Amiza was perfect. A large distributor of candy and snacks, the sort of company where the bosses only see you as a statistic on an excel sheet. No one cared if he stayed here for six hundred years, as long as he showed up on time. He also had great job security, knowing that both candy and snacks were goods that would never go out of fashion. It was practically an unsinkable business, and yet he hit a roadblock in his employment. Dying yesterday on his way to work.

“Ah, yes. The ‘death certificate’.” The HR manager, Tom, resisted the urge to use air quotes, instead doing the verbal equivalent of it, giving a snarky rise in his voice as he went over the word. “You would have us believe you died and came back to life? It’s not even Easter and Christ has risen. Splendid.”

“Ah, I’m not a god or anything.” Garth said, a little embarrassed by the comparison. He had gone through a cult stage in the early 1000s, something that most immortals did while they were young. After that weirdness, he never wanted to be referred to as a deity again.

“I was being sarcastic, Mr. Backlor. How do you expect us to believe any of this? People don’t come back to life.”

“What about during open heart surgery?”

Tom sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. “In that case, they may sometimes come back. Though, I doubt any medical profession is deeming them dead during the surgery. I also assume they wouldn’t turn up to work a day after being declared dead. I want to believe you, Garth, I really do.” Tom lied, already having the termination email template on his screen. “But, you have to give me more to work with. Why shouldn’t we fire you?”

“Because I’m a great employee.” Garth thought that would be obvious. What other answer was he going to give in this situation?

“You’re a good employee. Not great. Great is reserved for people like myself.” Tom smirked, always happy to fluff his own feathers. The man’s arms crossing against his chest as he leaned into his chair, demonstrating the proper authority that comes with a position like his own.

Garth thought about that. “Didn’t you come to work late last Tuesday?”

That smirk shattered as Tom shifted forward, scowling. “I wasn’t aware I was being monitored by you. For your information, I had a terrible emergency that morning.” Tom wouldn’t say what that emergency was, not wanting to admit he got stuck waiting for fresh hash browns in a drive through.

“Oh, I didn’t mean to offend you. I was just thinking that we’re kind of similar. Everyone makes mistakes.”

Similar? Tom fumed at the comparison, tapping away at his keyboard, writing Garth’s name into the empty boxes on his template. “Now that I think about it. Dying would void your employment contract. You wouldn’t even be able to sue us.”

“You can’t do that! I’m telling you, I died. I was even in the work parking lot when it happened. You can check the footage. Some idiot was speeding through the parking lot and they ran me over.”

Tom stopped typing, pausing. “Our car park?” Now he was nervous. A death at their workplace? One that had gotten news coverage? He sweated, wiping his forehead. “We… have signs around the parking lot telling people to slow down. We also have numerous safe crossing areas. You only have yourself to blame.”

Garth thought about the accident. He didn’t remember seeing any signs or crossings. He didn’t remember seeing much of anything except the hood of a car. “I don’t think there were any. I was in the old bit. The one that leads to the underground elevator.”

“Ah, one moment.” Tom hurriedly emailed Jenny, who organized their safety and upkeep, asking her to let him know if they had placed any signage or crossings on the underground parking level. When Jenny said they were doing that next week, Tom panicked. “Ah, why are we even having this discussion? Of course you’re not fired. We couldn’t fire a person for dying.”

Garth didn’t expect the sudden attitude shift, but was happy to hear he wasn’t on the chopping block. “You mean it? That’s great news. I thought I was a goner.” Garth offered his hand to Tom, who quickly shook it. “Yes. Actually, I think a promotion might be in order. To compensate you for your troubles. A great employee should be rewarded.”

“I thought you said I was only a good employee?”

“I didn’t want to ruin the surprise promotion.”

“That makes sense. I think?” Garth wasn’t born yesterday, so he knew what was going on. Even if he hadn’t intended to sue them, the thought of being sued was enough to deter them from firing him. After all, he didn’t want anyone looking too deeply into this either. It was hard enough trying to convince doctors you magically came back from the dead. You didn’t want lawyers also looking into your strange medical records.

“A ton of sense. Now, why don’t you get back to work? I’ll send the paperwork through for your promotion.”

“That sounds great.” Before Garth left, Tom reached over the desk, tapping his shoulder. “Yes?”

“I also might need you to make an address to whatever news company reported on the accident. Let them know it wasn’t as bad as initially reported. Just so we can sweep this whole mess under the rug,” Tom said, begging him to agree. The sooner they covered this up, the better it would be for them all.

“Sure. Bye Tom.”

“Bye Mr. Backlor.” Tom said, slouching in his chair as the man left. Glad he got that ticking lawsuit bomb out of his office. He just hoped he had diffused it, not wanting his own job to get caught in the blast if it went off.

[sixhours]

Chapter 8 - The Ghosts of Babylon

Series Chapter Index | Read on AO3 | Complete

Rating: Explicit, 18+, here be smut and violence Series tags: Joel Miller x You, Joel Miller x Reader, Joel & Ellie, mostly follows canon, LGBTQ+ characters, y/n is bi/pan, y/n is ~45, violence, pregnancy, abortion, medical trauma, emotional trauma, panic attacks, sex work, suicide, smut, slow burn, angst with a happy ending, hurt/comfort, romance, no use of y/n, reader has longish hair, Joel can lift you, smallish age gap (~11 years), I've probably forgotten some so please let me know <3

~*~

By Thanksgiving, you and Theresa have amicably parted ways. Occasionally you see her around town with the twenty-something from the dance, and you silently wish them well.

You’ve fed all the information she gave you back to FEDRA in your late-night broadcasts, although there’s been no feedback from your superiors, save for an acknowledgment of receipt. Thoughts of being extracted before winter have gone by the wayside, and when the first snow falls, you decide a few more months with regular access to food isn’t a terrible thing.

You’ve also told FEDRA about Ellie’s origins in Boston, knowing they’ll have access to her records from her time in the military school. They tell you to keep an eye on her but give you no further direction.

And so you find yourself in a holding pattern when the winter solstice arrives, crystal clear and brutally cold. You aren’t sure what to expect from the holiday season in Jackson, but somehow you’re not surprised when a giant spruce tree goes up in the middle of Main Street. There are lights strung around windows, plastic snowmen and reindeer on their lawns, and handmade wreaths on the doors. Some of your neighbors have found old decorations hiding in their basements, attics, and crawl spaces.

If your house has any hidden treasures like these you don’t know about them, because you’re too busy at the clinic. Eric tells you that’s common during the holidays. More merriment means more acts of drunken stupidity means more injuries, so you’re grateful when Maria Miller brings her infant daughter to the clinic for a routine checkup; something that isn’t a sprained ankle or hot oil burn makes for a nice change of pace.

Babies were a rarity for you in the QZ. There should have been no lack of new life with reliable birth control being so scarce, but that wasn’t the case in your experience. You tried not to think too hard about why. In Jackson, you’re treating more pregnancies than ever. Shelter, food, and long, cold winters are the magic formula for baby-making.

Six-month-old Gwen is bright-eyed and solemn; she doesn’t fuss when you lay her on the paper-covered table, prodding gently at her belly, checking her muscle tone, the soft spot at the crown of her head.

“She’s perfect,” you pronounce as Gwen demonstrates her rolling skills by trying to wriggle off the exam table, looking up at you with wide brown eyes. You pick her up, hefting the flour-sack weight of her in your arms, and resist the urge to bury your nose in the girl’s curly hair. “Getting any sleep, mom?”

Maria shakes her head and smiles wanly. “No. She’s teething.”

“Do you have help?”

“Tommy’s great. And we have family…Joel’s good with her. Ellie, too.”

You bite the inside of your cheek, handing the baby back to Maria, trying to keep your voice light. “Glad to hear it.”

“Are you coming to the tree lighting tonight?”

“Mmm, not sure,” you murmur, turning away, jotting down the baby’s measurements in her chart. “I’m kind of a Grinch.”

“Not much for Christmas, huh? We get a lot of new folks like that,” she says, wrestling the baby into a thick winter coat and slipping leather moccasins on her tiny socked feet.

“Uh-huh. Holidays in the QZ weren’t a thing. We might get an extra ration card, but there was never enough food to make a difference,” you say tightly. “Guess I’m just not used to this…abundance.”

Maria nods, swaying gently on her feet to soothe the baby. “And how are you settling in otherwise? I heard Joel was working on your house?”

You have to force yourself to keep working. “Something like that, yeah. We’re–he’s done.”

“Hmm. He’s a bit of a prickly pear, that one.”

He’s a bit of a prick, you mean .

“You don’t say,” you murmur, keeping your tone even. Gwen begins to fuss in earnest, and you silently thank her for the diversion.

Maria gives you a knowing smile. “I know you may not be feeling it, but the tree lighting starts at nine if you change your mind. I think folks are planning live music,” she says, pulling a diaper bag over her shoulder. Then, after a pause: “Anyway, there’s plenty to go around. We’re glad you’re here. ”

~*~

That evening, you step out of the clinic to the sound of music playing down the street. You consider going home, but something urges you in the opposite direction, toward the gathering of people in the square.

The atmosphere reminds you of a county fair, with booths set up around the big tree, trading homemade gifts and food. The smell of frying oil and cinnamon sugar permeates the air. You help yourself to a cup of powdered hot cocoa–a rare delicacy–and walk the perimeter, skirting the crowd.

In the early days, large groups meant more opportunities for infection to spread, and raucous noise was a magnet for trouble. Later, gatherings in the QZ meant riots, protests, and violence. You can’t help it; you imagine the hell just one infected could wreak inside the walls of this community and your chest tightens.

Children chase each other around the tree, dodging oblivious grown-ups, laughing over cups of cocoa. The band–just a couple of singers accompanied by guitars and a drum set–begins a new song, a carol you haven’t heard since you were a child.

You can’t remember the last time you saw this many people in one place at one time when there wasn’t blood on the ground.

There’s a feedback whine from the speakers next to the stage. You hear a faint scream but can’t pinpoint the source. Suddenly the lights are too bright, the music too loud, and you shrink back toward a storefront, keenly aware of the thudding of your heart in your throat.

“Hey.”

His low voice over your shoulder startles you and you jump, spilling hot chocolate on your hand.

“Fuck!”

You look over to see Joel leaning up against the building behind you. You almost backed into him in the grip of your fear.

“What are you doing here?” you snap, grimacing as you inspect your hand, the pinkened skin of a faint burn. The stinging brings you back to the moment; the vise in your chest loosens and you take a deep breath. “This doesn’t seem like your thing.”

“S’not,” he nods toward the crowd. You follow his gaze and see Maria, Tommy…and Ellie. The girl is holding Gwen, bouncing her, spinning them both in circles until the baby cackles.

“Ah, I see.”

“I told her if you’ve seen one big tree you’ve seen ‘em all, but she didn’t buy it,” he says, eyes trained on his daughter. “Too many people for my tastes.”

“On that, we agree,” you mutter.

“Yeah, you had that look about you.”

You arch an eyebrow. “You watching me, Miller?”

“Nah. I just know panic when I see it.”

You duck your head, hoping he doesn’t see the blush in your cheeks. “Sometimes I feel like a war veteran,” you mutter.

“You are,” he says, his voice dropping. “We all are.”

“Joel!” Ellie is running up to him now, Gwen still bouncing in her arms. “Can you take her? Maria’s gonna let me plug in the tree.”

“Where’s Tommy?” he frowns.

“Dunno, I gotta go,” she pushes the baby into his chest and runs off before he can protest.

“Now what am I s’posed do with you?” he murmurs, ducking his head to meet his niece’s eyes. She reaches up and grabs at his nose. He scrunches his face in an exaggerated frown and the baby squeals, pleased.

“So is your, uh, girlfriend here somewhere? Theresa?”

“Hmm? Oh, no. I mean, she might be here. But she’s not my girlfriend.”

“Ellie said she saw you two at the dance a while back–”

“Yeah, that’s…done.”

He nods, distracted by Gwen, trying to keep an eye out for Ellie at the same time. You wonder if he realizes he’s rocking lightly on his feet, swaying the same way Maria had in the clinic a few hours ago, the universal dance of a parent.

A countdown rises from the crowd.

“Five…four…three…two…”

You turn your attention back to the square as the tree is lit. A cheer goes up and the band begins to play. You wait to feel the spark of joy you remember from childhood when there was the promise of magic.

It doesn’t come.

Joel turns Gwen in his arms to face the lights, points, murmurs something you can’t hear. She appears to be more fascinated with pulling at the scruff on his chin.

“It gets easier.” He’s looking at Gwen when he says it, but you know it’s meant for you.

A longing tugs at your heart. You try to imagine a world where you don’t have to fight and lie and fuck to get by, but the lights and music and laughter mere feet away seem so distant. The thought feels impossible, paper thin, too fragile to bear.

“Baby looks good on you, Miller,” you say, clearing your throat.

He shoots you a look over the top of Gwen’s dark, curly head, then nods toward Ellie, who is standing with her aunt and uncle, looking up at the tree in awe. “Got my hands full already.”

“I believe it,” you say. “What’s her story, anyway?”

You feel him withdraw into himself. Even the baby seems to sense it, squirming in his arms. “Who? Ellie?”

“She lived in the Boston QZ?”

He shrugs. “She found me. We…got along. Not much to tell.”

Somehow you know that’s a lie. You know it by the way his eyes are constantly scanning the crowd for any sign of her, the way his shoulders naturally relax when she pops back into view. You imagine this gruff, stony man and the spitfire that he calls his daughter, making their way through the broken world, and you find yourself genuinely curious, without ulterior motive.

The baby begins to fuss, arching her back, flailing her arms, and Joel bounces her uncomfortably. He takes a cautious sniff of Gwen’s diapered bottom, makes a face.

“That’s my cue,” he says. “I don’t do diapers. See ya around, doc.”

~*~

Christmas morning dawns as you trudge home from a late shift, ready to fall into bed and sleep the day away. 

There’s a small box sitting on your porch with a note tacked to the top.

“Don’t get your hopes up. -JM”

You let out a soft breath, filling the air around you with vapor. What a cheerful sentiment. No “Merry Christmas”, no “Happy Holidays”, not even his full name, just this cryptic note and Joel’s initials scrawled in messy capital letters.

You tuck the note in your jacket pocket and open the box. Sitting inside is an orange. It’s tiny–no, it’s puny , probably grown in the community greenhouse, and probably sour as fuck–but it’s not a mealy apple. A truce, perhaps.

You scratch at the rind, lift it to your nose, and inhale the citrusy scent of a real, honest-to-god orange, surprised at the tears welling in your eyes.

[ash-arts-a-thing]

So, I followed the scent of angst and ended up finding ur trollshock au, LOVIN IT so far!

Had to look up what bioshock was and its context and characters since I’m not a gamer, but I am still a bit confused bout the whole situation. U don’t have to, but do u think u could give a brief rundown of what’s going on?

Thank you!!! I’m glad you’re liking it!! I hope to do more for it soon!!

Where do I start? I haven’t gotten a comeplete timeline from begining to end, so some things aren’t difinitive, but I can give you run downs on a couple things.

Sorry this got kinda long, I’ll put it under a read more, if you have any more questions please don’t hesitate to ask!

John Dory and his parents were invited to move to Rapture for their scientific knowledge, which works for them because morally their parents are extremely bankrupt so they can get away with anything down there. JD was aiming to get into the music industry, he’s a great song writer (not naming them though) and he’s ace with a guitar, but their parents managed to talk him out of it. They claimed his entertainment skills would be put to better use by demonstrating plasmids and tonics, of course back then they weren’t comepletely aware of the side effects excessive and heavy use could do to somebody both physically and mentally.

So for a while JD was the face and name of plasmid use, his favourites being Enrage and Incinerate. The first side effects he had were horrible migraines so he uses a pair of tinted goggles to try to avoid bright lights, and around this time he’d been told they would be having another baby soon. JD, excited at the thought of being a big brother, recorded a few songs for them via audio diary and one in particular being written specifically for his sibling.

Not long after Bruce was hatched the effects of constantly destroying and rewriting his dna finally caught up to him and they quickly pulled JD from any sort of spotlight and practically erased his existance, claiming that he had to be sent back to the surface for business reasons. In reality they signed him off to the new Protector Program, Bruce was signed to the Little Sister (Brother) Program. Any male subject they tried to use for the LSP hasn’t worked, but they managed to make it work ask long as Bruce was paired JD and ONLY JD.

Unfortunately the slug they planted into Bruce had the side effect to make him age incredibly fast and while they saw it as a benefit at first, since the rest of the children in the Program were 5-6 years old, but by the end of year 3 he had the looks and mental capacity of a 30 year old. He was not happy to say the least, since he’d been put through multiple experiments to try to slow the process before he reached his ‘30s’.

They went through the same thing with the rest of the brothers, slowly perfecting the aging problem with each one before getting it right with Branch. Each brother also still has their slug in their bodies, leaving them with the residual effects they caused when they were LB, but they don’t know how long they’ll last since Clay and Floyd don’t get Adam unlike Bruce.

B, C, and F, are desperately trying to get to Branch without hurting JD or causing his body to shut down from Branch being taken from him. Floyd quickly became reckless in his attempts and constantly takes mortal damage. Bruce is trying to keep Clay and Floyd safe even forbidding them from using Plasmids and Tonics so they don’t destroy their bodies or minds. Clay is constantly torn between his two brothers, wanting them to just be a family, but knowing trying to seperate Branch and John Dory safely will most likely be impossible.

John Dory still has some part of him left, doing little things to keep his personality like the way he’s still a showmen when he uses plasmids, he’ll hum along to any of the songs he’s written if they’re played through a diary. When he hums you can hear the barest undertone of his regular voice mixed with the guttural voice of the Big Daddy’s, it’s very comforting actually. So he’s aware, but sometimes he isn’t.

Viva and Poppy were also put through the PP and LSP, Viva forcefully put through rapid aging to fit the role of a Big Sister and Poppy put through the conditioning. Viva is fully aware of everything happening around the city and does her best to keep Poppy as safe as possible. Viva and JD have a steady protector relationship due to the friendship through Poppy and Branch.

Viva also ocassionally tries to keep the other brothers informed of what’s happening around the city when she isn’t watching the kids. Her and Clay are very close, being friends before they’re conditioning and experiments took over their lives comepltely and eventually forming a romantic relationship. Viva, at first, is not happy with the way Bruce conducts things, thinking that he just wants to kill JD and be done with it until she see how he reacts to one of his brothers old recordings.

Thier goal is to make it out of Rapture, together, as a family. There are three endings, haven’t decided which would be canon, but I’m running off the ideas from B2.

The Good Ending: everybody makes it out alive and in one piece, John Dory is able to get the same treatment as Sigma in the canon games, getting freed from the conditioning and his suit so he can live a… ‘normal’ life with his family. They probably all get a big house together and help take care of Poppy and Branch as they attend school and shit and Bruce gets some help for the mental state he’d be in after the genetic issues.

The Neutral Ending: John Dory dies in order to save his brothers and the sisters. Viva would extract JD’s Adam and distribute it amongst his brothers so they’d all have a piece of him, kinda like a shoulder angel type of deal. It’s unknown if they’d all stay together.

The Bad Ending: John Dory and Bruce both die, the conditioning would end up being too much for JD to fight against and comepletely lose who he’d use to be, causing him to lash out at the rest of them. Bruce at this time would also feel his sanity slipping, using what consciousness he has left to protect them all from JD, leading them both to their deaths. When the rest finally make it to the surface they all break off, Floyd taking Branch, Clay going solo, and Viva taking Poppy with her.