#but considering black can see us (to some extent) its not really private

[juaneloriginal]

A dream and a nightmare

@blackkatdraws's silly!

i just want him to be happy bro

by himself not only with black, honestly i like their relationship but most of the time (i think early in their relationship) he always comes out injured or dead and the fact that he doesnt even care about his own safety most of the time just to (me thinks) make black happy makes me so sad/pos

i like the fact that they are being more cute now but im not sure how much that its going to last

[captainamericasbeard]

Empathy Ch. 1

Pairing: Bucky x Empath!Reader

Word Count: 2.3k

Warnings: None in this first chapter

Summary: Y/N is an empath tasked with helping the Avengers but healing only comes if you want it. 

A/N: I’m incredibly proud and excited to be bringing you this story! If you’d like to be tagged just send an ask and I’d be happy to knock up a list. 

Empathy MASTERLIST ll MASTERLIST 

The sound of your heels clicking on linoleum filled your ears. You smoothed down the front of your skirt and tucked a stray hair behind your ear as you walked briskly down the long hallway. You reached the door to Nick Fury’s office sooner than you would have liked and you took a steadying breath as you raised your hand to knock. Tap tap tap and the door opened immediately. Nick Fury was standing there dressed all in black with his eye patch perfectly in place. You’d seen Fury from afar before, passing through a room, on tv, but you’d never been in close proximity before. He was taller than you expected.

“I’m guessing I shouldn’t shake your hand?” He asked with a chuckle.

“Not unless you want me to know exactly what you’re thinking and feeling.” You reply, a mischievous grin curling your lips.

“Maybe next time,” Fury said inviting you in with a wave of his hand.

“I’m just kidding. I don’t automatically read every person I touch, unless their emotions are running high.” You explain as Fury escorts you to a leather chair across from a small couch.  

“I know a girl who can’t touch anyone. It’s… not a fun way to live,” Fury says as he sits in the chair leaving the couch open for you. You smooth your skirt behind you and sit down crossing your legs.

“I can imagine. When I was a girl my powers were so overwhelming I wasn't able to touch anyone. Years of hard work and practice and I’m a mostly functional member of society. Director Fury, I’ve been with 3P since I was 12. Why are we pretending you don’t already know everything about me.” You drop any naiveté and fix the director with a knowing look. Fury had never taken an interest in your powers before, why now?

“Common courtesy,” Fury said with a shrug.

“Well, thank you. Why don’t we talk about why I’m really here,” you said.

“I’ve got a job for you, if you want it,” Fury offered.  

“I’ve already got a job,” you reply with an arched eyebrow. You had an inkling as to where this was going.

“You do. In my linguists department. Because after being experimented on and tortured you decided to get your PhD in ancient languages and try to contribute some good to society,” Fury said, diving once again into his seemingly encyclopedic knowledge of your life.  

“Yes sir,” you confirmed.

“And as a result of that torture and experimentation you have telempathetic powers and super strength,” Fury said.

“In a nutshell, yes.” Let him think he knows everything, even you didn’t know the true extent of your powers.

Fury leaned back in his seat and fixed you with an inscrutable glare. Penny in the air.

“I have a select group of high functioning people with specific skills I’d like you to work with,” Fury stated. And the penny drops.

“I’m not interested in becoming an Avenger, sir” you said.

“Not becoming one of them, helping them. No field work. I’ve got enough super soldiers.” You smiled at that. It was true, you had no desire to throw yourself into the fray and save the world. But helping, that was something you were good at.

“Helping how?” You asked, your curiosity piqued.

“The team gets themselves into some pretty sticky situations and it’s not always easy for them to bounce back, mentally or emotionally. You would be there to… lighten the load, as only you can,” Fury said

“I’m not a therapist,” you said firmly.  

“I’ve got therapists. The team goes regularly. Requirement for being on the payroll. I’m asking you to take it that step further. Help ‘em sleep at night.” You were beginning to catch on.

“I understand. Help their minds rest a bit so things like therapy can be that much more effective,” you said.

“That’s the idea,” Fury said.

“I think I can be of assistance,” you consent. “What about linguistics?”

“What about it? You keep at it. You’re one of our best and I’d hate to lose you,” Fury stated. It was true, you excelled at languages. You worked twice as hard and with higher accuracy than your counterparts. You took a moment to consider Fury’s offer and what it would mean for your life and career. You had reservations but ultimately the thought of using your powers for good won out.

“When do I start,” you ask.  

“You have dinner with the team at 8:00 tonight,” Fury said as he stood up. You stood too and followed him to the door as he held it open for you.  

“8:00. I’ll be there. Thank you Director,” you said.

“No, thank you,” Fury said as you stepped out of his office. You gave him a smile and started down the hallway.

“Oh and Y/n? Maybe you can do something for Barnes,” Fury called after you.

“Sergeant Barnes? What do you mean,” you ask, turning on your heel. “Let’s just say, he’s a troubled man," Fury said with one last glare. With that he shut the door and you were left to ponder what he meant. You started down the hallway and were met by Fury’s assistant who informed you you would be moving into the Avenger’s quarters.

“Go home and pack a bag for a couple of days and we will come by for the rest of your things,” he said.

…

The Avengers occupied the top 4 levels of the main building of the compound. Sprawling common spaces, private rooms, and a gym made up the bulk of the quarters. Tony had a lab and his own private quarters with Pepper. Natasha, Sam, Bucky, and Steve had their own rooms and shared the common areas.

The elevator carried you up and up and up and as you rose your nerves rose too. You clutched your overnight bag in your hand and your knuckles went white. You took a few deep, steadying breaths as the elevator arrived. The doors opened and there stood Steve Rogers, arms crossed and a neutral look on his face. You could feel the apprehension rolling off him but you knew mentioning that would start you off on the wrong foot. You put on your most winning smile and extended your hand. He glanced at it but made no move to shake it so you let it fall. You were used to it.

“So, you’re Y/N,” Steve stated.

“That’s me,” you replied.

“You can leave your bag here. Kitchen’s this way. Don’t expect a warm welcome.” Steve led you through a tastefully decorated common room to the kitchen where the rest of the team sat chatting quietly. The conversation, clearly about you, died away with your entrance. The team turned to greet you. For those who smiled it didn’t reach their eyes. You could feel fear, panic, judgement. You knew you had some huge walls to scale.

“Don’t worry guys, I don’t bite,” you said holding up your hands defensively.

“Don’t mind them,” Sam said approaching you with a hand extended, “they’re a little wary around people who can read their thoughts.” You gratefully shook Sam’s hand.

“I’m not reading anyone’s thoughts, certainly not without their permission. Though you guys are going to have to calm down if you don’t want me knowing how much you dislike me,” you added with a light chuckle.

“Not dislike. Distrust.” Natasha clarified.

“No, its a bit of dislike too. And that’s ok. We have to start somewhere,” you countered, keeping a charming smile on your lips.  

“Hungry?” Sam asked, “It's spaghetti night. My speciality,” He said with a toothy grin.

“Famished,” you replied and sat down and the team followed. “Let’s hold off the questions until after we’ve eaten though. Interrogation’s not great for my digestion.” A few laughed at that and you soon settled into a conversation lead mostly by Sam with Steve and Nat chiming in here and there. Bucky remained stoic, eyes down picking at his food. You tried to catch his eye at first to give him a reassuring smile but he was actively avoiding your gaze.

As the meal ended the light hearted conversation faded away. One by one the team leaned back in their chairs and fixed you with interrogative stares. You were careful not to adopt a defensive stance, keeping your body open and your mind clear. You knew Steve would want to take the lead so you turned to him with a smile.

“Why are you here, Y/N?” Steve asked abruptly.

“I told you, I’m here to help. No ulterior motive,” you replied simply. Steve and Natasha exchanged a quick glance and that’s when you knew these questions had been rehearsed.

“Are you a spy? You report back to Fury?” Natasha asked.

“Not a spy and I don’t report to anyone. Everything I do stays between us.” You knew you couldn’t lie to Natasha even if you wanted to.

“So what’s your deal,” Sam asks, “Telempathetic? What does that even mean?”

“It means I can read and manipulate emotions. I can make a group of people feel one thing or I can focus on just one person. I can heal emotional damage or cause it. I can tell what you’re feeling and even thinking to an extent.”

“What else you got?” Bucky asked in a gruff voice. This you could see caught the others off guard. Bucky was reading you and he was doing a damn good job.

“My physicality is much like yours and Steve’s,” you answered. Steve’s eyebrow went up at this. You felt like you’d been caught in a lie.  

"How do you mean?” Steve asked.

“Increased strength and agility. Increased healing factor. Longer than average life span. That sort of thing.”

“So you're a super solider?” Bucky stated. He was watching you with arms crossed and brow furrowed. You had your work cut out for you with this one.

“Super without the solider,” you explained.

“Fury doesn’t want you in the field?” Steve questioned.

“No, and I don’t want to be there. I’m not here to be an Avenger. I'm just here to help,” you said.

“Help how?” Natasha asked.

“When a mission is too much, or even life is too much, I can help. I can ease your burdens. It's… hard to explain.”

"Show us. Show us what you’ve got.” Sam challenges.

“I'll need a volunteer from the audience,” you said with a coy smile.  

“You said you could do a group. Do all of us,” you felt fear spike in the group and you didn’t need to ask where it came from.

“Not everyone here is comfortable with what I can do. I’d like a willing volunteer,” you said.  

“I asked so I guess I'll do it. Why not. You’re not gonna mess with my memories or anything, are you?” You catch Bucky visibly squirm in his seat at this question.

“No, no, not at all. Nothing like that. If you feel me going somewhere you don’t want me to simply close that door and I’ll stay out. Can I touch your shoulder?” you ask and Sam nods.

“Do you have to be touching the person?” Steve asks curiously.

“No, but it helps,” you say with a soft smile. You reach out and gently lay a hand on Sam’s shoulder. You feel his tension, and his distrust. Suddenly a giggle erupts from Sam’s lips. He claps his hand over his mouth but more soon follow. Steve and Nat glance at each other and Bucky’s scowl deepens as Sam keeps laughing. He’s roaring now, doubled over with tears streaming down his cheeks. Steve chuckles and shakes his head.

“Alright, alright,” he says. You take your hand off Sam’s shoulder and his laughter slowly abates. He chuckles and wipes the tears from his cheeks.

“That was a trip! I’ve never felt anything like that! How’d you do that?” Sam asked. “That I can’t answer. I don’t know the how behind it.”

“But you were experimented on. I mean, you weren’t born like this.” Bucky asked.

“Come on Buck, she doesn’t have to go into that,” Steve said surprising you.

“No, it’s ok. Yes, I was experimented on. By Hydra. My father, he was a scientist and a genius but his experiments were of the unethical variety. Hydra found him disgraced and gave him a home. They gave him the freedom of human experimentation without consequences. And who better to transform than his own daughter.” A ripple of disgust passed through the group at your revelation. “He thought he was creating a god but I only thought I was a monster. I escaped and sought refuge here at Shield with 3P. I put myself through school, college, all under Shield’s protection.”

“3P?” Sam asked.

“Shield’s Powered Protection Program. They take in people with abilities who for one reason or another aren’t safe out in the world,” Natasha answered for you and you nodded.

“Alright, that’s enough for one day. Let’s let Y/N get settled.” Steve said ending the interview. The team seemed finally satisfied. They didn’t trust you yet but they weren’t going to throw you out of the compound. Steve rose and you followed him to the elevator to pick up your bag and on to a hallway lined with doors. Yours was the second on the right.

“Bucky’s on your right and I’m across the hall,” Steve said waving his hand.

“Thanks Steve.”  

“Is that all you have,” he asked pointing to your small bag.

“For now. Logistics is bringing over the rest of my things in the next few days. I just live on campus,” Steve’s face softened a bit at this.

“You know for most of us, this is the only family we’ve got. We’re just protecting what’s most valuable to us,” he explained apologetically.

“I understand. And I’m not offended. I’m here if any of you need me,” you replied.  

“Well, don’t hold your breath on that. I’ll leave you to settle in,” he said with a small smile and closed your door.

[wevegottogetaway]

Crashing into you

Sooo, I have no idea where this concept came from but here is you and Harry surviving a plane crash only to find yourselves stranded on an island (featuring best friends to lovers and who knows what else). There is more to come after this part, I’m just really busy with uni at the moment, so smaller pieces at the time it is. Please leave some feedback if you have any, or tell me what you would like to see happen in future parts! Happy reading xx

It wasn’t supposed to happened.

None of it was. Not the birds. Not the fire. Not the nose-dive.

And you weren’t supposed to be there either. Weren’t supposed to find yourselves floating 35,000 feet over endless stretches of sea when it happened. Not you and certainly not Harry whose presence was only the result of his boundless generosity.

It was a last minute trip on your part, an emergency response to the calling of a friend back in London; they’d gotten hospitalized and you were their emergency contact, pretty simple maths. Your assistance was irremissible and since it was cutting your time short with Harry, he didn’t hesitate before offering both his support and an express flight aboard some kind of private jet. None of you knew it at the time, but that decision turned out to be a twisted expression of serendipity, a very sick jock that the universe wasn’t supposed to make.

Except it did happened and there was no escaping the cataclysm that ensued.

                                                        ***

The cabin of the small plane is plunged in peaceful silence, the deep whir of its engines and the soft snores wafting through Harry’s nose the only white noises filling the space. There is no fussing toddler, no businessman talking loudly on the phone, no arguing couple; just you and Harry, one flight attendant and two pilots. Everything around you looks pristine and expensive, from the champagne you were offered but declined at the beginning of the flight, to the refined suede upholstery covering all the seats.

You’re not used to the luxury, and frankly, neither is Harry.

He doesn’t use private planes very often, doesn’t think it makes much sense to waste all that toxic kerosene when commercial flights do the job perfectly, and doesn't like how they make him feel like the diva some people mistakenly make him out to be. But for you he’d bend the rules. For you he’d bend over and backwards to assuage any of your pains and worries. You had been so on edge when you told him about your friend, so desperate to be there for them,  he had just wanted to be there for you in turn.

That’s why the two of you hopped in this small aircraft nearly four hours ago, with his hand drawing comforting shapes on your back. Now, you find yourself absentmindedly nipping at your nails, overthinking ever possible scenario that could unfold once you land and find your friend. In deep conversation with your conscience, you’ve been looking out the small window to your right, as if any of the two blue immensities painting the horizon knew all the secrets that you needed. They don’t; if anything, they bring their own mysteries to an already confusing world.

The atmosphere inside the plane is so inert, it feels like someone pressed the pause button. The flight attendant has remained quietly by her station, waiting for any signal that would indicate her presence required, and the pilots haven’t piped a word since their polite ‘have a lovely flight,’ when you first boarded the plane. The little company wouldn’t bother you so much, if Harry hadn’t fallen asleep thirty minutes in, leaving you to your own devices. You figure you can’t be too grumpy about it though, he did just rent a plane for your sake after all. Plus, his unconscious state has allowed you to ogle his sleepy figure for hours without being noticed, a treat you’re rarely privy to on top of being a nice distraction from your current troublesome thoughts.

Three years. Three years you’ve been a very dedicated friend to him and he to you. Three years of holding each other’s hand through any hardships and laughing till you’re blue in the face; three years of always supporting each other in your craziest undertakings and inspiring each other to be the best version of yourselves. You two are an indestructible pair and your friendship is the purest, most sacred thing you were given in this world.

Except, it’s also been three years of mind-boggling and consuming feelings that can’t be quelled and have no limits. Three years of secret glances when he’s too focused on something else to notice. Three years of talking yourself down from those feeling, but to no avail; they keep coming back full force and with a vengeance. It quickly became a full time job really, an art you mastered over time. At first because he was happily in a relationship, so there was no speculating whether your affections could be returned. Then once that ended, you were already so wired to ignore the skip of your heartbeats when he looks at you tenderly, or the soft and sometimes borderline ambiguous cuddles he gives you when he’s had one too many Margaritas; that the fantasy of him loving you the way you do was just unfathomable, you never even considered speaking up about it.

But these were your three years, not his.

You let out a deep sigh, as your musings once again circle back to your unrequited love. You wish you had more control over them, could limit them to sleepy fabulation sweetening your mind right before you surrender to unconsciousness. But alas, them come and go as they please, slip into your mind at any inopportune time, often betraying you by pigmenting your cheeks in cerise-colored bashfulness. Even now, in the stillness of the pressurized cabin, as your eyes settle back on his slouched form in the seat opposite yours, your skin can’t help but heat up in fondness.

Before you can get too lost in the soft eyelashes caressing his cheekbones, or the cupid bow shaping his pink supple lips, or the way a few of his mischievous curls are dandling in front of his face, slightly fluttering at each soft puff coming out of his mouth…yeah, before you get too lost in all that, you reach for the small bottle of water sitting on a small table.

You barely have the cap unscrewed before a massive tremor shakes the whole aircraft, spilling half of the bottle’s content on your lap. Your hand immediately white knuckles the armrest of your seat, your eyes widening in fear and frantically scoping the cabin for the flight attendant or anyone that could tell you what the hell is going on. Then the panic pumping through your veins prompts you to check on Harry and wake him back to alertness, but to your relief, he’s already groggily shaking the slumber from his limbs with a deep frown on his face. "Wha’s goin’ on?"

If dread wasn’t firing each of your nerve-endings, you’d find his grumpy look and slurred speech quite adorable, but the sight of the frazzled-looking stewardess coming towards you is sending a different kind of chills down your spine. These people are trained to maintain composure in all circumstances, so her trepidation can only mean one of two things: she’s either very new at her job or there is clearly a cause for concern.

"You two need to fasten your seat belts immediately," she speaks hurriedly.

"Sophia, what’s going on?" Harry reiterates his question with more alarm.

"We’ve collided with a flock of birds. We don’t know the extent of the damage yet, so I need you two to buckle in."

You and Harry share a worried look then, still confused about the situation. The plane has regain some semblance of stability, it seems, but Sophia’s anxious behavior doesn’t sooth your nerves one bit. She makes a quick exit back toward the cockpit, probably to discuss the ordeal further with the pilots. You gulp your uneasiness away, fidgeting on your seat as your hands blindly feel around for the safety belt, but the image greeting your eyes as they veer back to the window has your heart dropping to your knees.

Lambent orange and red flaring from the engines and lapping at the wing. Black smoke leaving an angry trail behind the plane and fogging up the windows.

"Harry," you barely manage to breath his name out and the urgency of your tone has him straighten up in his seat. "Harry the wing is on fire." You twist your head back towards him only to find him jumping from his seat to plop down next to you. The absolute gleam of terror swimming in your eyes makes his blood turn cold, so he quickly takes your hand in both of his before glancing at the carnage taking place outside. He gulps in apprehension before buckling his seatbelt and checking that yours is clasped in as well.

"Fuck, okay, it’s okay, love. Everything’s gonna be okay." It’s more prayers than reassurances tumbling out of his mouth, squeezing at your hand in plea, and a couple seconds after his utterance the tremors resume with greater intensity. You both can feel the aircraft slanting downward as everything around you start shaking as though you were caught in an earthquake. Except, you couldn’t be further from earth at the moment, and the shaking is not going to just pass after a while.

Objects start falling and rolling down all over, the tray of complimentary drinks tumbling down from the back of the plane to crash at the front. You and Harry are wrapped up in a protective embrace, tucking your faces in each others neck to avoid impact and because you’re both too afraid to look at the unfurling chaos. You can feel your seatbelt straining against your lower belly in a dire attempt to keep you in one place, but as the plane starts plummeting for good, top becomes bottom, right becomes left, and your bodies become masses thrown around at the hands of gravity just like everything else.

The last thing you hear before everything goes south is a defeated ‘brace for impact’ coming from the small intercom of the cabin. You feel the brutal shock of the plane hitting smooth surface if it weren’t for the speed of the collision, and then it’s just water.

Water everywhere. Water enveloping your body in a frigid clutch, water weighing you down as it imbibes every fiber of your clothes, water invading your retinas and blurring your vision. Water seeping through your mouth, pouring into your lungs when you feel the skin at your shin torn by sharp metal.

You vaguely hear your name being shouted, but the shortage of oxygen in your system makes you feel delirious. At this point you barely have enough energy to fight unconsciousness, much less the threat of your crumbling surroundings. That’s how you don’t feel the hand grasping at your shoulder and hosting you up on a floating piece of broken wing. Harry is holding onto it for dear life as well, muttering more prayers and encouraging words for you to please stay with him but soon you are both overthrown by your unconscious, slowly drifting away on the makeshift buoy.

                                                        ***

When Harry regains consciousness, the first things he feels is hard grounds underneath him. His ears are ringing, his throat is sore and his mouth feels dry, not to mention the splitting headache jackhammering at his skull. Groaning and frowning at the pain, that’s when he realizes that the ground against the skin of his cheek isn’t completely hard, but rather granular at the touch. Slowly, he brings his hands higher near his face and flattens them to hoist himself up. Once on his knees, he finally blinks his eyes opened, squinting at the blinding luminosity of the sun. And then it’s just sand.

Sand everywhere. Sand stretching miles into the distance. Sand itching at the joints of his fingers, sand creeping inside his shoes and clothes, sand weaving through his hair. Sand obnoxiously lingering on his lips, and as he tries to brush it off with the back of his hand, he has to spit some out of his mouth after realizing that said hand is also covered in it.

How did he find himself stranded on a freaking island? How did this happen? How could he be one minute safely by your sides, helping you through a tough situation, and then the next, thrown into the deep end - quite literally - scrambling for his life because some dumb birds decided to crash in the engine of the plane? Why him, why-

It’s a jolt to his brain then, an electric shock firing his body up to a standing position when the thought of you clashes in his mind. His breathing picks up considerably as he recalls the last time he saw you, passed out on the broken part of the wrecked airplane. He’d passed out soon after you as well, but what had happened since then? Had you find your way on this desolate beach as well? Or had your unconscious body slipped back into the water and sank all the way to the ocean floor until you reached that hidden museum of all the things and beings that fell victim to the sea?

Harry shudders at the thought. No. He’s not loosing you, now or ever, he convinces himself as he frantically jogs along the beach. Not when he never got his chance. His heart is lodged in his throat and threatening to escape at every passing second. Not when he still has unfinished, or rather, un-commenced business with you. Sweat drips down his face in searing droplet, a faint sting above his left eye barely registering in his frantic mind. Not before you know his last secret. His breathing is starting to get scarce until finally, finally his blurry eyes fall upon a figure stretched out on the sand, waves still licking at their feet. His job turns into a sprint as he begs for them to be you and for you to still be alive, desperate cries of your name echoing in the wilderness. "Please be okay, please be okay, fuck I need y-"

His relief is short lived once he takes in your passed out form, the blueish hue of your lips and the very lack of movement of your chest, twisting his guts in a painful knot. Harry abruptly falls to his knees next to you and brings his ear to your body hoping for any indication that you are still breathing. He fights the onslaught of hyperventilation that threatens to take over his body when he finds none and quickly checks your pulse at your carotid. His eyes pinch in brief respite: it’s faint but it’s there.

His brain almost goes into overdrive as he tries to recall everything he knows about CPR before his hands instinctively start pressing at your chest as though they already know what to do. It gives him time to absorb all the composure he can muster and think more clearly. He’s got to keep your heart going, that much he knows, and if you’re not breathing, it’s probably because you’ve got water in your lungs. Upon the realization he briefly stops the cardiac massage to pinch your nose and blow as much air as he can into your mouth.

For the next couple of minutes he does just that, alternating between insufflating oxygen through your mouth and pressing at your heart. His own breaks every time he pulls away from your lips and they still don’t pink back up to their usual lovely cherry color. Tears roll down his face in a constant flow, forcing him to wipe his face against the material of his shirt at his shoulder; there is no way in hell he is stopping his action for even a fraction of a second. He’ll die trying to save you before you die on him, and then he’d kick you ass from heaven down to hell for even thinking of leaving him behind.

All of a sudden you start coughing wet sounds from your throat, your body jolting from its spot on the sand. Harry’s never been so happy to hear someone choke (on water, that is) and as you turn your body sideways to let out all the excess of water clogging your chest, he closes his eyes and tilts his head back towards the sky in gratitude. "Thank you, thank you, thank you," he whispers out in relief, before regaining his breathing and focusing back on you. He draws soothing circle against your back as you cough the last bit of water out of your mouth, pushing your hair out of your face to give you space to breath. Lord knows you need it.

"It’s okay, pet. You’re okay, you’re alive. Fuck you’re alive, I can’t- please don’t ever do that to me ever again, you hear me?" He rambles at you as he cups your face with two trembling hands. He is in shamble in front of you, the high he was caught up in, in his order to save you finally dissolving and leaving only but shock and despair in its aftermath. You’d come this close to die in his arms, you both realize. This close from your life being highjacked from his in the middle of nowhere and the thought turns your blood even colder than it already is.

"‘kay, m’okay, Harry. We’re both okay," you reassure him too, and just hearing the sound of your hoarse voice is enough to calm him some. He brings you in a bear hug, tucking your face underneath his chin and draping is other arm over your back. You don’t hesitate before you return his embrace by wrapping your arms around his waist.

For a hot minute you remain intertwined in silence as you breath each other in and revel in the fact that you both survived the crash. Once your heartbeats have lowered down to healthier levels, you slightly part from each other and your eyes glisten as you lock them with his. "You saved my life, Harry," you whisper out to him with a tender caress at his cheeks, trying to ignore the small cut at his brow bone. "I just- thank you, thank you so much."

He answers with a small shake of his head, "don’t thank me, pet. I can’t imagine what I woulda done if y- if I couldn’t-" he struggles to let the words out and his face turns into a grimace at their implication. "M’just so relieved you’re alive, I’m the one thankful for that if anythin’," he ends up saying against the palm of your hand before leaving a small peck there.

As you move to stand up, you feel a sharp sting at your shin as soon as you apply pressure on your right leg. Looking down, you spot a gash at the skin, it’s not too profound that you won’t be able to walk, but it definitely needs tending to if you don’t want it to get infected. You let out a quiet ‘fuck’ in frustration before catching the look of concern of Harry’s face. "It’s fine," you brush it off, "just gonna need to clean it out. That cut on your face as well," you motion at his injury and he brings his hand up to feel out the cut in confusion. He hadn’t noticed the small wound, you realize. "Right, yeah," he answers after inspecting the patch of blood coating his fingers now.

Now that the shock of the situation is slowly dissipating and that reality is setting in, you both start thinking about the next course of action. You’re both alive and relatively unscathed, but now what? How do you get out form this place? Where even is this place? And how do you go home? It becomes increasingly obvious that you don’t have much resources and that you need some sort of plan if you want to survive.

"What about Sophia and the pilots? Do you know what happened to them?" you suddenly remember the rest of the crew. Perhaps they know more about how to proceed in such a situation. They might even know where you’re located, how far you are from home and what’s the procedure to ensure everyone’s survival and rescue.

"I dunno, love. Didn’t see them when we were in the water, I think they might have been on the other side of the plane," the somber look on his face betrays his pessimism as to their fate. They would be on the beach as well if they had survived. As the same reasoning courses through your mind, you look down in sadness at the vicious image of them struggling in the water before succumbing to the fatigue. Harry notices your pained expression and brings you back against his frame to leave a small comforting kiss at your hairline.

"Alright, it’s gonna be fine," you declare in pretend confidence. "People will start looking for us, right?" you try to make light of the conversation. "Hell, there’s probably going to be a whole unit created to find you as soon as we don’t show up in London and I’m sure they’ll find us fast." Hope is emulating in your belly where water had previously drown your vigor. You’re probably right; surely, if the one and only Harry Styles disappears in the middle of a plane crash, the response will be worthy of the man.  

He doesn’t seem to quite share the sentiment however, if the small frown and nervous nipping at his lips suggest anything. "Love, I- Jeff’s the only one who knows we were going back to England. He might not notice right away." It’s his own fear talking, the idea that it might take more than a day for people to notice their unsettling absence.

On a normal schedule, him and Jeff would be in constant contact, sharing details for the next day’s agenda, planning tours, interviews, promotions and pitching in ideas for new projects, but be that as it may, Harry was currently on vacation. He’d taken a couple weeks off to relieve the pressure from the last busy months and catch up on some much needed time with you, and Jeff knew that meant a little less consistent contact for this break to be as rejuvenating as expected. Would he think much of the absence of texts from his friend? At some point definitely, but how long would it take for concern to replace dismissal?

Talk about rejuvenation.

"What about the plane company?" you ask, not ready to see your hopes dwindle down.

He seems surprised at the thought for a second before the anxious lines on his face smooth out some, iridescent eyes locking with your own in renewed faith. "You’re right, Jeff was the one who made the booking, so the company will have to contact him once they know about the crash." You let your lips quirk into a soft smile at his optimism before he adds, "we just have to survive until then."

"Right," you dial back on the heart-talking and dares your brain to recall any tips about survival behavior you’ve ever heard. "So we need find water asap and to make a fire before the night falls." You know water should be your priority, you have three days before you die of dehydration, maybe even less under this blazing sun. And despite behind surrounded by water, you know that the sea can’t help you with that. It’s quite ironic in a sense, you find yourself trapped by water, yet the biggest threat to you in that instance is the lack of water consumption. As for the fire, you also know temperature can drop very low at night in places like this and since you don’t have anything to bundle yourselves in, hypothermia is your second biggest threat.

Harry nods in approval before looking around. The beach is enclosed between the sea and endless stretch of luxuriant green tropical jungle. "Come on then, we should try and see if anything from the plane made it out on the beach. I think I saw some pieces earlier, maybe we’ll find something to store water." You think it’s a brilliant idea since you will need some kind of container should you be successful in your quest for water. And with that, you both start walking back towards the edge of the shore, Harry’s hand holding tightly to your shoulder keeping you close to him.

➪ Masterlist

[tintinwrites]

dreams and other things | Frankie ‘Catfish’ Morales x Reader

A/N: This is inspired by an episode of King of the Hill, a show I did not even watch of my own volition yet vaguely enjoyed sometimes. No tags since the subject of this fic is quite touchy.

Rating: T

Warning: Trying for a baby and not being very successful with it. Discussions of possible infertility. Many sexual references. Naughty words. Depression. Arguing.

Word count: 1,907, apparently!!

Summary: Trying for a baby is taking longer than you thought it would, so Frankie tries to cheer you up.

GIF credit: ^ Please let me know if you don’t want me using your GIF!

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

When you and Frankie first talked about trying to have a baby, it was quite possibly the best thing ever.

Yes, your sex life was pretty damn healthy if both of you did say so yourselves, but the moment you were working towards something with no condoms, no birth control?

You barely kept your hands off each other, whether you were somewhere private or you needed to sneak off to somewhere that was only semi-private.

Frankie didn’t know shit about ovulation until you peed on those little sticks and told him that meant you were at your most fertile; which meant three days of as much sex as possible, which meant he now knew a lot about ovulation and considered it to be a pretty damn great invention.

The first month of trying resulted in an obscenely expensive pregnancy test blinking a timer at you before it said ‘not pregnant’.

You were obviously disappointed, but you kissed him on the cheek and told him that it was pretty rare for a couple to get pregnant so quickly and you would keep trying.

He didn’t mind that.

But then one month became three, and three became six, and six became eight.

If someone is wanting a baby, they can only deal with throwing so many ‘not pregnant’ or one-lined sticks into the trash before it starts to chip at something. Frankie would hear you sob in the bathroom when your period came and sit outside waiting until you were pulled together enough, but you would just start sobbing again in his arms anyway.

With how disappointed he was with each month that passed without you being pregnant, he could only imagine your disappointment.

Fuck, he’d watched you weep on the bathroom floor about what a failure you were, how you couldn’t bear him a child, how much you just wanted to see two stupid fucking lines, and he still wasn’t sure he understood the extent of your disappointment.

Those three days he’d loved were starting to become something he hated, sex now an effort you both made yourselves do three days a month when it used to be something you needed to be pulled apart from doing; would this time result in a baby? Was he shooting blanks? Was there something up with your uterus, or your ovaries, or something else?

All your worries made the two of you bicker, then cry, then apologize, over and over again, until you finally broke down and told him you just didn’t know what was wrong with you.

That, at this point, you knew each pregnancy test would say you weren’t pregnant and that you hated yourself so much you were taking it out on him.

He was pissed because this was supposed to be easy, damn it. Creating a family was something biological, something anyone should be able to do if they wanted to, and he couldn’t do that for you? He wanted to yell at whoever the fuck would listen each time you cried because something that should’ve been simple just wasn’t.

Any yelling he wanted to do was kept in for the most part, aside from one time when snippy bickering made him raise his voice with everything he was shoving down.

I don’t know how to fucking fix this, okay?!

The moment the words left his mouth, his face had softened and he moved to you immediately, dropping to his knees at the couch in front of you and rubbing his palms up and down your thighs.

I didn’t mean to yell, okay? I’m sorry. I’m so sorry, baby.

Maybe he was apologizing for more than just yelling as he laid his head in your lap, letting a few silent tears fall with the way you were running your fingers through his hair, telling him that you were sorry too, that you never meant anything you said and you just wanted a damn baby.

You decided to ease off on trying since it was so stressful for you both, and Frankie watched your heart break.

He watched it break even more when, despite not really trying, you were weeping in the bathroom once again at the blood in your underwear telling you that you still weren’t pregnant.

He held you to his chest, and kissed your head, and whispered all the truths to you of how great you were, and he suggested you take the week off work to just take a little more stress off.

You spent each day laying on the couch with dried tear tracks on your face as you watched almost every sitcom that was streaming, but he didn’t care. He’d leave something for you for breakfast in the morning, call in for something to be delivered for lunch, then make you dinner when he was home.

Most nights, he’d bring you to bed and help you change into fresh clothes, smiling at you when you’d kiss him and say a little thank you.

And then you’d fall asleep and any smile he tried to keep on for you dropped.

You were so...sad. There was no other word for it. Empty, maybe. Longing for something that should’ve been yours.

Shit, maybe he wasn’t going to be the best dad in the world, but you needed to be a mother.

Wherever he would’ve failed, he knew that baby would be okay with you loving it, and nurturing it, and kissing it, and holding it close to you.

Seeing the way you yearned for a baby made him think of all the other things you’d talked about with him, all the little dreams and other things you hoped to do with him.

He thought maybe one of them would help, maybe he could find something to help fill that void even if it didn’t fit quite right.

Something that would occupy your heart until you were finally pregnant or you looked into adopting a kid.

He came home that Friday you’d taken off work with a box in his arms, setting it outside the door before he pushed it open and stepped inside. He took off his boots like always and walked over to the couch where you were watching an old show, bending down to kiss you gently.

“Can you close your eyes for me, baby?” He tugged on your bottom lip with his thumb as you gazed up at him.

“If I open them to find you naked, I’m not gonna find it very amusing.” The time off work brought back a bit of your humor, but you did close your eyes as you moved to sit up.

“Not doing that, but I really hope you like this.” He made sure your eyes were closed before he moved towards the still open door. “It’s, uh...it’s gonna be a little work, but I know we talked about doing this before.” He balanced the box in his arms carefully, kicking the door closed as he moved inside.

“I’m still convinced this is a sex thing.” You furrowed your brow, wringing your hands anxiously.

“It’s not a sex thing, hon.” He set the box at your feet and reached in to take out the furry, wriggling creature.

“It really sounds like it is.”

“Hold out your hands.”

You did with little hesitation because you trusted Frankie more than anyone, brow furrowing even more when something soft was placed into your hands.

“Open your eyes.”

You did, pausing when you looked down to find what looked to be a little mixed hound puppy staring up at you and wagging its tail, trying desperately to lick at any part of you it could.

The longer you stared at the puppy in silence, the more nervous Frankie became that this was a bad idea and that you were going to be offended by him trying to cheer you up with a dog.

Then you started sobbing, putting the puppy in your lap and reaching up to Frankie, who quickly moved to sit next to you.

He wasn’t sure if you were happy or not, but he wrapped his arms tight around you either way and let you cry against his neck.

“Is this good crying?” he asked tentatively, relaxing considerably when he felt you nod.

“Good, it’s good. Is it a boy or a girl?” For some reason, that question broke his heart a little, but he pulled away to watch the puppy paw at your shirt.

“A girl. Someone dumped her and her brothers and sisters at the shelter. But she’s ours now, if you want her.”

“Oh, baby. She’s so beautiful, Frankie.”

You held the puppy again and she wriggled around, teetering forward to lick at your chin which made you laugh loudly.

That was Frankie’s most favorite sound in the world and he’d been hearing it so infrequently that he was pretty sure he’d just fallen in love with you all over again.

He gently rubbed up and down your back, watching the puppy gnaw on your finger with those little sharp teeth. “You like her?”

“I love her. Thank you for...everything.” You kissed him gently, for loving you, for putting up with you, for wanting a baby with you, for doing his best to provide something else you dreamed of when your dream of a child wasn’t working out.

He pressed his head against yours and looked into your eyes in a tender moment that was quickly interrupted by the puppy leaping up and licking at you both. You both laughed and you set her down on the couch, letting her sniff around the new environment.

“You’ll need to pick out a name. Alright, alright, damn.” The puppy was trying to nose in behind him impatiently and he scooted forward a little, chuckling.

“Catfish,” you said so surely that Frankie looked at you with a raised eyebrow.

“You’re kidding me.”

“I want her to be named after her daddy.”

He shook his head, looking to his side to see that dopey little tan and black face staring up at him with her tail thumping on the couch cushion. “I guess there’s enough room for two Catfish around here, huh?”

She tilted her little head as he spoke, ears flopping around slightly, then dove right into his lap and started nipping at his hands.

You laughed, leaning over and nuzzling his shoulder. “We need to buy her some chew toys.”

“Uh, I did.”

“You sound guilty.”

“—I took off work early to grab her and we stopped by the pet store for food and shit, so I bought a few toys.”

“How many is a few toys?”

“Anything she wanted.”

“You softie.”

You watched him with adoration in your eyes as he playfully scolded the puppy for chewing on his jacket. “Put the puppy in the box.”

“Huh?”

“Put her in the box for a minute.”

Frankie looked confused until your hand slid between his legs, eyes widening when you squeezed him lightly. “Alright, baby girl, you hold tight and play with the ball I put in your box, okay?”

It was a month and a half later as Frankie stared at eight lines, two on each of the four pregnancy tests you’d taken, as well as the three digital screens that said ‘pregnant’ on the other ones, that you kissed Catfish’s head again and again and told her it was thanks to her that she was going to be a big sister.

[another-snape-story]

Halloween

Chapter XIV

“Are you all right?” Snape asked, peering intently into your face. It lost its usual liveliness, and your thoughts seemed to dwell far away from the festively decorated Hall you anticipated to see so much, from overall excitement, from him.

“Yes,” you gave him the same forced smile as earlier this morning, and Snape’s heart sank. Something happened in a couple of hours he hasn’t seen you during the day. That damned envelope he himself passed into your hands should be the reason, he thought. This was the only possible explanation. He didn’t expect you’d open up to him, but it would be a lie if he said he didn’t cherish a tiny bit of hope.

Eyes full of concern, he desperately tried to find right words to express his readiness to help you whatever has happened, to assure you were not alone, but at the same time – surrounded by your other colleagues – not to make this matter public, moreover he had no idea what it was all about.

“Why aren’t you helping yourself?” deprived of opportunity to sit beside, Aurora Sinistra spoke to you from the other side of the table. “These profiteroles are delicious!”

Annoyed with unfavorable intrusion, Snape leaned back on his chair, fists clenched.

“I’ll try some,” you answered politely and reluctantly reached out for the dish to put one on your plate. Snape watched you with increasing anxiety.

“Where’s Quirrell?” you questioned, hoping to divert his attention.  Estranging yourself from the man you were thankful to come into your life felt so terribly wrong, but you were not ready to tell what bothered you – neither him, nor anyone else.

This very moment Professor Quirrell appeared in the doorway and rushed through the Hall right to Headmaster’s chair.

“Troll! Troll in the dungeons!” he gasped short of breath and – unconscious – swooned to the floor.

Astounded, you turned to Snape. Deep in thought, his eyes wandered the room. Meanwhile, Headmaster Dumbledore called agitated students for order. Prefects started gathering children of their Houses to escort them back to the dormitories. Professor Sprout was trying to bring Quirinus to his senses.

“The stone!” you startled up.

“Stay here!” Snape ordered heading for the exit.

“No!” you followed him.

He grabbed your shoulders. “Stay here! And please – be careful!”

“And you? What about you?”

“I’ll be fine,” he stole the last glance from you, and what he saw made his heart leap. You truly worried about him! Merlin, how could this be? The corners of his mouth formed a barely perceptible smile. “Be careful…”

He left you standing in the middle of the throng, lost and confused. You shouldn’t have let him go alone. What he was up to? You felt uncomfortable not knowing if he was all right. With this came realization he was the only one here you really cared for.

“The troll’s heading upstairs!” you heard someone’s desperate scream.

Holding your wand ready, with a resolute step you set off to catch that stupid mountain of flesh. Professor McGonagall ran after you.

Muted hammering sounds got more audible the closer you approached the girls’ bathroom on the second floor, and disgusting smell proved you were going in the right direction.

“Snape’s going to miss everything.” Once this thought crossed your mind, a tall black figure streaked from around the corner, causing a powerful wash of relief sweep over your body, giving you strength and determination to move further. Snape lined up with you and joined you on your way. It wasn’t the best time for questions. The troll raged; his chilling roar echoed through the corridor. You heard a loud bang and silence fell all at once. Stopped in your tracks – so strange and unexpected it was – you and Snape exchanged anxious glances and hurried as fast as you could, praying none of the students was hurt.

Professor McGonagall managed to outstrip you. She was the first to burst into the room. Snape protectively held you back, shielding you from whatever might’ve been inside. Suddenly, Quirrell, who vanished again as soon as all this bustle started, emerged out of nowhere, pushing his course through the doorway. Why he followed suit remained a mystery – the man looked like fainting again.

A huge stinky mass of the troll lay on the floor, motionless. It didn’t seem to bear any kind of danger anymore. Snape bent over the troll to make sure. The way he moved set you alert. Hard to say, what exactly drew your attention, but something certainly was different.

In the interim, Professor McGonagall blasted three young Gryffindors, who – to your surprise and terror – happened to be Harry Potter himself and his friends: showing little effort in studying Ron Weasley and nosy know-it-all Hermione Granger. How could these first-years expect to defeat a troll without having neither defensive nor fighting spells in store of their knowledge? It was pure luck they weren’t injured!

“You said you had a special gift with trolls, Quirinus?” you addressed him coldly.

The man flinched at the sound of his name.

“Why didn’t you stop him right there – in the dungeons?”

“I – j-just –” words seemed to stuck in his throat.

“And what were you doing there?”

Snape approached you, supposing you’d step back, but driven by anger and resentment you had no intention to stop this conversation. Snape on the other hand was determined to put an end to it. He made another step towards you, and another one – until his chest was pressed against your shoulder. Blocking your view with his tall figure, Snape almost pushed you out in the corridor.

Before leaving the room, he threw a condemning glance at your suspicious colleague.

“What the – ” you frowned. “I had more questions to this scoundrel!”

“I know,” he hushed you. “Not now.”

“When then?” you croaked.

“And not you,” he stated firmly.

“Am I suspended?” his words outraged you. “Why not me?”

If Quirrell was implicated in the Dark Lord’s matters, Snape had to keep you away from this. Quirrell should see not a slightest hint of danger in your words or actions, moreover – consider you his enemy.

“Just trust me, okay?” he stopped, and you turned to face him – it felt natural to do so. These eyes never betrayed you. You nodded, given in, and sighed:

“Okay…”

You continued your way in silence.

“Are you limping?” coming around after this chaotic evening, you finally noticed your fellow Professor fall heavily on the right leg.

“I’m fine. Stumbled on the stairs,” he explained indifferently.

Now it was your turn to stop.

“What?” Snape spun around to see the reason of your sudden holdup.

Arms crossed on your chest, you stood still, your lips pursed in a disapproving curve.

“How can I trust you, if you don’t find it necessary to tell me what happened in that short time you were absent! Where have you been, huh?”

“Neither do you want to tell me about the letter you received this morning and why it bothers you so much!” he spat back. “Correct me – if – I’m – wrong.”  

His words stroke you dumb. Chasing the troll, you forgot about your troubles for a while; to be reminded of them in such a rude, offhanded manner was heartbreaking. You couldn’t say what hurt you more – revived awareness of the news you received, or cold demeanor of the man you needed to be beside in this distressing moment. You felt a lump rise up to your throat and swallowed hard.

“This letter is a private issue and therefore concerns only me,” your voice creaked. “But recent events have to do with the whole school.” Holding back tears, you made a pause to pull yourself together and stung him with his own words. “Correct me if I’m wrong.”

Snape got used to you to that extent he started considering you a part of his reality so indefeasible, completely neglecting the fact you had your own reality, where his place might be of much lesser importance. Clearly, you didn’t owe him a thing, and could keep your secrets to yourself. He should’ve realized it. Of course, he should. Blaming you for that was inacceptable and tremendously selfish. Constant strain of nerve costed Snape the loss of self-control. Being too protective of you, he violated the boundaries and severely regretted it. He opened his mouth to apologize, but there was nothing he could say to atone his fault.

You shook your head in downright disappointment and shoot past him in the darkness of the passage.

“Wait!” Snape jolted, “I didn’t mean to –” He limped a few steps after you, but – his leg searing with pain each time he moved – couldn’t catch up with your speed. “Ugh, damn it!” he stretched out his hand to lean against the wall. He had to do something with this first.

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[tlbodine]

The History & Evolution of Home Invasion Horror

Here’s my prediction: In the next couple of years, we’re going to be seeing a sudden surge of home invasion movies hit the market. For many of us, 2020 has been a year of extreme stress compounded by social isolation; venturing outside means being exposed to a deadly plague, after all. 

And while many people have already predicted that we’ll see an influx of pandemic and virus horrors (see my post on those: https://ko-fi.com/post/Pandemic-and-Pandemonium-Sickness-in-Horror-T6T21I201), I actually think a lot of us are going to be processing a different type of fear -- anxiety about what happens when your home, which is supposed to be a literal safe space, gets invaded. Because if you’re not safe in your own house...you’re not safe anywhere. 

Home invasion movies have been around a long time -- arguably as long as film, with 1909′s The Lonely Villa setting down the formula -- and they share many of the same roots as slasher films in the 1970s. But somewhere along the way, they separated off and became their own distinct subgenre with specific tropes, and it’s that separation and the stories that followed it that I want to focus on. 

The Origins of the Home Invasion Movie 

In order to really qualify as a home invasion movie, a film has to meet a few requirements:

The action must be contained entirely (or almost entirely) to a single location, usually a private residence (ie, the home) 

The perpetrator(s) must be humans, not supernatural entities (no ghosts, zombies, or vampires -- that’s a different set of tropes!) 

In most cases, the horror builds during a long siege between the invader and the home-dweller, including scenes of torture, capture, escape, traps, and so forth. 

To an extent, home invasion movies are truth in television. Although home invasions are relatively rare, and most break-ins occur when a family is away (the usual goal being to steal things, not torture and kill people), criminals do sometimes break into people’s homes, and homeowners are sometimes killed by them. 

In the 1960s and 70s, this certainly would have been at the forefront of people’s minds. Truman Capote’s In Cold Blood detailed one such crime in lavish detail, and the account was soon turned into a film. Serial killers like the Boston Strangler, BTK Killer and the “Vampire of Sacramento” Richard Chase also made headlines for their murders, which often occurred inside the victim’s home. (Chase, famously, considered unlocked doors to be an invitation, which is one great reason to lock your doors). 

By the 1960s and 70s, too, people were more and more often beginning to live in cities and larger neighborhoods where they did not know their neighbors. Anxieties about being surrounded by strangers (and, let’s face it, racial anxieties rooted in newly-mixed, de-segregated neighborhoods) undoubtedly fueled fears about home invasion. 

Early Roots of the Home Invasion Genre

Home invasion plays a part in several crime thrillers and horror films in the 1950s and 60s, including Alfred Hitchcock’s Dial M for Murder in 1954, but it’s more of a plot point than a genre. In these films, home invasion is a means to an end rather than a goal unto itself. 

We see some early hints of the home invasion formula show up in Wes Craven’s Last House on the Left in 1972. The film depicts a group of murderous thugs who, after torturing and killing two girls, seek refuge in the victim’s home and plot the deaths of the rest of the family. In 1974, the formula is refined with Bob Clark’s Black Christmas, which shows the one-by-one murder of members of a sorority house and chilling phone calls that come from inside the home. 

Even closer still is I Spit on Your Grave, directed by Meir Zarchi in 1978. Although it’s generally (and rightly) classified as a rape-revenge film, the first half of the movie -- where an author goes to a remote cabin and is targeted and brutally assaulted by a group of men -- hits all the same story beats as the modern home invasion story: isolation, mundane evil, acts of random violence, and protracted torture. 

Slumber Party Massacre, directed by Amy Holden Jones in 1982, also hits on both home invasion and slasher tropes. Although it is primarily a straightforward slasher featuring an escaped killer systematically killing teenagers (with a decidedly phallic weapon), the film also shows its victims teaming up and fighting back -- weaponizing their home against the killer. This becomes an important part of the genre in later years! 

In 1997, Funny Games, directed by Michael Haneke, provides a brutal but self-aware look at the genre. Created primarily as a condemnation of violent media, the film nevertheless succeeds as an unironic addition to the home invasion canon -- from its vulnerable, suffering family to the excruciating tension of its plot to the nihilistic, motive-free criminality of its villains, it may actually be the purest example of the home invasion movie. 

Home Invasions Gone Wrong 

Where things start to get interesting for the home invasion genre is 1991′s The People Under the Stairs, another Wes Craven film. Here the script is flipped: The hero is the would-be robber, breaking and entering into the home of some greedy rich landlords. But this plan swiftly goes sideways when the homeowners turn out to be even worse people than they’d first let on. 

This is, as far as I can tell, the origin of the home-invasion-gone-wrong subgenre, which has gained immense popularity recently -- due, perhaps, to a growing awareness of systemic issues, a differing view of poverty, and a viewership sympathetic to the plight of down-on-their-luck criminals discovering that rich homeowners are, indeed, very bad people. 

Home Invasion Film Explosion of the 2000s 

The home invasion genre really hit the ground running in the 2000s, due perhaps to post-911 anxieties about being attacked on our home turf (and increasing economic uneasiness in a recession-afflicted economy and a growing awareness of the Occupy movement and wealth inequality). We see a whole slew of these films crop up, each bringing a slightly different twist to the formula.

*  It’s also worth noting that the 2000s saw remakes of many well-known films in the genre, including Funny Games and Last House on the Left.  

In 2008, Bryan Bertino directed The Strangers, a straightforward home invasion involving one traumatized couple and three masked villains. By this point, we’re wholly removed from the early crime movie roots; these are not people breaking in for financial gain. Like the killers in Funny Games, the masked strangers lack motive and even identity; they are simply a force of evil, chaotic and senseless. 

The themes of “violence as a senseless, awful thing” are driven further home by Martyrs, another 2008 release, this one from French director Pascal Laugier. A revenge story turned into a home-invasion-gone-wrong, the film is noteworthy for its brutality and blunt nihilism. 

2009′s The Collector, directed by Marcus Dunstan, is another home-invasion-gone-wrong movie. Like Martyrs, it dovetails with the torture porn genre (another popular staple of the 2000s), but it has a lot more fun with it. The film follows a down-on-his-luck thief who breaks into a house only to encounter another home invader set on murdering the family that lives there. The cat-and-mouse games between the two -- which involve numerous traps and convoluted schemes -- are fun to watch (if you like blood and guts). 

In a similar vein, we see You’re Next in 2013, which starts off as a standard home invasion movie but takes a sharp twist when it’s revealed that one of the victims isn’t nearly as helpless as she appears. Director Adam Wingard helps to redefine the concept of “final girl” in this move in a way that has carried forward right into the next decade with no sign of stopping. 

2013 of course also introduced us to The Purge, a horror franchise created by James DeMonaco. If there was ever any doubt as to the economic anxieties at the root of the genre, they should be alleviated now -- The Purge is such a well-known franchise at this point that the term has entered our pop culture lexicon as a shorthand for revolution. 

Don’t Breathe, directed be Fede Alvarez in 2016, is one of the creepiest modern entries into the “failed home invasion” category, and one that (ha ha) breathed some new life into the genre. Much like The People Under the Stairs, it tells the story of some down-on-their-luck criminals getting in over their heads when they target the wrong man. However, there is not the same overt criticism of wealth inequality in this film; it’s a movie more interested in examining and inverting genre tropes than treading new thematic ground. The same is true of Hush that same year. Directed by Mike Flanagan, the film is most noteworthy for its deaf protagonist. 

But lest you start to think the home invasion genre had lost its thematic relevance, 2019 arrived with two hard-hitting, thoughtful films that dip their toes in these tropes: Jordan Peele’s Us and Bong Joon-ho’s Parasite, which both tackle themes of privilege in light of home invasion (albeit a nontraditional structure in Parasite -- its inclusion here is admittedly a bit of a stretch, but I think it falls so closely in the tradition of The People Under the Stairs that it deserves a spot on this list). 

What Does the Future Hold? 

I’m no oracle, so I can’t say for certain where the future of the home invasion genre might lead. But I do think we’re going to start seeing more of them in the next few years as a bunch of creative folks start working through our collective trauma. 

Income inequality, racial inequality, political unrest and systemic issues are all at the forefront of our minds (not to mention a deadly virus), and those themes are ripe for the picking in horror. 

I know that Paul Tremblay’s novel The Cabin at the End of the World has been optioned for film, so we might be seeing that soon -- and if so, it might just usher in a fresh wave of apocalypse-flavored home invasion stories. 

Like my content? You can support more of it by dropping me some money in my tip jar: https://www.ko-fi.com/post/Home-Invasion-Stories-A-History-R6R72RV7Y

[armsdealing]

@neotropical​ sent: 10, 12, 15, 18, 26, 26 for Shiro | 28, 31, 36, 40 for Fenrir character development questions / inbox cleaning.

SHIRO.

10. what energizes and drains them most? shiro is introverted. heavy social interaction can drain him really fast, especially inane social interaction like small talk. paradoxically, being idle can also drain him. if he's not sleeping or eating, or reading or using his mind in some fashion, he'd rather be out there in the field, investigating cases and trying to solve them. he's a bit workaholic, and feeling like he's doing nothing worthwhile can affect his mood.

12. how are they bodily expressive? how do they use nonverbal cues such as their posture, stance, eyes, eyebrows, mouths, and hands? he's more expressive than he gives himself credit for, though most emotions tend to be negative, like annoyance or irritation or suspicion, if not outright anger cuz he's grumpy as fuck. he has expressive eyes even in wolf form, and since they are devoid of color the dilatation of the pupils is very clearly visible when he's agitated. body wise, he also goes tense, hackles proverbially raised, fists balled up, mouth pinched into a frown (or flashing fangs), standing tall or slightly crouched as if to lunge. his body language is pretty authoritative, typical of his species. and though like i said most of the emotions can be negative, he's not above showing emotional vulnerability. if he feels moved, he can truly start to cry right then and there (albeit stoically) without carinh, and if he's content/pleased/happy he's not above smiles -- though they are rare.

he's also easy to make blush if flirted with too heavily.  :/

15. what kind of inner life do they have — rich and imaginative? calculating and practical? full of doubts and fears? does it find any sort of outlet in their lives? mostly on the practical side, that's for sure. he tends to be motivated toward concrete goals, and is very good at staying focused. of course, he is not above occasionally daydreaming and losing track of things. this happens especially when not engrossed by something; his mind is full with grief regarding his past, as well as wariness toward the future, and that can lead him into brooding. his main outlet for his thoughts is his job as a social worker and private investigator. he finds it very rewarding that he can put his skillset to good use for the benefit of the community.

18. what kind of person could they become in the future? what are some developmental paths that they could take, (best, worst, most likely?) what would cause them to come to pass, and what consequences might they have? what paths would you especially like to see, and why? best case scenario shiro becomes a more tolerant person of humans, learning to understand and accept the gradations to their morality and that some humans are okay, while also learning to cope with his trauma in a healthy fashion, growing all around more emotionally open. along those lines he also accepts that he can have romantic feelings for someone without negating his sense of purpose and identity as a vigilante slash undercover god dlfkjdkf.

worst case scenario he distances himself more from the warmer side of him and opts to become a cruel and punitive deity that sees things mostly in black and white terms (something he already does to an extent) and doesn't form actual relationships with anybody, opting instead to dedicate himself to slaughtering humans he deems evil. basically it's a regression: going back to the same place where he was before making it to anima city and turning his life around.

both are likely, but of course the most likely is the former one if things go ideally -- like if he has more positive contacts with humans, and if others manage to get through to him emotionally. basically friendship and love will save him.

i'm good with either path tho of course i want to see him become healthier. i'm not opposed to him getting worse before he gets better, because i do love myself some drama.

26. how do they view and feel about relationships, and how might this manifest in how they handle them, if it does? he doesnt have many of them. most are purely incidental and tho they are positive they're not very deep. it's mostly work related or people that leave in his apartment building that he chats with from time to time or like, the owner of the coffee shop he frequents ddfjh. he thinks they are okay but at the same time he feels awkward and doesn't know how to go about them. he feels distant (his past and status as a god play a role no doubt) and even tho occasionally he wants to be closer to people he doesn't know how to even start. he's also a bit of a jerk and that doesn't help.

27. what do they strongly like and dislike, in any category? why? shiro greatly dislikes humans as a result of his past, being a victim of a massacre where all but himself died (purely on incident, since he was beheaded). he thinks they are all an irredeemable and violent bunch who sees his people as lesser. he also doesn't like beastmen that work with humans, seeing them as just as bad as humans too. in a more casual note he does not like the cult that has formed around his person, he thinks it's all a bunch of scammers trying to make money off his image. he wants to do something about it but isn't yet sure what.

he likes seeing anima city prosper and thrive and see beastmen happy; it genuinely warms his heart. and he likes children a lot. he has worked with the city to find many orphaned children better homes. he also has an affinity for boots and sweaters. 😌

FENRIR.

28. what are they likely to do if they have the opportunity, resources, and time to accomplish it? why? i mean if he had the opportunity resources and time odin would be DEAD already dfjgdhjfg prophecy be damned. he would've already put down a lot of asgardians, if not asgard itself. other than that... he's off and on about the idea of forming a legitimate pack. he could do it but it's a risky move considering gods are always cutting him short whenever they think he's getting 'too powerful'. but those things aside he doesn't want for much and he DOES already have the resources and time to do whatever he wants... to an extent.

31. is there anything that counts as a “dealbreaker” for them, positively or negatively? what makes things go smoothly, and what spoils an activity or ruins their day? why? fenrir has a short fuse and on bad days if you get on his nerves he will kill you. i mean he will really just shoot you dead for annoying him if he doesn't feel like acting civil. disrespecting him is a big no-no, he has a low tolerance for idiocy and people who think they can act all insolent around him. if you think you're close enough to get away with that you need to give yourself and ur relationship with him a long hard look because chances are you're wrong. acting like you're better than him/superior to him? dealbreaker. pitying him in any way? also a big dealbreaker. it truly annoys him. he will sooner stop talking to you than entertain your sympathy, even if what he's going through is worthy of it. he doesn't want anything to do with it. other things that can ruin his day is pain flares due to his bound status -- he deals with chronic pain 24/7, and it's the source of most of his bad moods.

as for things that makes situations go smoothly -- if the pain is unusually mild that given day. nice food or drink, or completed jobs, and presence of people he likes (family, or lovers)

36. how much do they rely on their minds and intellect, versus other approaches like relying on instinct, intuition, faith and spirituality, or emotions? what is their opinion on this? fenrir is more instinct and intuition than intellect, but he is by no means dumb. he is hypersensitive and hyperaware of things and is constantly processing amounts of information that would knock out the average human, and acting accordingly to it all. his hunches are usually correct and he's quite capable of analysis and deductive reasoning when necessary -- take for example when he quite correctly guessed that asgardians where trying to trick him with gleipnir. emotions play less of a role when it comes to serious decision making, tho yeah like anybody sometimes he will act purely on passion if its something that affects him to such a degree. he doesn't feel any particular way about it, and is confident in his decision making (perhaps sometimes overconfident but yh y'know, that happens), since it tends to work for him.

40. what do they wonder about? what sparks their curiosity and imagination, and why? how is this expressed, if it is? for a long long time(pre-binding) midgardian culture truly sparked his curiosity. he wanted to learn about humans and how they operated and the things they liked to do. after this curiosity was satiated he doesn't express wonder over many things. he has unanswered questions about the fate of the world and how fate will play out but virtually everyone does. he would rather spend his time in the present than invest a lot of time simply thinking about the future. simply put, he is not an imaginative person. 

[tetrakys]

Dragons and Daemons - part 2

Prologue

Part 1

“This is a serious matter,” Miiko said in a firm tone, “the crystal is unstable, I’m containing the situation for now, but it won’t last forever. We need to repair it and, even then, we don’t know if it’ll be enough, but we have to try. We knew there was a black market for crystal fragments out there, and we now got a tip-off about its location.”

Excited whispers were exchanged between the members of the Light guard. This was great news, it was vital to obtain all the missing pieces of the crystal and stop any new possible contamination. But… why did Miiko specifically asked me to this meeting? I wasn’t in the Light guard, and she didn’t usually confide in me for important matters. I was just the bait.

Ah, of course. She needed a bait.

“We can easily organise a mission to burst the place and…” Valkyon said, but Miiko interrupted him.

“No, we can’t play this by brute force. They’re using a public location, the people involved surround themselves with innocents, we can’t take any risks.”

“It’s clearly a work for me then,” Nevra said with a cocky grin, “I’m going to infiltrate the place and…”

“Unfortunately, you can’t.” Miiko added with a frown. “It would’ve been ideal, but you’d be kicked out as soon as you step in there.”

“What?”

“The place is…” she stuttered flustered. “The Dream House.”

Silence fell into the room.

“What?” I whispered to Kero. “I don’t understand. What’s the problem?”

He was blushing from head to toe, his eyes to the ground, hands fidgeting.

“W-well…” Miiko continued. “The tip is pretty solid, but we need to make sure. That’s why I called you all here. We need two people to pose as costumers and infiltrate…”

“No!” Valkyon got up immediately, looking at me in shock. “I know what you have in mind and the answer is no.”

“Valkyon!” Miiko reprimanded him, surprised by this sudden outburst from the person who was usually the quiet one in the room. “Everything is going to be fine. Erika will be perfectly safe…”

“Are you both talking about me?” I asked. I was actually surprised to be considered for such an important mission, I was tired of trivial tasks like cleaning around or helping the Purrekos. But why was Valkyon so opposed to me going?

“Yes, Erika. We need your help.”

“No!” Valkyon burst out again. “Absolutely not.”

“I’m capable of making my own decisions, Valkyon. Thank you very much.”

“You don’t understand, this place… The Dream House… is not for you.” He paused, as if looking for the right words. “It’s a sex club.”

Oh.

I… didn’t expect that.

“What do you mean by… sex club?”

“It’s exactly what it sounds. A normal nightclub on the ground floor, with a private area on the upper floors. It’s led by Cardon, an incubus, they feed on sexual energy.” Miiko explained.

“And what does it have to do with me?”

“Apart from a few exceptions, generally people can only access as couples, and there is a long waiting list. It’s a very famous and sought-after place.” Nevra seemed to know quite a lot. “That’s why I think it would be impossible to… oh…” he looked at me. “I get it now. Yes, it’s doable.”

“Yes, that’s why we need two people to get in,” Miiko added.

“Can you please explain? Why me?” this wasn’t exactly the type of mission I was looking for. “Can’t anybody from the Guard go?”

“First of all, Cardon hates the Guard,” unfortunately this didn’t surprise me one bit. “He joined us briefly a few years ago before he opened his club and… let’s just say we didn’t part in the best terms. “Also, we can’t really advertise that we are going, that would defy the whole point of infiltrating the exchange. You are new, no one would recognise you as a Guard member and… there is another detail…”

“You’re human,” Ezarel said with his usual bluntness. “You’re something of a rare treat for an incubus, and even for all the patrons of the club. They would probably welcome you with open arms. No waiting list required.”

“They did. We requested membership and got it immediately.”

“Wait… you did it without even asking me first?” I would get mad if it wasn’t how they normally operated.

“I’m sorry Erika, we had to. There’s no time to waste. The tip said an exchange is going to happen at some point this week. We won’t be able to come up with another plan.” Miiko this time seemed genuinely worried. “I know this is a horrible position we’ve put you in, and if you really don’t feel like doing it, I will understand. But know that you won’t be alone and we don’t expect any danger, it’s a recon mission.”

“If she’s going, I’m going with her.” Valkyon jumped in immediately.

“You can’t. Cardon knows you, you are aware he was an Obsidian too. Ezarel is well-known in Cambria, he’s been there on a mission several times. And Nevra…” she looked at him with displeasure.

“Yeah, I’ve been banned,” he looked really regretful, “damnit!”

“Why…? Were you a member?”

“Never mind,” he cut me off.

“So, who am I supposed to go with?” I asked unsure. Certainly not Kero? I couldn’t even begin to imagine him in a situation like that.

“With me,” a calm voice replied, and I jumped in surprise. Leiftan looked at me straight in the eyes and I felt myself blush from head to toe.

What would it mean? Leiftan and I… pretending to be a couple… attending a sex club together… we were only going to investigate, nothing was requested of us, right? Except… who knew to what extent we were going to pretend to make everyone believe our story.

Was I really willing to do this? The mission was important, vital even.

But this was Leiftan, I’d never seen him like that. He was a friend, probably my best friend here at HQ. He’d always supported me every time I was sad because of my family and the many betrayals of the guards. Would I be able to pretend we were a couple?

And Valkyon… he kept pacing around the room nervous. He wasn’t happy about all this. But we weren’t officially together. I didn’t like how he was trying to take the decision away from me earlier.

And finally… those dreams. I kept seeing Ashkore and the Demon… Thankfully I hadn’t had another vivid experience as the one from a few days before, but maybe it wasn’t such a bad idea to go away for a while.

“So, what do you say Erika?” Miiko asked. “Are you in?”

Without unlocking my gaze from Leiftan’s I nodded.

“I’m in.”

[hugleikinn]

how would you personally describe each of the 7 planetary angels in terms of appearance, behavior, the feelings and visions you experienced under their influence etc

First of all,thank you for your question and secondly, I apologize for taking almost 2 iceages to reply to it.

Excuses aside,the reason is, that my first gut response was: „I am sorry, I am notcomfortable sharing aside from the odd personal anecdote“, but then I thoughtagain and figured I could take that answer and at least make it helpful to youand other readers, perhaps, my sharing some of my methods, personal experiencesand yes, the odd anecdote. I am happy sharing older experiences, as they are inthe past and worked though, but my work with the planetary angels and entitiesis ongoing, and therefore private.

So probably thegist of this reply will be different ways, one can sense and perceive andcommunicate with spirits, as I dare guess you are not really after my stories,but more likely trying to reconcile your experiences based on comparison.(Which is in general fine, if done in moderation and as control, not for goalsetting). I hope I am not overreaching here though. If so, I apologize.

Also, as I amwriting this, this is my second attempt, as I deleted the first one at cca 2 A4pages long. Yikes.

To begin with, Iwould like to reiterate, that I consider myself, to the most extent deaf-blind,when it comes to contact with spirits and entities. Meaning, I am rarely ableto glimpse the form they are taking or perceive actual words or sentences (outloud or with my minds eye), outside of full on rituals or trances etc, and eventhen, I feel, my experiences are far from what is described.

To compensate, Ihave developed other methods to tell one spirit from another and I am also ablewith quite some accuracy to place a spirit within an egregore and even name it,the accuracy depending on whether I have studied or worked with that egregore /tradition before or now. For example, for traditions that are not so known to me, likeeastern (Hindi, Japanese etc), I’d probably be able to place that spiritgeographically to eastern Asia, and perhaps find some possibilities based onthe “feeling of it” or its energy and attributes (?) I am able to tell (likelove, destruction, sun or other keywords).

Other times, I receive actual names, especially with lowerspirits.

As a personal anecdote to illustrate what I mean and howthis can work as well as how to think critically and to figure out whether whatyou are experiencing is personal projection, imagination, wishful thinking ORan actual encounter.

Around 13-15 years ago, when I was learning tarot, I couldn’tshare the feeling that I was followed or even being influenced by an entity,when reading (generally, that is a whole story on its own for another time).But to make sure I was not lied to, or manipulated, I really REALLY wanted tofigure out what or who this was.

And so, one evening I dug my heels in and said that I am notstopping until I figure out what is up. And so I slung cards, and chanted, anddid who knows what, head stands perhaps too. But I swear the only thing I could think about during that almost 5hour process was: Heliopolos. Who are you? Heliopolos.What do you want? Heliopolos? What is your name? Heliopolos. Whatis Heliopolos?! Heliopolos Heliopolos Heliopolos Heliopolos.polosHeliopolosHelioHeliopolosHelioHelioHelio,

I swear at one point I was even repeating it out loud and it was the only thing I could think about. 

And so I stopped and thought. What doesthat mean? Am I projecting something into this process? I was aware that Heliopolossounded somewhat ancient Greek, but at the same time I was aware, thatcorrectly it would be “polis” not “polos”. And if I am aware of this “mistake”,why would I repeat to myself something that I knew was wrong? It did not makesense. 

At the same time, while being roughly aware of the possible meaning of Heliopolisfrom a linguistic stand point, as in Helios + polis, and also considering thefact, that it sounded like a legit name of something or someplace, I had no knowledgeof a city of that name. And so I decided, after some deliberation, that no, itwas not me. It was a foreign thought.

And so I googled, and after an extremelyshort search chain,  happened upon anancient Egyptian creation myth originating in a now lost city of Heliopolis,whose central figure was a deity named Geb.

I don’t see a reason for going further intothe story, as the point of it was first of all learning to distinguish, whatcomes from within oneself and what is a foreign feeling or thought. Because many other times, I got similarly consumed with my own thoughts, wishes and projections into the process, that I had to stop, leave it to reast and try again anew.

A lot of us have very many preconceptionsand expectations on how certain entities will look or behave. Or we havecertain wishes, that those same spirits and entities will behave a certain way,tell us specific things, validate what we are saying and in many cases thoseexpectations and wishes can cause us to imagine our encounters whether partiallyor fully. They cause us to interpret our confirmation-divinations in a certainway and that only serves to hinder our progress.

When dealing with magic and especially withthe spirit model, I am a huge advocate of taking at least as much time analyzingoneself and getting to know what kind of thoughts in what form tend to pop upin our heads, as dedicating to actual practice.

It serves not only for the magician to recognize,whether he has been successful, especially in the beginning, but also as a failsafein case something goes wrong and one becomes subject of oppression, possessionor just pure harassment. If you know what you are like and how you think andfeel and see and dream, then you will instantly know if something changes andwhether it has a legitimate reason you are aware of or not.

That said, to give actual thought pointsfor you to mull over, and maybe open our mind to different possibilities ofexperiencing spirits aside from visions (as those will inherently be unique toyou anyway and mine will probably be nothing like them anyway – I have readquite a few encounters of other practitioners with entities I have myselfworked with, and each of them was so different than mine to a point that if Iwasn’t sure about the legitimacy of mine, I could begin to doubt myself).

Some ways of experiencing spirits andentities aside from full manifestation, that I have had:

When working with Sif many years ago,whenever she was present, I felt my head spin and almost like fainting, but ina quite pleasant way, like when you are a bit tipsy.

When I worked with Odin, I would get astrong vibration on my forehead, sometimes to the point of pain and sometimesaccompanied by pain in the left eye. At times, I was sure that I would goblind, if I worked with him for a very long time. But actually, my eyesight hadimproved a bit at that time.

When it comes to angels though, I do believethat even outside of my case, full manifestation is quite rare aside from DSIC (and even a manifestation inside a crystal can be debatable in terms of “full manifestation) etc. and unlike goetic spirits, so the following will be more of my accounts ofdifferent “tells” they have for me personally when they are present, and Icannot see them for one reason or another.

When I work with my current patron, of thecelestial sort (again, ongoing, so private, but can very easily be figured out:D) I feel heavy on my spine, and it prickles almost like when tightening bow sometimes.

When encountering the big A, as in theangel that begins with A and ends with **ael, parts on my body felt like theywere asleep. Not just legs, but ribs, cheeks, and other odd parts.

When I have been in the presence ofMichael, the perceptions are sometimes different, but often there is asensation like you step into the sun, or someone aims a hairdryer in your face.

Gabriel is still a little bit uncertain forme in the department of “tells” but I have to say, that I do not share thepopular perception of them being in anyway terrifying. If I were to have areason to be afraid of an angel, it would be Michael or A**ael.

Raphael is in some ways similar to Gabrielin the way that he is quite uncertain for me in specific tells of his presence.I do however have quite a problem concentrating when trying to work withMercury, as in I usually have to write the whole procedure down before hand andresort to reading, because I can get so scattered with different ideas. But physically? Not sure yet.

Anael makes me feel HOT. Like sweating,heavy breathing. Ehm.

With Sachiel at times I get the feeling ofbeing in a drugged up formal business situation, like Wolf of Wall street orsomething, and my hands shake, I do also get the heaviness between theshoulders and a bit dizzy.

In all honesty, I have worked with Marsprobably only twice in my life, and at this time I have no intention of doingmore work, so my experiences with Samael are limited. Too limited to share. However all my work with Mars had leftovers on the rest of my day, and I am naturally quite feisty, so the combo with Mars does not suit me at all. 

My work with Saturn and Cassiel is nowongoing, so I will probably share my experiences at some later time, but generallywhat sums it up for me atm is “black velvet”, from the black velvet of the deepcosmos, through the black velvet of the death card in tarot to black velvet pyjamas and all the thingsbetween.

Metatron is sarcastic and cryptic at the same time and all respect, but ….. At the same time, I had no business, so touché. 

I do hope this helps you anon at leastsomewhat and I hope this can be also helpful to others to one degree ofanother.

I think the most important message I wantto instill is, get to know yourself, and learn to distinguish what comes fromwithin you and what comes from without you. The other stuff – encounters,feelings, messages, perceptions, visions will be subjective to you and yourunderstanding of the world.

Like dreams.

[yoshi-p]

everyone and their dog is doing it and everyone is absolutely allowed to share their opinions so i want a turn but first let me clarify:

hello im yase, been around since 1.0. I am of turkish and nogai descent and i can speak fluently in tatar, turkish but my english doesn’t hold 100% so i will be all over the place.

Unfortunately this will all be word of mouth and may be taken as vague posting, but I have experienced issues since the release of 4.0 and would like to give my opinions. I want to let this all off my chest this is just a huge vent basically so i guarantee my english will be terrible.

the most important point: NEVER EVER SPEAK FOR ANOTHER CULTURE. NEVER EVER SPEAK ABOUT A CULTURE YOU DON’T KNOW. YOU HAVE SPREAD FALSE INFORMATION AND I AM SO HURT.

another point is ITS A VIDEO GAME GUYS (does not apply to everything but some people really need to take a step back because people are concerned.)

Here’s the hot topic I’ll talk of first: garleans. I personally do not play one as I prefer to play characters that would never be involved in a sense with the political agenda because in real life im too stupid to comprehend anything like that so i wouldn’t even know how my character would behave with the hot topics. I really do think people need to take a step back and see that everyone who is putting in their input is making solid points but personally I would never compare them to nazi germany though I see why people are generalising. I always saw it as tsardom of russia with the use of roman influence as well, something obvious in naming conventions and the way the ranks/monarchy(?) works but it’s not so clear what the main influences of most places in this game if you have a look at the bigger picture. Without like full on spoiling, its weird to have this view to me with the knowledge that ascians are behind this. Are you implying anyone who plays or was influenced by ascians is also under this umbrella? 

Also why THE HELL WOULD YOU TAG SOMETHING KNOWING IT WOULD GET A LOT OF TRACTION AND RESPONSE THEN BE LIKE “you guys misunderstood, I was expressing my feelings” lol no. “ I don’t understand where this is coming from, and at this point, I don’t really want to.” then why did you even fucking bother do it in private dont tag it.

You are COMPLETELY valid to feeling uncomfortable, it is fine because with how much of this world we have there will be aspects some of us don’t like. You are not inclined to involve yourself with someone if they roleplay as a garlean but you do not need to start publicising it in a way that will paint the community in black and white when its truly a wider spectrum.

YOU CHOOSE WHO YOU INVOLVE YOURSELF WITH AND WHO YOU PLAY WITH, PLEASE GET AWAY FROM PEOPLE WHO GIVE YOU NEGATIVE FEELINGS OR YOU’LL SPREAD IT TO OTHERS.

from that initial and very brief tagged post there popped up many others and new discourse is arising, opening discussions about many things which is better then being blind to it all. but if you have personal grievances with someone and you state its over, let it be over. It’s not healthy behaviour. it’s also troubling to see someone complain a lot about the game and continue to play, no one is forcing you or holding a gun to your head. take breaks if you need to and play less frequently. like, real life is so much more important and there are people in this community that prioritise relationships with players etc.

Also, please stop fucking talking about mongolian/turkic/turkish culture like you know things. 99% of the big mouths in this community are americans. like majority are white americans. 

over the course of this expansion i have had many people of varied backgrounds share with me some terrible experiences and i myself have seen some truly stupid shit. 

WE ARE HERE TO HELP YOU LEARN OF OUR CULTURE AND WHERE TO CONTINUE DOING SO. DO NOT INTERPRET MEDIA AS ACCURATE REPRESENTATION OF CULTURE.

it is absolutely not hard to tag a post and ask around, someone will pop up. I’ve been doing my very best to let everyone i know that i can help with learning about my culture or to find someone who would be more then happy to explain and share with other cultures. But when you go off of a documentary you saw of Genghis khan or only know of the tourist white people scenes of istanbul you as a community say some TRULY dumb shit.

I like to try and be patient because i myself when approaching someone of a culture i admire and am curious about i want that in turn. But if you say to me things like “Ainu aren’t real” or “Tatar people have nothing in common with tribes from the Altai mountains” its hard to do so.

FFXIV regions are not just “Germany” “Turkey” “Mongolia”. If you think this, it’s clear to me you don’t know shit and are too lazy to explore, further just google shit its not that hard. I had someone tell me that my people could never be in this game since its “Straight up mongolia” fucks sake NO ITS NOT. The designs vary and i can see the differences in simple things like words because i actually bother to do research even coming from a turkic culture. There were some beautiful little things dropped that linked to not only my people but others like Uyghur and Altai. The only place in FFXIV i think could only have a singular influence is Kugane, because from a foreigner’s perspective that’s already interesting enough. Many people have grievances and real issues with how SE has handled Doma’s influences and no one ever talks about that. Representation for asia in media has turned into this mess of specific east asian countries, the trio that even then gets categorized into China/Japan with brief mentions of Korean culture. 

Its frustrating. There are people who are happy to teach you. Who are willing to show what is wrong with the picture.

I have read several posts about Turkey/istanbul/Antalya. Yall fuckin weird you guys seem to think its in U.A.E or some shit with how you act. It’s in the Mediterranean/Europe/Asia/Middle East and there is no such thing as a specific looking Turkish person. You claim everyone is specifically white/brown, HELL NO. It’s a mixed nation and that’s the history of the land, if you had ever fucking stepped in turkey and spoke to any person on the street they’ll say their heritage that lead them to there. People claim Ala mhigo’s influences are turkey but i have yet to see that. As someone who has lived there and has heritage there and is strongly connected to that culture, i dont see it. sure the ala mhigan gown had patternings but thats also present in my nogai culture too because parts of turkey’s society descended from the line of the Kayi tribe. Just fucking LEARN TO READ GUYS. None of you guys even know what the altai mountains mean and i could sit and explain over and over again if you let people SPEAK.

Look at Thavnairian items. We have outfits that are completely different, a full length dress and then a bustier. you can’t start generalising things in video games to be one culture you have to realise most places in this game have several influences. We don’t know a lot but everything we have been given has been varied enough to pin point it to ONLY one influence.

I don’t want to just keep going about this simply because im growing frustrated.

The thing with Viera complaints. I think some are valid but some are stupid. For one as I make this post it hasn’t even been confirmed so there is no reason for policing Viera to a severe extent. Considering all the Ivalice content in game has been an alternate universe kind of thing its dumb as shit. But feol viera being made without understanding the knowledge that people who have played rw picked up is quite frustrating. As a community, its important to help people when we have information that others may need that they cant understand the context of.

I know people are worried about them being fetishized, that is my legitimate fear too as a huge ivalice fan. But this is a repeated cycle especially when we consider generalizations like miqo’te especially seekers and belly dancing or when au ra arrived and people thought xaela were genghis khan basically. 

The game is not solid, there are so many holes in the lore and the plots and i know people hate that but we fill the gaps with our own opinions and theories. While I understand some people think we need to move forward in 2019 because “japan is xenophobic”, its a very difficult thing to do. THEY DO HIRE PEOPLE FOR CULTURE ADVISING. THEY TRAVEL OFTEN AND DEVELOP WITH THIS. IT’S NOT LIKE THEY WENT ON GOOGLE AND SAID “yeah a japan land would be fun” they literally have people hired specifically for this stuff. however, at the end of the day its a company that has yet to show it can evolve with the times. Its becoming more and more evident with the recent patterns of main titles in FF and side projects having so many issues in story/lore/management. remember 1.0 basically died being absolute garbage and this is salvaged from that.

its really late and i had a terrible evening so i may not be making the most sense but theres more important things to worry about then to make this game a miserable experience when it could be a huge learning opportunity for everyone. There’s no need to generalise people into categories because of characters they choose to develop but its important to note with majority of people standing up higher on the pedestal are those speaking for the minorities groups that have direct influences in the game.

also lol if you fucking say ainu aren’t real to me one more time i will fucking throttle you

[badmousestuff-blog]

The problem with Free Speech (Script)

One day I was helping out with the Free Palestine stall on Church Street. About an hour in a young dude came up to me, and gave us the usual conservative drivel.

He told me that he couldn’t support the left, because to him we were against free speech. Right below me were flyers detailing the extent of Israeli war crimes against Palestinians, and how little the world still hears about their plight. He stated that he wasn’t interested in our campaign, and bid me farewell. For, of course we must have our standards.

(Rowan Atkinson speech)

There’s never been a more unshakeable dogma in my lifetime than that of Freedom of Speech.

The real test of a country’s standards is if it allows people to criticise one another, especially the regime. The foundation of Liberty and Freedom and Friberty, is the story of free expression, after all, if you want to know who has the power, just look at which group you’re not allowed to criticise. Right?

Well no, I’m here to say that Free Speech isn’t just some base, flatline, monolith from which all societies are to be judged like an angelical truth, its a political concept, thought up by human beings, subject to critique, and frankly is in great need of one.

Let’s start with something simple.

Your concept that Free Speech is good, is only possible if your opponent also agrees with you, i.e. they’re not going to kill you if you disagree.

So therefore if your opponent doesn’t ?? and will use aggression against you, then you can’t really argue for free speech can you?

The conditions around you need to be such that nobody is going to die.

Right, whats next, oh I gotta do the Hitler bit, right…

Y’know the story, Weiner Republic, Full suffrage, large democracy, massive instability and debt caused from the prior war, enter the Nazis, and the German Communist party. Yes everyone seems to forget that the Commies were there too, headed by Ernst Thalmann, and at their peak gained 16% of the vote in 1932. Whilst Ernst was forward in his Anti-Fascism, the Social Democrats, and their newspapers, didn’t seem to understand the concept of a united front, they refused to confront the Fascists in an effective manner and simultaneously denounced the KDP as being a bunch of Muscovites, sporting the famous Iron Front symbol, The third arrow originally meant Anti-Communism, mind.

The SPD’s failure to effectively confront Fascism aided Hitler’s rise to power, sent the KDP underground, and Ernst to 11 years in the hole, followed by a firing squad.

So don’t tell me free-speech exists in vacuum, it doesn’t. In this video we’ll ask the necessary further questions.

Who dictates the media, who controls which advertisements we see, which views are more profitable? Does the removal of speech in given scenarios serve a common good? And if the enlightenment was correct why did Liberalism fail in its mission?

(Rowan Atkinson)

This clip was one of the first main intro points for me as well as many others into the realm of Super Free Speech, and it’s strange looking back just how dated it is. It’s not like we didn’t have the arguments back then, but moreso that nobody really cared, we were all swept up in the dogma, to challenge free speech would be on the same level as strangling a baby.

Anybody can go around today and talk about the joy of free speech, but it means nothing to a person who has no power with that speech, Freedom to Beg? That's not a freedom; that’s institutionalised sadism.

I’m not a believer in Maslow’s hierarchy but hypothetically, this really wouldn’t go number 2, it’d be right down at number… 27. Why do I say this? Well in the words of some philosophy guy people say I look like, “No rights matter if you’re dead”.

Food, Water, Healthcare, and Housing. These are all things you need in order to survive, in other words fulfil the other things that we consider ‘rights’ - rights that are worth struggling for. And despite the fact that the millions end up dying from the lack of these rights, even when they’re universally agreed upon, ever notice how this struggle goes very very quiet… Suspiciously quiet.

Sargon on the Socialists

I wonder…??? I wonder why the left seems to be largely committed to these causes, it’s something you find scantly addressed in the middle and right spheres with the exception of private individual charity (OSCAR WILDE), and Carl may find himself wondering why it is that these ideologies can barely create a solid solidarity towards these topics.

You might be a Liberal and say “Yeah yeah, I support that too though” but fact remains there’s no confidence here.

I see no outpouring of condemnation coming from you when Politicians like Bolsonaro press forward their restrictive measures, unlike what you have to say about this powerless Redhead. Why is that?

Count Dankula, who interestingly I had a couple scuffles with a while back without realising it, last year taught his dog to do a Hitler Salute, and he got fined £800. Now that’s probably one of the most petty excuses for a sentencing I’ll admit, but again this isn’t about whether it was justified, it’s about people’s standards.

Dankula received enormous support from, well, everyone, and he’s now more famous than he ever previously was, enough to be at the forefront of the free-speech festival later that year, and even use his fame to help push the emergence of UKIP. This is attention that people would pay top dollar for, way more than £800. He should be proud that he got a court hearing.

Frankly, me and my colleagues didn’t really care about this whole thing too much, just ask my IWW friend who I was with when this all went down. What happened around the same time that did catch some of our attention though was the plight of the J20 protesters who got arrested back during Trump’s inauguration.

Some of these people are on the butchers list to serve 60 year sentences for standing against a president who’s, a real dick, like I get the whole Liberal opposition is fucking corny but still he’s a dick, they’ve all been dicks, he’s just continuing what every dick who ever stood on centre stage ever started, this is America, you think Bernie’s going to save you? You think reforming the democrats can change the number one imperialist power?

Apologies. If you’re at all concerned that I didn’t give a toss about Dankula’s pug joke, if you’ve ever had friends like him this stuff isn’t too surprising, I know these are highly political times but a guy who votes UKIP is really not our number one concern right now.

I didn’t give a toss, but I know somebody who did, Mike Stuchbury, who you’ll remember from his childish twitter ramblings and dealings with Watson. Who proclaimed that the left needs to stand with Free Speech, A free-speech that is largely in the teat of Right-leaning discourse.

Sargon who was there with him, earlier that year got de-platformed by lefty-liberals in his debate with Muke.

The dogma is enforcing itself here, the left is all supposed to throw up our hands in swich liquor, of which vertu engendered is the flour, and decide Whether we should allow freedom of speech to our enemies, or not allow it, when the actual thing we should be doing, is taking hold of the narrative and putting forward our own ideas as the new talking point of discussion, instead of fucking Nazi Pug.

“Hey, you, what gives you the right to determine the narrative?”

Thats a good question, the hegemonic propaganda of our status quo is already setting the narrative, Noam Chomsky “I’m bored bye”

How can I make this more interesting… Ah ha…

IT’S TIME FOR FILM THEORY!!1 WOOOO

-

The Pursuit of Happiness.

In 2006 Will Smith told the story of Chris Gardner, a black man who struggled through poverty, separation, and fatherhood whilst living in San Francisco.

He gets an internship with a sales company and despite having to put up with a lot, by the end of the film he passes and at this point, we’re supposed to feel happy and redeemed, but to those who’ve watched it (surely I’m not alone) was it really a happy ending?

I’ll say that I walked out of the viewing feeling very uncomfortable and sour, but why is that?

Well for starters, that Internship he got was a 6 month unpaid one, in the most expensive US city might have something to do with it.

Then he’s got to deal with his wife leaving him, then he’s got to take care of his son, then he loses his source of income, then he’s got to deal with eviction, sleeping rough, not sleeping at all, by the end of the movie sure he gets his redemption but the message of ‘when life gives you lemons, just keep getting pummelled with those lemons and don’t ask why’ ultimately seems hollow.

Contrast that a more traditionally Anti-establishment film which was made by a literal Communist, where the exploiters are treated as they should be and thats what comes across on screen, with surprise horse-dick, and while Happiness doesn’t treat them like saints, they sure don’t come across as devils either.

6 months of free labour he and 19 other people who did not make the cut that they are effectively giving away for free.

What about those other 19 people, who ever tells their story?

The way his superiors always act like total dicks pushing him around and getting him to be their lobby boy, they lost nothing. And now he’s going to work for them.

Is the message here supposed to be “Well if this guy can survive the moon falling on him, what the hell are you complaining about?” Actually yeah, I think that consciously or not, this is what’s being said… Don’t worry we’re getting to the point of all this.

The extent of exploitation is naked, yet in the way the movie is presented I’m inclined to agree to this, and take it into my home, and sleep with it.

Now name me as many pieces of media that regurgitate this same old theme of rags to riches through adversity, to look at the man on centre stage, yet pay no attention to the millions locked in a cage.

Sure, say it how you will, Art is merely what you make of it and there’s not necessarily any devious agenda being pursued at any time. That’s one perspective I guess, another might be that there’s no such thing as Art for Arts sake, it all gears itself to differing political lines.

In a society based on private, individual enterprise, it's no surprise that Art would also foster themes that would support society as the normal and natural, even if they appear on the surface as radical.

Case in point, well the entire Hollywood Catalog.

On the Waterfront is literally Mccarthyism on celluloid, The People vs Larry Flynt guises pornification and billionairedom with a story of libel and freedom of speech.

And ironically enough probably the worst offender is, well I’m gonna lose some of you now, Billy Elliot, the Movie.

In which 2/3rds of the way through Billy’s dad strike breaks as a way to pay for his son to go to a prestigious arts school, y’know rather than maybe having him stay and use his skills to improve, embolden and enliven the downtrodden community, rather than leaving it to die.

Jackie’s very sympathetic in his devotion towards his son, except Striking is caring for your family, you’re fighting for a better future, together, as one, and it’s thrown away in favour of a much more individualistic get out of your circumstances, go and live your dream.

Now I’ve read Lee Hall, I know he didn’t intend for this to come through, but he is also no more aloof than any of us, we’re all susceptible to this ‘Common Culture’.

Just see the way our ‘Common Culture’ infiltrates into how Communism is talked about, in 2015’s Trumbo. The Hollywood screenwriter who was blacklisted for 2 decades for being a member of Communist Party.

Could make for some groundbreaking stuff right?...

Well no, instead we’re left with a film that focuses entirely on freedom of expression, which is ironic because if they represented him truthfully it would’ve resulted in a much more nuanced movie.

All we get is a 2 minute scene talking about Communist ethics and god its done in the most sanitised, unradical, storybook tale way possible, that doesn’t in any possible regard represent who the actual Dalton Trumbo was.

“If a book or play or film is produced which is harmful to the best interests of the working class, that work and its author should and must be attacked in the sharpest possible terms.”

I think I have a case that profit incentives are steering the way in which media is presented…

We have no problem pointing out the subtle propaganda messages in Soviet children’s cartoons (Cheburashka) but reverse that onto our society, prepare for some awkward stares.

You may argue that none of what I’ve just spoken about here has anything to do with censorship of free expression but this is the problem, our notions of censorship are stuck firmly behind the Berlin wall, and thats far too simplistic not to mention outdated.

Undoubtably Coca-cola has a far greater reach of expression than I ever will be able to ascertain, what says who can speak on a public forum, decide the content of a documentary, of a publication, of a movie, or a political campaign?

If a book is blacklisted by all publishers for political reasons, what difference does it make having 1 publishing house or 100?

If 90% of the movie market alone is controlled by just 7 companies, what kind of advice is “Just start your own business”.

If we want to talk about the free flow of expression and information, what little are these flyers (Free Palestine) when Zionism has a whole nation, and 2 continents supporting it?

This is the kind of expression we’re dealing with today, not the voices of individuals, but of multinationals. The fact that we had in any way an outpouring of sympathies towards one of these companies, Sony, for having their movie The Interview possibly censored by DPRK agents is a testament to how lost in the plot we have become.

And if by chance the media cannot direct the status quo by monopoly, it brings out its tried and tested method.

Commodify it.

I present to you Guerrillero Heroico, this photograph was allowed such free spread not simply because its bloody badass, but because there was no IP designated upon it, by Korda’s intention as a Communist himself he agreed with the free-flow of art. And what did this result in at the behest of Capitalist Corporations? The pastiche of revolution, to be bought and sold many times over.

Take any form of media, word, an expression, it will be hoisted away, slapped on a shirt, and sold back to you at a handsome price. You cannot escape this.

The moment that this (my tattoo) becomes the new Che it loses all its power, resistance is reduced to at worst LARPing, at best Nerd Fandom, and the winners are the profiteers.

If profit is the aim of the game, the speech that is supported will inevitably favour that which nurtures the economy, not destroys it, unless in farce. Speech ain’t a level base of which a country is determined by, its an apparatus held by those that dictate the game.

This is why there is a necessity for us to control the narrative, control the message, because if we don’t, they’re still going to.

-

Obligations:

When armies with unequal numbers go into battle, a draw is a defeat for the lesser side.

Make believe it or not Radical Centrist politics have their political leanings as well, even if just by effect.

Look I like free speech, I love it, I’m a goddamn youtuber, but I’m not stupid, I know what’s coming, I know that groups would try and silence me if they could. That’s politics.

You might go “All we’re talking about is the legal sphere”. Firstly the legal is the political, pure ideology to say otherwise, but second it’s difficult for you to call yourself a fighter for free speech when as I’ve explained there’s sooo much more to it than simply the judicial.

Many proponents will even side-step the judicial boundaries anyway when monopoly becomes involved, and if I have to explain how Monopoly is not an externality of our system but an inherent part of accumulation then… sigh.

Strange how we’re usually all skeptical of an Economic Free Market but the Free marketplace of ideas unlocks your inner Libertarian.

Its when I see stuff like this that I begin wondering if this is all just a trend that will eventually die off when people realise the complexities of their circumstances. I remember just a few years ago how many Libertarians were speaking the merits of free speech until they discovered that methodological individualism wasn’t actually achieving their goals. I count down the days when Lauren Southern finally calls for limits on speech just like her limits on borders. After all freedom is not free it must be defended right?

And btw folks usually aren’t as brave to actively advocate limits so they’ll always present justifications, such as that these views are mental disorders, or they’ll destroy civilisation, or these people are Degenerates.

This is a historic moment in political discourse, at this point ultimately we’re interested in picking sides, and you’ll do this just as much as anyone will.

On the left we like to talk a lot about Left Unity. I’m not necessarily against the idea, but a lot of the time people make a religion out of it, glossing over the fact that many aspects of various factions (???) contradict. It might not be immediately obvious, but when push comes to shove these conflicts become very apparent. There are some principles in which each side certainly doesn’t see eye to eye.

“Politics is pervasive, everything is political and the choice to remain apolitical is usually just an endorsement of the status quo”

If it wasn’t obvious, I’m a Communist, yeah yeah say what you want, I believe in the liberation of those who do all the work through armed struggle based upon material conditions. I’m going to therefore be in favour of real mass culture, the stuff that gets people focused on achieving liberating aims instead of just appealing to markets. Its for this reason that I’m not interested in defending the views of right-wing nationalists, fascists, reactionaries… my enemies in other words, the ideas largely speaking which regress the people and they’re not interested in defending me either, wouldn’t expect them to.

If all you’re talking about is the centre, you’re gonna get flanked, sorry.

You might bump in when I denounce Dankula stating “His punishment showcases the system is at fault” and I would agree. This system is at fault, its been at fault since before our constitution was written, and it’ll never stop being at fault until you solve the contradictions.

Liberalism did fail, its ideals never came to fruition and that’s the reason why Socialists bring forth the praxis to achieve it, sometimes that’ll involve using words, sometimes it’ll involve lots and lots of guns, but let me tell you, you can’t always fight a war by playing nice, sometimes you have to use a diversity of tactics to achieve it.

Maybe we need 11 of them? (Shows book)

But thats more of a material answer and I know that most you don’t give a crap about some dead Chinese guy., but getting back to the original idea about responsibilities behind our speech, well, here’s something to think about.

So… here goes nothing.

If you’re a straight white male aged 11-16 in the UK and weren’t brought up to fit into the standard male dynamic, chances are you got picked on, sometimes a lot, sometimes that’s every day, not necessarily violence but words from numerous mouths are highly unnerving.

I did not have a particularly fun time adolescence. Every day was horrible, I never had a feeling going in that this would be exciting or, this would be a day where things would be different, everyday was a total black smudge with no end in sight.

Unlike other people, I never got to have a group that I fit into, so I had no escape, nothing to take my mind off things.

Looking back I don’t know why I bothered going in, I wasn’t getting amazing grades anyway.

When I went to Drama school and other clubs on the weekends and after school, I would also get picked on, but it wasn’t in spite, it was just general, friendly teasing. But there wasn’t a difference in my mind, because when you’ve had to deal with so much constant abuse, and paranoia, and humiliation 30 hours a week, it fucks you up.

So when Id say to the weekend buds “I dont like this” theyd go “Oh come on man its just a bit of fun, its okay, dont worry about it, its just a joke, its all okay”

Back then I didn’t have the nerve, I just put up with it, but if I could go back, Id say. No, actually its not Okay, because you don’t know for the life of me how much I have had to deal with this shit, to me that doesn’t come across like you’re being funny, like your laughing with me, it comes across like you’re a psychopath who wants to get pleasure out of my misfortune.

Of course the response to this would be obvious “Well what am I supposed to do? Just talk to you like a robot. You should just get over it, leave it in the past. Your making it harder for everyone” or some other faux-victimised response.

And sometimes y’know they might be right, maybe I should’ve not made worse a bad situation, but fact remains I still bleed.

To you, this is just having fun and games, to you and your other friends its normal, but to me its a threat.

Now today you can call me what you want I don’t care, I’m out of that place now and I’m all the better for it,

But even though some 7 or 8 years since then I’ve been able to recover, I still carry a hangover of it all, and it affected my decisions later on in life sometimes to a dire extent,

Its had the effect of making me feel both distrustful of people, and also like Im a burden to be around other people,

I never feel I should hang around for too long, I never want to take chances in friendship for fear I’ll embarrass myself, I say one thing out of tempo and suddenly flashbacks and an enormous shadow of mordor conjures over me. And I think most of all its been very difficult for me to express my emotions because I used to do it a hell of a lot.

Those 5 years were the single handed worst years of my life. And if you were at any point responsible for adding to that devastation and humiliation, then a large part of me wants to lash your goddamn skull inside out.

Because as trivial and generic as my story may be, that part of my life has been stolen from me, and those 5 years I will never get back.

So what’s the point of all this?

“Ossidents are sometimes surprised that, instead of buying a dress for their wife, the colonized buy a transistor radio. They shouldn't be, the colonized are convinced their fate is in the balance. They live in a doomsday atmosphere and nothing must elude them”

I want you to place the relatively minor experiences I received as a child, and translate those into other groups, victims of domestic abuse, victims of colonialism, racism, sexism, queer phobia. Like I said I’m out of that place now, but others aren’t, for many people they still live day to day in this ever pressing struggle, trying to just tell people “Please, just don’t do this”.

It’s not okay. But maybe together you’ll help me out with solving these problems?

My conclusion to this is simple,

Free Speech is not just something you can fling around to score political points, it doesn’t materialise simply because we all decide it should. If we want free-speech we need to break a few eggs to make an omelette.

We need to be sure that the conditions in society don’t proliferate toxic ideas that might even lead to the downfall of said society.

This very Tattoo that 90 years ago would’ve been Anti-Communist as hell has become a Pan-Left symbol against Fascism. Its living proof that with the correct methods the conditions of words, symbols, ideas can be resolved.

When class struggle subsides, when our social divides have been solved, when the conflict doesn’t oppose the existence of certain folks, then maybe, we can well and truly say that we can have free speech, and we’ll stand at a comedy show and yell “Yes, lets talk about those BEEP BEEEEEP BEEP BEEP BEEP” and be met with cheering applause from all sides. But until then, Don’t be a dick.

[marginalgloss]

notions of conduct

‘…It was Burton, I think,’ he said some minutes later, ‘who observed that there were men who sucked nothing but poison from books. And who has not met youths and even maidens with ludicrous ideas of what is the thing for persons of spirit, and with permanently distorted notions of conduct that is acceptable and conduct that is not? Yet may not authors be even more poisonous?’

Some three years after I started, I am finally reaching the end of Patrick O'Brian's best-known series of historical novels. Even now, far from the beginning, I feel confident in claiming that The Yellow Admiral is the weakest in the series so far. I had mixed feelings about Clarissa Oakes for related reasons — principally the lack of direction — but it gives me no joy to say that this book is where the series really starts to show its age. With the best of his work there’s a sense of settling into a sort of comfortable groove, like listening to a favourite piece of music performed well, or sinking into an old armchair on a rainy evening. But nothing here sits easily.   

The story is sketchy to the point of being barely extant. The war against Napoleon seems to be coming to an end, and for much of the book Jack Aubrey is plagued by a couple of great anxieties. He's afraid he will be made bankrupt, due to unexpected penalties associated with illegally capturing slave ships in the previous book. He is also worried that for political reasons at the end of his career he will be made a 'yellow' admiral, which is a covert form of disgrace – a promotion to a leadership role ‘without distinction of squadron’. There's a lot of other stuff going on — most notably, the promise of another privateer mission to South America — but for the most part this is a strange sort of in-betweener novel. 

Some of it is very out of character. A great many words in the first half are expended on enclosure (or 'inclosure', as O'Brian insists on spelling it). The widespread adoption of enclosure was perhaps the most significant change ever made to the landscape of Britain. It refers to the process of fencing off areas of common land, and turning it into strips of smallholdings assigned to individuals. The old commons were open to all and could be used for grazing, hunting and gathering; a tenant forced to trade access to commons in exchange for a few small pieces of private land might see an increase in the assets on his theoretical balance sheet, but they might also see a great nearing of the horizon of the opportunities afforded to them.  

The economics and history of enclosure are complex, and my understanding is limited to what I remember from school. But the author’s dedication to pursuing it so doggedly here seems out of character, especially considering that for the most part these books have given a great deal of leeway to the political issues of the day. Politics is only usually brought up as a matter for idle philosophical speculation — usually by Stephen, in the comfortable confines of the cabin or the gun-room. 

Enclosure has serious, active consequences for Jack and his tenants, but for me the question still remains: why are we only picking up on this now? Were a reader to encounter it for the first time in this book they might think it an invention of the nineteenth century. In fact, enclosure had been going on in fits and starts for hundreds of years in England; it’s scarcely conceivable that Stephen Maturin would need to have it explained to him, as he does here. It seems a strange topic to choose as representative of the age. 

As it stands, enclosure becomes a useful hobby-horse in this book. It’s hard to feel that O’Brian actually cares very much for the consequences to the individual smallholder here. Rather, the question of whether Aubrey's local common should be enclosed makes for a diverting exercise in the novel’s own libertarian philosophies. There is something unashamedly pastoral in this vision of a free and open corner of England, largely unaffected by government interference. At first it seems ironic that the only way this can be defended is by Aubrey effectively invoking his rights as Lord of the Manor; but I would suggest this is an indication that the novel's sympathies lie with a much older model of government. It is feudal, or as good as. Perhaps this oughtn't to be surprising – by this time we should know well that democracy doesn't come out of these novels looking well:

‘Everyone knows that on a large scale democracy is pernicious nonsense – a country or even a county cannot be run by a self-seeking parcel of tub-thumping politicians working on popular emotion, rousing the mob. Even at Brooks’s, which is a hotbed of democracy, the place is in fact run by the managers and those that don’t like it may either do the other thing or join Boodle’s; while as for a man-of-war, it is either an autocracy or it is nothing, nothing at all – mere nonsense.’

For all that it has very little to do with the rest of the series, the stuff about enclosure here at least has the benefit of being memorable. Much of the rest of the book is sadly ridiculous. The absurdity peaks early on with a scene in which Bonden must win a bare-knuckle boxing match, which ends up being so violent I thought he might not survive. We like Bonden – of course we like Bonden! – but it is one authorial self-indulgence too far to turn his character into a nineteenth century brawler. It feels like fanfiction. 

The remaining passages on land in this book are long and dry and largely without character. The one thing to be said for them is that we do at least get some scenes with Diana, but otherwise it feels as though O'Brian had no clue of how to continue the series from here. There is the period of Napoleon's escape from Elba to be covered, but we can't get to that just yet, so our heroes must be dispatched to the most boring region of the war which has formed the butt of many a joke throughout the series so far – the blockade of the port of Brest. It is largely uneventful. There isn’t even a decent battle at sea to liven things up.

I think O'Brian would have been about 81 when this was published. Interestingly, it's at this point in his career that I think he was beginning to get some very serious literary recognition. He was being invited on speaking tours and having his work championed by a weird mix of writers and politicians from across the political spectrum — everyone from Charlton Heston to Christopher Hitchens proclaimed themselves fans. If I was inclined to be cynical I might argue that this book is mostly O’Brian playing to the gallery, without any clear sense of how these novels ought to be concluded. 

The parts where the author seems to be having the most fun are the novel’s idle moments; I don’t believe these books have ever seen so many comfortable dinners with shipmates or cushy evenings at Blacks club as there are described here. And how interesting that these are not comfortable dinners spent at home with family, but semi-formal occasions with colleagues. This, perhaps, is where the author really feels at ease. Even though we spend many pages in England in this book, there’s a haunting sense throughout of being perpetually at a slight discomfort at home. To some extent that was always the case — O’Brian always did stress the escapist quality of the naval career as paramount to the happiness of his heroes — but now this is tinged with a strange melancholy as it becomes clear that we can never spend a lifetime fleeing from life as part of a family. 

[preserving-ferretbrain]

Who Watches The…oh never mind

by Wardog

Thursday, 12 March 2009

Wardog opens a can of worms very very carefully indeed.~

As my comments in the playpen may recently have indicated, I was not entirely impressed by Watchmen. It doesn't help that people, however vaguely, connected to it are going around saying things like this and it also doesn't help that I read Watchmen for the first time three days ago. I understand that Watchmen is something that the sort of people who are inclined to be passionate about comics are passionate about; perhaps if I had been less busy being an embryo in the 80s when it first came out I might have felt the same way. But Watchmen is dated dated dated. I'm not saying it's not interesting and that it doesn't have merit, but reading it is rather like reading those 18th century novels that are completely consumed by the terror of the incipient collapse of Civilisation As We Know It because of the French Revolution. I'm not saying those novels aren't interesting or don't have merit either ... but you do read them with one eyebrow slightly cocked and think to yourself as you go "oh how quaint."

Quaint may seem an odd term to use in connection to a comic renowned for being gritty and real and, like, totally Dystopian and literary man; but I felt the same about V for Vendetta. Watchmen'spreoccupations, as far as I see it, are Cold War anxiety and Wanking About The Nature and Form of the Comic Genre. I'm not dismissing the impact of Watchmen, nor its power to have shaped (and to some extent validated, insofar as books with pictures in them can be validated) the genre, but the point is the Cold War is over and the genre has been shaped. There are, of course, wider themes to engage us - "about the nature of man, or vigilante justice" if you absolutely insist but bear in mind you can get those better done elsewhere - but Watchmen is so utterly bound up in itself, so defined by the form it takes, that ultimately it's little more than an extended navel-gaze about comics, albeit a moderately interesting one.

The movie, of course, is such a slavish adaptation that it barely merits the term adaption; watching it, therefore, is like watching somebody gaze at somebody else gazing at their navel. In bullet-time. Being now at a noticeably remove from the navel, this is quite dull.

To force myself to give credit where it is due, there is a lot to like about the Watchmen movie. It is stylishly and lovingly done. Everybody looks and sounds exactly like you'd want them to look and sound. The level of detail is mind boggling and the special effects, right down to Dr Manhattan's flapping blue dong, are fabulous. The changes they've made are spot on: I'm really glad they took out the giant squishy squid aliens. Because they are made of stupid. I loved the opening credits where they distill the ponderous backstory into a succession of imaginative and striking images. When the film was engaging critically with the Watchmen comic, it had real potential. Unfortunately, critical engagement gave way to abject drooling adoration about 2 seconds after the credits ended ... and the rest of the film is little more than a panel-by-panel, word-for-word recreation of the comic, bar a few subtle alterations to the way characters are perceived, which I shall talk about presently.

I suppose this is where we get into "what is an adaptation anyway" territory. For me the clue is in "adapt" - I think a process of adaptation is an act of transformation and interpretation. You stay true to the spirit of the original but you accept the fact that what works in one medium does not work in another. The Harry Potter movies are splendid examples of failed adaptations: they're little more than monorail tours of the main attractions of the books. They don't stand up on their own, they have no merit on their own, they are, in fact, shit and pointless. But you can also see this kind of failure going on in a more low key way when people throw plays at the screen and end up with peculiarly static, oddly awkward films (Closer, The History Boys, An Ideal Husband, The Libertine). Again, to be fair, the Watchmen film does almost stand on its own: they've managed to enforce some coherence on a notoriously fragmentary text. But this is mainly because it's identical to the text, right down to the cringe-inducingly stilted dialogue and voice-overs that read beautifully but sound terrible. And as far as I'm concerned if something is identical to the original, right down to the dialogue and the visuals, you might as well just read the original and be done with it. Alan Moore himself apparently said: "My book is a comic book. Not a movie. It's been made in a certain way, and designed to be read in a certain way: in an armchair, nice and cosy next to a fire, with a steaming cup of coffee."

The other problem with such a rigid approach to the text is that it leaves no space for acting to be anything other than simulacra. When you go and see a performance of Richard III, you don't stare at the actor playing Richard and think to yourself: "Wow, that's awesome,

he looks totally like him

." But the only scale for judging the actors in Watchmen is how far they resemble the characters they're playing - the answer to this is, for the most part, "lots." But it's still a really shallow way to engage with a performance.

Now this is when I'm going to play dirty. I know I've just leveled the criticism that the film brings nothing new to the table, being merely a moving version of the comic book. And now I'm going to complain that it also missed the point, or at least a point. I know you might think this is a direct contradiction and that I can't say the film is not enough of an adaptation for me and then whine about a possible misinterpretation but ... hey, look over there,

a fluffy kitten, being cute

. Seriously though, for what it's worth, I don't actually consider this a misinterpretation as such - the film was too fanboyishly clingy a parasite to have anything as measured or sensible as an interpretation - I think it was more an act of mis-translation, in that everyone was so concerned with bringing every fucking element of the comic lovingly into motion (apparently

there's going to be a DVD

of Tales of the Black Freighter - no thanks) that nobody ever bothered to pay attention to what they were doing.

If I had to sum up Watchmen in a glib and pretentious way (why would anyone ask me to do that?), I'd fall back, as I'm sure others have done before me, on quoting Yeats: "the best lack all conviction and the worst are full of passionate intensity." Now, perhaps I got the wrong end of the stick and I know the friend I saw the film with disagrees with me, but I thought the film valorized Dan (and to a lesser extent Laurie) in a way that reduced the impact of the story. In the comic, Dan is anti-heroic: he is middle-aged, impotent, flabby and passive. He is "the boy next door" in the worst possible sense. His niceness, like his Nite Owl costume, is a mask for his essential weakness of character. Despite being in love with Laurie, he makes no attempt to forge a relationship with her, not because he is "just too nice" but because he is "just too pathetic"; he wins her, if wins it can be called, simply by being around to pick up the pieces after her relationship with Jon falls apart horribly. Laurie, of course, is equally broken but has the virtue of being hot - just as all of Dan's behaviour is controlled and limited by compromise, her decision to be with him is a compromise as well, the rejection of the strange and the challenging, youthful dreams and romanticism, for the safety of the everyday and a man whose abject inferiority makes you feel good about yourself. In the comic, their relationship is very much the cleaving of the desperate and worthless: that they go out and do minor heroic things (like saving some people from a fire and springing Rorschach from a prison he is already escaping) after they shag for the first time is an indictment of their behaviour. They seek, and find, validation with each other, yet the validation is based on their joint illusions i.e. that they are people even remotely capable of changing the world. The movie portrays their civilian-saving / prison-breaking exploits as a return to their true heroic selves; the comic uses scenes of stereotypical heroism to reveal Laurie and Dan as the self-deluding, play-acting fools they really are.

Similarly, in the comic, when they are confronted by what Ozymandias has done, Dan and Laurie slink off to a corner of his ruined facility and shag. Dr Manhattan finds them asleep on Nite Owl's winter cloak, looks at them with mingled pity and affection and goes off to confront Ozymandias with the futility of the atrocity he has committed ("nothing ever ends"). Again, this is hardly a celebration of the human spirit in the face of calamity. Confronted by their own profound impotence and the destruction of their carefully constructed charades, they take refuge in the mundane, fleeting affirmation offered by physical pleasure. In the movie, this scene is gone and, instead, Dr Manhattan's final act is to kiss Laurie goodbye - as if he, too, is asserting the value of human relationships as an antidote to Armageddon. (Personally, I'm with Rorschach on this one). In the aftermath of Ozymandias's destruction, the movie gives Dan a line about how he's been tinkering with Archimedes and it'll soon be ready to go, the implication, I think, being that he and Laurie will resume their super-hero lifestyle.

One of the more interesting aspects of the comic is the intersection between public and private identity. One of the questions it asks is why anyone even on polite nodding terms with sanity would "dress as an owl and fight crime." The answer, of course, if its five heroes are anything to go by, is: "they wouldn't." Rorschach is clearly batshit nuts - and for him, Walter Kovacs is the disguise he wears. I've always liked the way that when he confronts Dr Manhattan, it is Walter who dies, not Rorschach. Dr Manhattan has no choice but to be a super-hero but then he is barely human, or anything like it, any more. The Comedian is a fucking psychopath who uses the flamboyance offered by a costume to give outward form to his moral dysfunctionality. Ozymandias also belongs to the Special Club. And Dan and Laurie both use it as a way to escape the disappointments and failures of being merely themselves. Unfortunately the movie inadvertently engineers a reversal of this: Laurie and Dan end up re-discovering their true super-hero selves, whereas in the comic they are ruthlessly forced to confront their inadequacies as human beings. If I was feeling uncharitable I would say this symptomatic of the typical geek fallacies - Watchmen is constructed as a super-hero comic without heroes, attemping to make Dan heroic undermines both the force and interest of the story.

The overall effect of which is that you get a film that is at once a tediously faithful rendering of the comic while somehow contriving to miss the point entirely.

Grats guys.Themes:

TV & Movies

,

Sci-fi / Fantasy

,

Comics

,

Watchmen

~

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~Comments (

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)

Arthur B

at 14:59 on 2009-03-12Playing devil's advocate: while I agree that Dan and Laurie are given an easy ride by the film (perhaps because they're the characters the audience is most likely to identify with), I don't think it completely derails their characterisation to have them go back to vigilantism. I don't have my copy of the comic with me, but I seem to remember mild hints in their final conversation with Sally that they might be getting into some action whilst they spend their time on the run in Ozy's new order. Like I said in the comments on Dan's review, I read the armageddon plotline as an indictment of the passivity of superheroes; crimefighters are essentially reactive, fighting society's symptoms without trying for a cure. (The grotesque scale of Ozymandias's crimes is, of course, the flip side of the argument: a cure might be more harmful than the disease itself.) In the movie, I saw their return to crimefighting as a retreat; there's no suggestion that they're seriously trying to expose Ozymandias, they're just dicking around beating people up to capture their rapidly-fading youth.

But that said I do agree that it's problematic that we are expected to identify with those specific characters in the first place; Dan and Laurie's capitulation and passivity are meant to be character flaws that are just as serious as Rorschach's fanaticism, or Dr Manhattan's nigh-autistic detachment, or Ozymandias's fatal combination of the two.

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Guy

at 15:44 on 2009-03-12I think I like the comic more than you do, Kyra, but I am very impressed by your elucidation of its themes... and it does seem likely that I should go into the film with low expectations. I would like to say I would refrain from seeing the film at all, especially now that I've read Hayter's idiotic letter... but maybe if I go see it in the third week or something I can feel that I've spited (?) him in some way.

I think I read the meaning of the Dan and Laurie characters a bit differently than you do, though. To me, they are essentially sympathetic characters, and a big part of that is their realisation in the end that, actually they're not all that important or powerful, and whether or not they're OK with that, they have to live with it, the way that millions of ordinary men and women do. This in contrast with Rorshcach, who has a kind of absolutist integrity that won't allow him to refrain from doing what he believes is right (even when it's totally futile, or worse, seriously destructive) - a quality he shares with heroes from all kinds of stories - but that "integrity" also makes him, as you say, a psychopath.

I think my favourite moment in the comic is the bit where Ozymandias tells Dan to grow up. It does raise a question for me about what counts as "growing up". Ozymandias thinks that he is the grown up, because he is the one prepared to make hard choices, cross moral boundaries in service to the greater good, &c &c... and that Dan is still a child playing at super hero, making oversized toys and not really doing anything... which is basically accurate. There's a reason that remark cuts Dan. But I think... there's something interesting, something a bit complex, about the question of what actually growing up means. The way you put it above where you say that Dan and Laurie are ruthlessly forced to confront their failings and inadequacies as human beings... I guess to me it seems that that is part of what being a grown up is: a person who has confronted their failings and accepted them. Which then, in a funny kind of way, ties in to the whole Ozymandias crazy plan, which in a sense is about forcing humanity as whole to grow up in spite of itself. Which... yeah, I don't know, for me that theme doesn't date, because we are to a large extent living in a world run by men (arguably, madmen) who act as they do because they believe they are being grown-up on behalf of the rest of us, because ordinary people don't really understand what the world is like and need them to make our hard choices for us. And of course I hate the idea of someone else making my hard choices for me, but it doesn't take long to find examples of people who you genuinely feel glad are not being held totally responsible for themselves... but I think at this stage I may be less responding to your review than I am just rambling. ;)

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Wardog

at 16:06 on 2009-03-12I feel like I'm validating Wankstain Hayter by saying this but I like the comic more retrospectively for some of its concepts. I didn't actually enjoy reading it all that much (not, though, because it is Out Of My Comfort Zone, man, and much of it, as I said, strikes me quaint and alien. And, again, at the risk of saying anything that could in any way chime with anything That Moron has ever said - Watchmen does inspire some interesting disccussion.

In the movie, I saw their return to crimefighting as a retreat"

Because the crime-fighting they do in the film is so massively glamorised - the bit where they kick-ass their way into the prison for example - I personally didn't get this vibe. But I think it's an arguable point.

But that said I do agree that it's problematic that we are expected to identify with those specific characters in the first place

Yeah me too - they obviously thought they were most normal of the bunch. Sigh. As Guy says below, I think perhaps they are the easiest to identify with because they are flawed in a lowkey very human way (i.e. they are rubbish and self-deluding) but identifying with them is an uncomfortable process because I'm sure we'd all rather be Dr Manhattans than Dans. (Although secretly I'm convinced we all want to be Rorschach - there's something utterly compelling about fanatics).

Thanks for your comment, Guy, I didn't find it rambling at all, I found it fascinating. I think my reading of Dan and Laurie is perhaps unnecessarily (and perhaps even unsupportedly) harsh. The thing is, although I said something about them having to face up their failings ... I don't think there's ever really a point they accept them or learn to operate with them ... which, as you say, is what most grown ups do. To be fair, I don't think I have accepted my failings or learned to operate with them *either* but I don't dress up as an owl and fight crime... =P Dan and Laurie seem to constantly be engaged in processes of retreat, compromise and distraction: for them sex serves exactly the same purpose as super-hero costuming. It's a cheap way to use someone else to make you feel better about yourself. They don't *deal* with what Ozymandias has done, and what it has shown them about themselves, they run away from it and bonk.

Which reminds me - sex is such an unfailingly negative force in Watchmen.

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Arthur B

at 16:17 on 2009-03-12

Because the crime-fighting they do in the film is so massively glamorised - the bit where they kick-ass their way into the prison for example - I personally didn't get this vibe. But I think it's an arguable point.

I think it's glamorised

at that point

because before the big reveal Dan and Laurie are convinced that they are Making A Difference, and the audience is meant to believe the same; we haven't had Ozymandias hit them (and the audience) with the revelation that they're not actually achieving anything beyond putting Rorschach back on the streets for one last round of psychosis before he goes to the Antarctic to explode.

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Arthur B

at 10:21 on 2009-03-13There's a very interesting article about the film's financial prospects

here

. I'm wondering whether this isn't the precise article that Hayter was responding to with his open letter.

Short version: There is a very real possibility that just about everyone who was interested in seeing

Watchmen

went to see it in the first week it was out, and ticket sales will slump by the second or third week. There's a growing consensus that the film was too faithful to the comic, which hurt it, and that this is one of those rare situations where there was

too little

studio involvement in the production process.

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Andy G

at 11:33 on 2009-03-13I haven't seen the film, but I did read the comic over the weeked. I had quite a negative reaction to Dan in the comic - his angsty, hand-wringing inadequacy doesn't really excuse the very dubious things he does or condones. I think he appears more sympathetic perhaps because he is the character who it is easiest to identify with for the average reader.

The guy who wrote the Stan Lee version of the comic made the plausible prediction that the film would unironically wallow in the violence as something cool, and rather the miss the point. Does that happen?

I wasn't sure about it having dated though. I mean, even in terms of the Cold War stuff, there are still nuclear weapons and stupid human beings. Though it's perhaps not exactly the story you'd choose to tell now 20 years on. I kind of felt the same about Frost/Nixon.

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Dan H

at 11:35 on 2009-03-13God the comments on that post are full of wank.

I really wish people would accept that "this movie is too long" is actually a valid criticism.

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Gina Dhawa

at 17:32 on 2009-03-13I'm not so worried about

Watchmen

feeling dated because, it addresses old concerns in a fairly familiar way. It's still set in the eighties after all. We're not worried about the same things anymore, but I'm pretty sure we can appreciate the fear of The Other, which is something that I think the film does very well with choosing to frame Dr Manhattan instead of having the original ending.

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Robinson L

at 20:30 on 2009-08-15*deep breath*

Funny, I never got the impression that I was reading/watching something particularly dated either from

V for Vendetta

or

Watchmen

. True, the cold war is over, but the threat of nuclear war hasn't exactly gone away, and the various nations are being just as much jerks to each other as they were back in the 80s.

I loved the opening credits where they distill the ponderous backstory into a succession of imaginative and striking images. When the film was engaging critically with the

Watchmen

comic, it had real potential.

Really? I loved the opening credits, too, but I didn't consciously get the feeling that they were engaging critically with the comic. Would you care to expound a little more on

how

you felt they were critically engaging with it?

I thought the film valorized Dan (and to a lesser extent Laurie) in a way that reduced the impact of the story.

Interesting argument. I admit I handed considered this interpretation of Dan and Laurie from the comic book, although it makes perfect sense.

Thing is, I find that even if it does muddy up the discourse, the story is

improved

by the movie's presentation of Laurie and especially Dan.

My reason? Because in the comic, both Dan and Laurie were dull, dull

dull

. I didn't love them, I didn't hate them, I was apathetic towards them. In the movie, at least, I felt there was something there to engage with emotionally.

And even if it was a deviation in character, I found Dan actually coming out and

telling

Adrian “You haven't idealized mankind but you've... you've deformed it! You mutilated it. That's your legacy. That's the real practical joke” very cathartic.

I also didn't get the same "massive anti-climax" feeling from the movie as the graphic novel.

Although secretly I'm convinced we all want to be Rorschach - there's something utterly compelling about fanatics

Oh god. I'd almost rather be the mass-murdering ego maniac or the spiritually incompetent big blue guy than that monster. I've got the fanatic part down just fine, it's just that I find the "kills, tortures and abuses people" and general misanthropy just a liiiitle bit repulsive.

As a matter of fact, I don't think I particularly identify with

anyone

in

Watchmen

... maybe because the only characters in it who have any sort of strength to their convictions have such a misanthropic, nihilistic view of humanity. I certainly wouldn't want to

be

any of them.

Which reminds me - sex is such an unfailingly negative force in Watchmen.

Interesting point.

I really wish people would accept that "this movie is too long" is actually a valid criticism.

Totally, although for myself, I find if I say "this movie is too long" what I mean is "this movie already annoys the hell out of me and will it please get to the end already." If a movie manages to keep me engaged/entertained (as

Watchmen

did) I'm prepared to go along with it for much longer than 2.5 hours.

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Arthur B

at 20:56 on 2009-08-15

True, the cold war is over, but the threat of nuclear war hasn't exactly gone away, and the various nations are being just as much jerks to each other as they were back in the 80s.

I think nuclear conflict is still a danger, but the

kind

of nuclear conflict presented in

Watchmen

has become almost impossible. Which isn't to say it won't become a possibility again, but it's definitely on the back burner. Limited exchanges between recent entrants to the nuclear club seem more likely than large-scale human extinction events.

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Alasdair Czyrnyj

at 17:06 on 2010-03-10Necromancy ho!

@the issue of datedness and the nuclear arms race

After reading through the article again, I kinda get what you were saying, Kyra. The theme didn't really date the comic for me, partly because I've always got one foot stuck in nuclear war fiction, and partly because I found it easy enough to read the nuclear symbolism as a symbol of an unstoppable force of annihilation that none of the characters are capable of understanding, something that can be applied to many eras and contexts.

Still, it does date the movie. IIRC, Paul Greengrass was attached to the project for a while, and he was making noises about moving it to a contemporary War on Terror setting, which I don't think you could really do without totally rebuilding the story, simply because, while we may be as scared in 2010 as we were in 1985, our fears are coming from different places and take different forms. In the '80s, we assumed that the silos would open and all humanity would die screaming. Nowandays we just assume that life is going to continue getting shittier and shittier and mor and more incomprehensible, with extinction as a vague possibility we suspect may be denied to us.

Did what I just write make any sense?

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https://profiles.google.com/elzairthesorcerer/about

at 20:09 on 2011-05-17This is kind of off-topic, but what are the names of some of those 18th century novels you mentioned? I would like to read one.

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Wardog

at 20:38 on 2011-05-17There aren't specific texts that deal *explicitly* with it - I just meant that you can infer a background level of social anxiety and uncertainty, even in books that seem to be about entirely other things. I guess that isn't very helpful. Also it occurs to me I meant 19th century novels. I hate that thing, I always get my centuries confused. Novels written after 1800 are 19th century novels. It makes no sense! But I mean, it's there in Persuasion, or Daniel Deronda, for example. Middlemarch. Vanity Fair.

[bookwormguri]

Escape the Brothel- Recap 2

aka Fuck me in my stupid face. I can’t write short recaps to save my fucking life because EVERYTHING IS IMPORTANT.

I’ve imagined myself writing this or continuing to write this so often that sometimes I forgot I haven’t written down a single sentence in months. It’s easy to imagine I’m in an empty room with only four people, speaking into the microphone about a story that did happen, and some that didn’t. I did some long posts about the Background and First Session of my DnD game’s first arc, but here I am, over a year later trying to catch up. My memories are a little fuzzy because this happened OVER A YEAR AGO, but I’m sure my Players will correct me if I get anything wrong.

God save me.

Warnings: Violence, PvP, attempted rape, mentions of child abuse, prostitution, poor grammar.

The Players:

Terrance “Fitz” Fitzgeralt-Half-elf Barbarian tiny gay @fitzgeralt @yarking

Vekti White-Bear- Half-orc Sorcerer happy gay @autumninthenorth

Aritian- Aasimar Bard ??? gay @nyako-chan

Arc 1: Escape the Brothel

In my last recap, I left it off with the group’s first day of work finishing up. Now we are on to day two and beyond. Nyako was not there this time, thus the lack of a pretty Bard.

The first arc took place in the Deep Fantasia, located in the walled city Derwezeam. It’s the foremost brothel for those who want something specific or expensive or both. Working there is akin to slavery. Only the guards are allowed to leave the large, manor-like brothel and only at certain times. All workers are branded with a rune that will cast the Disintegrate spell if the person carrying it leaves the brothel and stays out of it for longer than 30 seconds. It first activates by becoming unusually warm when someone leaves it’s allowed range. One can buy their freedom, but it is difficult. However, some prefer their gilded cage to the uncertainty that permeates Derwezeam, a violent, corrupt and insatiable city to its core. My players are not such people. They are determined to escape and bring as many people as they can with them.

Locations: [Link].

First Floor- Includes the main floor, the kitchen, a meeting room in back, the vapors room and the dinning hall.

Servant’s Quarters- Nothing of particular interest here unless you go searching each person’s personal belongings. It isn’t until MUCH later the group discovers a Cloak of Protection as a hidden gem.

Second Floor- This is where (most) of the fucking happens, but also the guard barracks. They never get much sleep.

Third Floor- The whore’s rooms.

Fourth Floor- The Madame, Quofire (Head of the Servants) and Belward’s (Head Guard) chambers + other

Roof- A pretty, pretty garden

Krisatra and Vekti

Krisatra was the cranky, old den monther of the servants, but held only slightly more love for the servants than she did the guards or whores. She had a secret love for flowers that the players did not discover. She essentially unloaded her duties onto Vekti to set up the meeting room for some Very Important Visitors. Vekti was so sweet and obedient. Krisatra didn’t deserve her. This wasn’t in my original plans. I wanted to give my Players carte blanc to do and do whatever they wished in order to escape the brothel. I was terrified of railroading them. I still am to an extent, but I think this was my first lesson in that this group of Players was one that thrived with more direction, not less. Thus, I gave Vekti the instructions to be in a place where Plot was happening. That’s more fun for everyone, right?

Fitz pls Part 2 (w/ Hiraeth)

Vekti went to speak privately in the vapors room with Arara about the meeting. If I hadn’t rolled such poor stealth they would have never heard the disjointed clunk step clunk step clunk that was Hiraeth, the newest whore. She was acquired from the Rangers of Derwezeam after she suffered an accident that left her with only one leg. She had a metal leg as a placeholder (this leg is still with us in the current game, over a year later. How strange to think about).

After overhearing that a meeting would be taking place (aka those in power would be distracted), Hiraeth decided right then it was time to escape (I had originally planned for this to be several days later, but I decided to push it up so Plot could continue). To make sure Vekti and co didn’t realize she was eavesdropping she quickly hid under a table in the dining hall… where Fitz was.

Fitz said something akin to, “Well if you’re down there, you might as well give a blowjob.” Fitz, you sounded kinda rape-y. (EDIT: Trust me, knowing Fitz’ personality, it was not intended in that way, but that was how Hiraeth interpreted it. Fitz tried his best to do the right thing, but he had a Charisma of 9, so.....) Also questioning her about why she was hiding. Hiraeth wasn’t allowed to let anyone stop her from escaping so she knew if she had to snap this guy’s dick off with her teeth to not say anything, she absolutely would. This led to a wrestling match where Fitz ended up grappling her to the floor, much to Hiraeth’s displeasure. Cue Vekti popping in, seeing this, and breaking it up immediately via lifting Fitz up (it’s extra impressive when you remember Vekti is the squishy Sorcerer and Fitz is the stronk Barbarian).

Fitz and Vekti have ‘fun’ (note: backstabbing = fun)

Hiraeth runs without so much as a ‘thank you.’ She has things to plan thank you VERY MUCH. Vekti makes her displeasure about the situation known and eventually puts Fitz down.

Now, for context, Fitz’ past is… traumatic to say the least. It includes a lot of creative and terrible abuses towards him as a child, when he was unable to fight back. It was completely understandable to me as the DM knowing all his secrets why he would react poorly to being restrained against his will and carried around.

Vekti, poor dear, was none-the-wiser. She had just seen a grumpy half-elf that hasn’t been the nicest to her, pinning a girl down who obviously did not want to be pinned down. If it were me, can’t say I would have done any differently. If it were me, and Fitz decided to be stubborn about it, I 100% would have kicked him in the nose. Sorry Yark.

This friction led to delicious and amazing character conflict. I was floored by the roleplay of these two. But it led to Fitz snapping and attempting to backstab Vekti (with a fucking Greatsword mind you) when she went to walk away in a huff. Notice this, Fitz is not good at first, and often second, impressions. It’s a theme.

The Madame~

Since this time, my players have theorized I brought The Madame in at this time specifically to break the PvP fight up. I can confirm this as 100% true. I was legit terrified that this PvP would end with one character dead, especially at such low levels. I didn’t want the Players to feel like they had to fear for their character’s lives (yet), so I put a stop to that.

The Madame is the Deep Fantasia’s owner and the Big Bad for the first arc. Their character design is still one of my favorites; a white painted face, gold lips, lace as a half-face mask, a wide-brimmed hat, covered neck to feet in black, including gloves. I really wanted to emulate that this character WAS NOT to be trifled with, like they were something beyond the brothel and tiny scope of the Material Plane. Considering how terrified my Player were of them, I think I nailed it.

Long story short, The Madame broke up the fight by casting Blindness on both Vekti and Fitz. They had to be led back to their quarters and wait for it to wear off. Now that I have had time to truly develop The Madame’s character, motivations and goals I feel if we didn’t that scene again it would have gone much differently. Fitz would have for sure lost at least one finger or the use of his limbs for the week. That could have been fun. Would have gotten across the message “PvP is not allowed” too imo. We ended the session there, with Vekti and Fitz both blind and vulnerable. 

[epistolizer]

Hit & Run Commentary #135

Cal Thomas is now flagellating himself over the specter of White privilege as lamented in his column titled “America’s Reckoning With Racism”. If he is really so concerned about this why doesn’t he surrender his influential position in the media to a minority? Readers should also note that he selected the luxury of Florida in which to live out his golden years rather than the squalor of one America’s ghettos in which he would have been able to actualize the values he demands of the rest of us such as the willingness to be verbally denounced and berated by those we have allegedly oppressed.

So do media propagandists jacked out of shape over the use of tear gas and pepper spray to disperse riotous protesters intend to articulate condemnation as rigorous of Antifa’s strategy to gouge out eyes?

Do those claiming to support Black Lives Matter really support the cause when asked or fear bodily harm and vandalized property?

Regarding municipalities and jurisdictions threatening to disband police departments in order to placate riotous mobs demanding astronomical welfare handouts categorized as social programs: will those breaking the law in such areas still be apprehended or taken into custody? If so, even if under the banner of another name, aren’t those still the functions of a police department?

With the abolition or defunding of police departments, Whites have even more justification to flee urbanized areas leaving them to further decay and blight.

Apparently mobs marching through the streets are enough to get technocrats to ease the rigors of the plague cult. Perhaps churches ought to begin holding mass decentralized public worship meetings not directly linked to any one congregation surrounded by armed militias. If left unaccosted, such would not be violent.

Given that Black Lives Matter only gets jacked out of shape when those of a certain ethnic composition get mistreated by the police, doesn’t that expose how inherently racist that movement is?

If protesters carry signs with language deemed linguistically inappropriate, the media shouldn’t blur the image. Don’t these liberal journalists any other time insist upon how obligated oppressors are to listen to these disenfranchised COMMUNITIES expressing THEIR TRUTH unfiltered?

During protest coverage, media propagandists informed that certain images had to be blurred to protect viewers and their families from alleged profanity. Too bad the media is not as decisive about rendering judgment against the destruction and theft of private property

Media propagandists said that the profanity on protest signs had to be blurred so as not to harm viewers at home. But is it about protecting viewers or out of concern that seeing such might shock the average American that usually doesn’t consider the implications of this subversive element regarding how there is an effort underway to implement a worldview of demoniac tyranny formulated in the bowels of Sheol itself.

Protesters are demanding funds from cut police budgets be redirected towards jobs and education. Yet those calling for such will barely work or pursue academics as it is. Often these behavioral choices are denounced among such demographics as “acting White”.

Veggie Tales creator Phil Vischer has criticized the conservative response to violent protests as valuing property over lives. Wonder if he would respond the same way if the target had been a warehouse full of his anthropomorphized produce DVD’s and related licensed merchandise?

In its streamed service, a church posted a slide that in person worship would not resume until later in the summer. Then perhaps the next song sung by the worship band should not have contained the lyric that to die for Christ is gain? Because doesn’t that propositional juxtaposition indicate they really don’t mean it and are just as much afraid to croak as nearly every other slob on the street?

As much as these churches are harping about race, don’t be surprised if after lock down quite a few White pewfillers simply don’t come back.

If the government and private enterprise imposing the policies of such (the definition of fascism) can coerce you into wearing a mask in the name of public health, what is so wrong with assorted laws and regulations intended to punish sexual contact outside of heterosexual marriage in the name of disease prevention? Granted, such laws would be near impossible to enforce from a standpoint of practicality. However, that is not usually the position that they are argued against. Rather, it is claimed such regulations infringe upon matters of personal choice even when the health of another individual is involved, the very principle that has been curtailed to a disturbing extent in the Age of Plague.

It it was immoral to stoke fear of disease in the name of promoting abstinence, why is it moral to stoke fear of disease to coerce compliance with a variety of social distancing measures?

A Confederate monument was preemptively demolished in Decatur, Georgia on the grounds that allowing an incompetent band of hooligans that had probably never even held a powertool prior to being overcome with the current fit of revolutionary madness could imperil public safety. So wouldn’t it be prudent to also remove assorted Martin Luther King or Barack Obama commemorative statuary for similar reasons out of an abundance of caution?

At the Trump campaign rally in Tulsa, Oklahoma, attendees were allowed to decide for themselves whether or not they would wear a mask. Medical establishment functionaries (many of which no one elected to office or not even employed as part of the civil service) issued numerous pronouncements decreeing that those deciding not to conceal their countenances in the proscribed manner were threatening the lives of those with compromised immune systems. But unlike a supermarket, one does not possess a compelling necessity to attend a political rally in order to continue one’s existence or maintain one’s quality of life. As such, so long as the individual is fully cognizant that masks will not be required at a particular venue or event, doesn’t there come a point where the individual needs to shoulder some of the responsibility for their own healthcare maintenance rather than to pawn that obligation off on everybody else? After all, haven’t we been told for decades now that if you don’t want your mind or soul soiled by filthy media, then don’t tune into such productions? Likewise, if you are afraid of picking up a disease in a place that the purpose in being there is more of a pleasure than a necessity, perhaps you ought consider not going there in the first place.

Commissar Cuomo is categorizing the removal of the Theodore Roosevelt statue at the Museum of Natural History in New York as an act of love. How long until mass executions or the seizure of the property of designated counterrevolutionary thought criminals will categorized as an act of love?

On Fox News Sunday, Chris Wallace remarked that, in light of the NFL’s reversal on the national anthem and the call to rename a number of military bases, a cultural shift is underway. But are these changes something that the vast majority want? Or is it that they afraid to question such proposals out of fear of riots and looting on the part of violent subversives?

If we are to be so gripped with fear of violent retaliation on the part of apoplectic activists (for that is rather the reason than belief in diversity and inclusion) to the point that White thespians can no longer be allowed to perform voiceovers for cartoon characters of color, do the producers of the musical Hamilton intend to replace the Black actor that performed that eponymous role with a White one to more accurately depict the historically documented image of that particular Founding Father?

Perennial rabble rouser Al Sharpton insists it is an outrage to have someone to pay taxes to provide for commemorative statues of individuals that fought to keep that taxpayer enslaved. Maybe so. But given that it has been documented that Sharpton is profoundly delinquent in regards to the taxes he owes, he obviously doesn’t have as much going towards that particular budgetary outlay as he dupes his deluded followers into believing. Shouldn’t this multimillionaire having flouted his fiscal obligations be the even greater outrage?

On the Five, establishmentatian mouthpiece Dana Perino called for a moratorium on all conspiracy theories. In other words, we are obligated to believe without question any information handed down to us by government or those institutions in league with it at the highest levels such as academia, multinational industry, and the mainstream media. Who is to say what constitutes a conspiracy? This time several years ago, had someone pronounced that a virus would be invoked to keep you under near house arrest, your face swaddled like a jihadist concubine, and vast swaths of the economy nearly destroyed, they would have also been denounced as a conspiracy theorist.

By Frederick Meekins

[writesandramblings]

The Captain’s Secret - p.86

“I’ll Dream a Nation of You”

A/N: We remain in episode 13, "What's Past Is Prologue."

Considering the circumstances of the Mirror Universe and all the available pieces, I think this plan is one actually worthy of Lorca. As a bonus it ties together some details in the show's rendition of events. The redacted Defiant files being on the Shenzhou (why are they on that ship and so heavily redacted to boot), the fact Burnham and Tyler aren't immediately murdered by Sarek and Voq's guards on Harlak... It also reconciles the interactions between Lorca and his interspecies crew (not to mention various actions he took throughout the series which he had no real cause to) with everything he suddenly starts spouting to his followers.

I'm also attempting to answer why Lorca suddenly went from zero to warp speed with what I feel is an entirely plausible explanation of his behavior that fits the facts established in the show. In a weird way, Lorca showed me the answer, because I lived the circumstance described myself while writing this story. It turns out, Lorca really does give everyone what they need. Even this humble writer.

Full Chapter List Part 1 - Objects in Motion << 85 - I Could Never Be Your Woman 87 - Captain Lorca >>

Luckily, there was a perfectly serviceable alternative to Petrellovitz already on Lorca's itinerary: this universe's Paul Stamets. Lorca wondered if that was part of the reason Petrellovitz had vanished. She and Stamets hated each other. Petrellovitz thought Stamets was a narrow-minded cretin and Stamets hated that she had stolen his life's work and co-opted it for her own endeavors. In this, they were entirely equal their Discovery counterparts. Mischkelovitz had attempted to steal Stamets' mushrooms there, too, after an entertaining little rant about the limits of his knowledge.

Lorca and Landry burst into Stamets' private laboratory aboard the Charon with rifles at the ready, as tactically in sync as they had always been, but found the place seemingly empty.

"Stamets is gone," concluded Landry. "Coward probably left at the first sign of trouble."

As Lorca scanned the room, he did not think that to be the case.

He had made one crucial misjudgment about Discovery's Paul Stamets. That Stamets had something he valued more than mushrooms: Hugh Culber. If not for that, Stamets might have been convinced to travel with Lorca to the ends of that universe, neurological changes and all. Instead he had issued Lorca an ultimatum, "only one more jump," and sealed all their fates.

In this universe, Culber and Stamets had never met. That meant Stamets was entirely the predictable quality Lorca had expected the other Stamets to be.

"All his research is still here," observed Lorca. "I've known more than one Stamets and they both have one thing in common: they love their work too much..."

Lorca's eyes scanned the room, certain something felt off, and then he spotted it. A holographic flicker.

"To leave any of it... Behind!"

He reached through the hologram and found Stamets' neck easily, pulling him out and shoving him up against the bulkhead. "Hello, Paul."

"Gabriel," whined Stamets, in that annoyingly high-pitched tone he had when nervous. "I really hoped you were dead."

"Well you can't always get what you want," said Lorca.

Landry sidled up beside Lorca. "Hi, doc," she said suggestively. She hated eggheads as much as her counterpart in the other universe.

With Landry covering Stamets, Lorca was free to stride across the room as he spoke. "Ironically, I have to thank you for helping me finish what I started. After you sold me out and ruined our coup attempt, I was down on Priors World recruiting allies when the emperor caught up with the Buran. As I beamed back to join the fight, her torpedoes hit. And luckily, so did an ion storm, which caused a transporter malfunction, and... know where I ended up?"

"Frankly, I'm still stuck on the 'not dead' part," said Stamets, shrugging almost comically.

"A parallel universe."

Stamets eyes flicked back and forth as he put it together. "The ion storm must have swapped your transporter signatures." (Stamets still could not see the full extent of what Petrellovitz had done. That was probably for the best.)

"To me, it was physics acting as the hand of destiny. My destiny." He arrived at a spot directly in front of Stamets once more. "The bioweapon you were developing for the emperor. Show it to me."

"Happily, sir," said Stamets.

Months ago, Burnham had stood in front of Lorca on Discovery and accused him of manufacturing biological weapons with the forest of Prototaxites stellaviatori in the cultivation bay. Lorca had never been interested in that line of research at all, but someone else had: Emperor Georgiou.

Georgiou loved biological weapons. The incompatible DNA that had rendered Kerrigan a balloon of gruesome ichor was but one of her many biological toys. The only thing she liked better than bioweapons were blades wielded in her own two hands. Her philosophy, so far as Lorca could tell, was that she liked things which were tactile. If the contact could not be made by a weapon she held, then it ought to be the result of a teeming horde of microscopic things crawling over someone's skin.

It seemed only fitting to wipe out Georgiou's forces with one of her own preferred weapons.

Stamets studied the Charon schematics. Petrellovitz's intervention had given him access to a good deal of the ship. "Looks like we can deploy here, here, and... here. Clear this whole area out." He waved his hands across a large swathe of the ship's midsection.

Lorca nodded. "Get to it."

Stamets was entirely gleeful at the opportunity to finally put his research to work. His spores, seemingly harmless, bypassed the environmental filters and within minutes, two whole battalions headed towards them were rendered a twitching mass of corpses on the ground as the spores ate away at them. Stamets giggled at the sight of it.

Lorca did not linger to watch the display. He had somewhere else he needed to be.

In the throne room, Emperor Georgiou stood on her dais with arms crossed. The loss of Captain Maddox and the recent deaths of her council left chief operational officer Commander Owosekun in charge of the Charon. (On Discovery, Owosekun was a lieutenant junior grade, several steps removed from command of the ship. Georgiou's habit of killing senior members of her staff tended to allow for rapid advancement. That it also provided Georgiou with the frequent companionship of young, ambitious women was probably no accident.)

Standing to the side, Burnham watched the deployment of the biological spore weapon and felt her every instinct about Lorca back on day one confirmed.

Owosekun deftly summarized unfolding events using what computer access she had. "Sensors have detected mass casualties on decks one through seventeen."

"He's come back from the grave to stage a revolution and that's the best he's got?" sneered Georgiou. "If he keeps doing that, he'll reveal his location. Then he's mine."

Burnham approached Georgiou. "Emperor, I've seen firsthand how he operates. He can get inside your head, manipulate you."

"You think I don't know that?" said Georgiou, insulted. This Michael Burnham seemed to have little to no understanding or respect for Georgiou's years of experience.

"He is baiting you, he wants you to come to him," explained Burnham. "Let me contact my ship again. They have no idea they're flying into a battle zone."

It was the third time she had requested this courtesy and Georgiou was entirely tired of it.

"Please, Philippa," begged Burnham.

Georgiou turned towards Burnham with a look of disgust. "I'm not Philippa to you. But you are right about one thing. He preyed on my sentiment, my weakness for your face. It will not happen again. Take her to the brig."

Imperial guards moved to either side of Burnham, grabbing her arms.

"Your choices have determined your fate," decreed Georgiou.

The guards walked Burnham towards the door. They did not make it far. Burnham kicked out the knees of one, sending him to the floor, and grabbed the rifle of the other, so when the guard fired, it hit another guard nearby. She wrenched the rifle away and slammed the butt of it into the guard's face. The guard on the floor rose and Burnham disabled him with the electrical rod in his own hand, then swung the rifle she was holding so it struck a third guard across the jaw and sent him careening away.

The guards across the room fired at her and Burnham fired back, red bolts of energy throwing sparks. Outnumbered, outgunned, her only chance was to escape somewhere they could not easily follow. Launching into a run, she vaporized a hole into a vent along the floor she had spotted earlier and slid across the polished surface of the Charon's decks into the hole, vanishing into its darkness.

"They'll find her, emperor," promised Owosekun.

Given the maze of access passageways that ran through the walls and floors of the Charon and the systems disabled by Petrellovitz, they did not.

Landry and her men remained behind with Stamets while Lorca ran his little errand. He found Larsson waiting alone. "Where is she," Lorca asked on approach.

Larsson pointed at a vent along the floor.

"Einar," came Lalana's voice from within as she pushed the vent panel outwards, "you were supposed to say I remained as instructed and did not leave with you." She was colored black like the shadows but rippled to a dusky gold to match the corridor as she emerged.

"And I said this is no time for jokes!" shouted Larsson, exasperated. "Now what the hell is going on, captain."

"The emperor has Burnham captive and we're assisting in the revival of a coup against the emperor to get her back," announced Lorca, having had more than sufficient time to cook up a story.

Larsson looked for a moment like a caveman getting his first glimpse of fire. "What?"

"I'm not repeating myself," said Lorca, leading them down the corridor towards their destination. Lalana loped alongside him.

Larsson shook his head but followed. "Only you would go to another universe and decide to upend a political system."

Lorca shrugged, waving his rifle irreverently. "It's a corrupt system!" he declared, as if that excused this massive, massive overstepping of the spirit of General Order 1, because surely whatever non-interference protocols were to be followed for pre-warp societies also applied to societies that existed outside the known universe and in whose natural development Starfleet ought not to meddle. (They were far, far beyond this, of course. They had been ever since the Defiant crossed over into this world. Its presence had altered history.)

"In the ten years I have known you, this is the most ridiculously convoluted plan you have ever had. Makes me think it might actually work."

Lorca smiled at that.

They arrived at a communication station. Lorca hit the door controls and fired upon the technician inside. She slumped over her console. "Guard the hall," he ordered Larsson.

"Aye, sir," grumbled Larsson, thoroughly annoyed to think he had left a perfectly good retirement of fishing to spend the past several months guarding doors, which was even worse than the brig and armory duties he had been assigned during his first tour of service.

Lorca kicked the technician's corpse out of her chair and began to key in commands. Lalana watched him disable several security protocols and key in a subspace band. "What precisely are we doing here?"

"It isn't enough to cut the head off the snake," said Lorca. "We have to flay her alive."

Now that he knew the full extent of the pieces on the gameboard, the time had come to gather them in one place.

More than that, as he revived this element of the plan they had built together, it felt like she was with him again.

They sat in the privacy of Michael's quarters with the lights comfortably dim around them. Lorca could scarcely believe his ears. Some part of him hoped he had misheard because if he had heard correctly, it was doom for them both. His voice was a gently lilting admonishment, but more amused than anything else. "Michael. That's treason."

"My loyalty," she said, her eyes fixed on his with a dark fire so bright it really was threatening to destroy them both, "is to the empire."

There was really something impossible about her, he decided, staring at her across the coffee table. "The emperor is the empire."

Her head tilted to the side, a smile on her lips. "The emperor is entirely too shortsighted."

Lorca closed his eyes a moment and shook his head. With anyone else, this action could have been a deadly folly, but Michael was the one person he could close his eyes on and not worry what he would find when he opened them because when he opened them, he saw the same ready smile, the same cocky confidence, and the same wildness he had always known—and not a trace of malice towards him in any of it. Well, maybe the slightest trace of malice, but only enough as to make things interesting between them where it counted.

He was only questioning her because he had to be sure. Not of her loyalty—he was sure of that—but of her thoughtfulness. This was not an endeavor to be undertaken lightly. He needed her to prove to him that she had considered it as thoroughly as he had. She had fifteen years of catchup to do in that regard.

"Here," said Michael, and tipped more scotch into his cup. She pushed it towards him across the surface of the table, clinking her own glass against his commandingly.

"There's no amount of alcohol's gonna make this sound a good idea," he warned her, but took the drink anyway.

"Be honest," she said. "I know you see it just like I do. The empire is stagnant. The emperor hasn't done anything important in half a decade. Twenty more years of this and the empire will be shot to shit."

Being almost twice as old as her, he had a much better concept of what twenty years meant, not to mention an idea of how short a time period five years was. Twenty was almost how old he had been when she was born. Twenty and five was a birthday she had enjoyed very recently. That she was unwilling to wait twenty years when he had spent nearly that many setting this all up was chock full of the abominable irony of her youth. Did she realize how ridiculous her time frames might sound from his perspective? Of course not, because when he was her age, twenty years had seemed like the number of years between then and the end of life as he knew it. Back then, he had known that people over forty were old as surely as he knew anything. Only having lived through those twenty years did he gain the perspective to know twenty was an entirely doable number for someone her age and probably an overestimate of the emperor's longevity on her part.

He also knew what she was talking about because he had played no small part in putting these very ideas in her head. He loved the way she phrased it. There was a lot of him in her sentiments, but the words were her own. He smiled despite the danger. "Let's say I agree with you—"

"Because you do."

He chuckled faintly. She was right, of course, there was no hiding it. "Then what would you have us do about it? And be realistic, I've taught you that much." Among many other things.

As she outlined her idea—based on a theory he was not sure he accepted—he had to admit it was at the very least ambitious. Startlingly so.

"They would never expect it," she grinned, "from the Butcher of the Binary Stars."

"The question is if you can sell them on this little theory of yours. Or sell them on anything. Let's not forget you are the Butcher of the Binary Stars." The title was so recently earned he could not imagine it would go down well at all with her intended allies of convenience.

Her eyes were like the depths of space, tiny reflections from the lights in the room twinkling as stars upon their glassy surface. "I don't have to sell them on anything. That's your job."

"Oh, I have a job in this little future of yours!" he went, a little too loudly because half that bottle of scotch was already in his bloodstream.

Michael came shooting across the table at him, her hands pressing down on his kneecaps as she leaned her face in so close to his he could smell the scotch on her breath. Every bit of this amazing him. To think this was the same child that had been hiding beneath the table at the banquet eighteen years ago. She never hid now. She was utterly brazen in everything she did. "The Graysons," she said.

That made perfect sense. The Graysons were wealthy and powerful and it was no secret the daughter of the family, Amanda, had certain proclivities where aliens were concerned. Her half-Vulcan son Spock was proof of that. That Spock still lived was a favor Lorca still held in his back pocket, ready for the right moment to cash it in.

But was this that moment? "What is your obsession with that half-breed," Lorca sneered, intending it in jest, but his face showed more jealousy than he wanted to admit. (Her obsession with Spock had begun as jealousy for his attention. Now he was the jealous one.)

"That half-breed," said Michael, sliding her hands up his thighs, "has more potential in his pointy ears than half the fleet combined. I will not have him take what is rightfully mine." Whatever barrier Spock's Vulcan blood offered could be offset by the wealth and power of his relations under the right circumstances. "All you have to do is bring my proposal to the Graysons and ensure that it reaches the right pointy ears."

That shifted Lorca into a smug smile. The Graysons were a perfect idea. His perfect idea. He had steered her towards it with such care she thought it her own. His existing relationship with the family gave him the clout to make introductions and sell this proposal both because of and despite Michael's own reputation.

He could also recognize a threat to himself when he heard one. "Phrased like that, makes me worry you might replace me with your pointy-eared rival when it turns out your little theory's no good."

"Oh, it's beyond good," she said. The Defiant was legendary in the empire. That ship, fallen through time from another universe, had given Hoshi Sato the power to conquer the empire a century ago. It would, under the right circumstances, give Lorca and Michael that power, too. "Just imagine it. A world bursting with potential." (The place her hand went with this particular word choice was entirely distracting.) "This is how we use it. And once we've separated the wheat from the chaff, this world will be ours for the taking."

He could hear some of his own words in that, and he had certainly planted the seeds of this whole undertaking, but he had to admit the particulars of Michael's approach were entirely novel and unexpected. She surprised him so often. Always somehow in a good way.

He was doomed, he decided, and glad for it. He traced a hand up the side of her body and down her arm to her wrist, fingers stroking gentle circles. She made the impossible seem possible. That was important because the task ahead of them was as impossible as they came.

"You could always just wait twenty years," he whispered to her. He said it not because he believed it but because he wanted to hear her say what followed.

"Why spend twenty years waiting when we can spend twenty ruling," she countered. That was the word he loved the most. We. She was the only person who ever said it and made him believe it. "And when you're short on time, the answer is to look for space."

She was, in a very real sense, trying to do just that. When you have no time, look to space, and when you have no space, look to time. It was an odd little conflation of some scientific explanation which Michael had taken as her personal mantra.

"It's gonna take a miracle," he said after a long, thoughtful, self-satisfied moment. It was as much an offer as a counterpoint. She accepted that offer and sealed it with her lips.

Luckily, miracles were his specialty. She was living proof of that. A child under a table turned into something worthy of her name, a name that mirrored his own. They were the pair of them archangels, though what they did next was anything but heavenly.

Lalana watched Lorca with patient curiosity. There was something written on his face right now, something bitter and regretful, but equally something that was hopeful and beautiful. A memory. She marveled at how such a simple palette could convey so many things at once and with such constant intensity that even she, a nonhuman, could see the colors. There was no one else who equaled him in this regard. Some humans expressed with the same intensity, some with the same breadth of range, but none of them, so far as she could tell, with both these things always, the way he did. He was the one human whose emotions were never a mystery to her.

The beep of a response took Lorca out of his momentary daze. "Finally," he hissed at the console, and accepted the transmission.

"Gabriel Lorca," said a calm, flat, almost toneless voice.

Lorca smiled in confident satisfaction. "Sarek."

That was the extent of the pleasantries between them.

"You are lucky this subspace band was still being monitored. It was slated for decommission." It was among the subspace bands the rebels had turned over to Burnham to supply the emperor as proof of her success. "It may not be safe."

"It doesn't have to be," said Lorca. "I'm sending you the coordinates of the Charon."

Sarek stared at Lorca. There was something frustrating about the stare of a fully cold-blooded Vulcan. Intensely dispassionate. "We are in no position to launch an assault. Our base on Harlak was recently destroyed, or did you not realize that when you sent us Michael Burnham?"

"I don't need you to attack the Charon," said Lorca, "because by the time you get here, the ship will be mine. I just need you to help me clean up the mess."

The same impassive stare. "You have been gone for too long, Gabriel. Many things have changed in your absence."

Lorca leaned forward on the console, fixing Sarek with a look of intensity that would have melted anyone else. He was simultaneously cold and furious as he said through gritted teeth, "Don't you dare. I didn't endure that goddamn mind rape for you to back out now that I've given you proof." His fingers gripped the console's edge so tightly his arms shook slightly.

"A bold plan," said Sarek, "if it is indeed true."

"Oh, it's true," assured Lorca. "You can take my word for it."

Lorca, Sarek, and Voq were standing in a single pressurized chamber aboard an abandoned asteroid mining facility. Of the two parties, Lorca was by far the more exposed. He was here without any backup, his ship out of transporter and weapons range, while their cruiser hovered above with the capacity to blow the meeting place to kingdom come and kidnap or send him with it. It was entirely intentional: Lorca potentially had the might of a whole empire behind him, so he was negotiating from a position of power, while Voq and Sarek represented a scattered mass of disenfranchised species. For Lorca to come alone and unarmed was merely balancing those factors out and proving the sincerity of his intent.

Voq sniffed disdainfully. "Take the word of a human?" he said. His voice had a honking quality to it.

"Or don't. You have the files Michael sent. That's proof enough."

"They were heavily redacted," said Sarek.

The files they referred to were the Defiant reports. Michael had secreted copies away aboard her ship, the Shenzhou, and transmitted them to the rebels alongside the promise of her plan. Minus any incriminating details, of course. Minus any useful details. The files were only intended to demonstrate the existence of Michael's conceit and get the rebels to the table.

"If we gave you everything, you wouldn't need us," countered Lorca easily.

Sarek was unmoved. "And yet, it remains possible that this is all a subterfuge on your part."

Lorca crossed his arms and glared at Sarek. "After everything I've done for your son?" There was a reason the half-breed progeny of Amanda Grayson and Sarek still drew breath and Lorca was part of it. As far as he was concerned, Sarek owed him a lot for that particular favor, even if it had been done more for the Graysons' sake than the Vulcan's.

To any of a dozen other races, such a personal gesture would have meant something, but Vulcans were not known for their sentimentality. "Be that as it may, we must confirm your intentions personally." Sarek raised his hands and stepped towards Lorca.

Lorca uncrossed his arms and stepped back, one hand going to where his phaser would have been. Of course, he had no phaser with him, and going for the knife in his boot was too obvious and would destroy the entire pretense of this meeting.

"If you consent willingly, this will be much easier," said Sarek. "But if you will not, there are ways around this."

Voq drew a Klingon blade from his hip, an ancient relic scavenged from the ruins of Qo'noS that still looked deathly sharp despite its dusty origins.

"Do not fight us, Gabriel," warned Sarek. "If you truly desire this union of our interests, then this is our price."

Lorca's back pressed against the wall of the chamber as Sarek's hands pressed against his head. His hands closed around Sarek's wrists because he could not totally escape the instinct to flee or to take hold of a weapon during a moment of perceived weakness and neither option was available, so all he could do was find something, anything to hold on to.

"My mind to your mind. My thoughts to your thoughts."

Sarek slipped into Lorca's mind. It felt like a million tiny little needles were pressing into his brain and splaying the memories out as a scientist spreads out a specimen for dissection. Lorca could feel himself being turned inside-out and was half-aware of a yell in his throat, but then all awareness was gone and he felt only Sarek everywhere—inside and outside, upon him and within him. He could not tell where he began and ended because there was no him, only Sarek. He was drowning in a Vulcan consciousness. He could see and feel his memories unspooling like ribbons in the darkness. He reached for them and they eluded him, slipped away into Sarek's waiting embrace.

Sarek released him and Lorca slid down along the wall, yell replaced by a wordless gasp. He knew instinctively that Sarek had seen it all: every truth, every lie, every secret, including the ones Lorca kept from himself. He felt stripped of everything. He was nothing in the aftermath of it.

"He is sincere," said Sarek, "and the Defiant is no lie, but he also does not believe the deal he has offered is possible."

"The usual human treachery," Voq concluded, looking angry enough to spit.

Sarek considered that. "Not quite. He does not believe it possible, but the one who sent the information, Michael Burnham, does believe it, and they have a scientist who is working on making it possible."

Lorca closed his eyes and took deep breaths to steady himself. He was better than this. He was stronger than it. He slowly rose to his feet, finding himself physically steady even if his mind remained unbalanced.

"What they believe is of no consequence," said Voq. "If they cannot provide what they offer, it is as good as a lie."

"I'll prove it," Lorca gasped at them. "If I can prove it, then we have a deal?"

"You will prove something which you believe to be impossible?" queried Sarek.

Lorca inhaled deeply and was entirely resolute as he said, "I've done more with less."

Sarek looked to Voq. "Then I believe this deal is in our best interests. If you prove the barrier between the worlds may be safely pierced and allow us this... 'world bursting with potential,' then we will help you supplant the emperor."

Voq extended his arm to Lorca. Lorca swallowed and clasped Voq's forearm. A warrior's pact. For better or worse, their destinies were now tied.

A world bursting with potential. The words had been Michael's, but they had come to Sarek through Lorca, stripped out of his consciousness by a mind meld so thorough it had, for a moment, made the two of them seem one. That Sarek still held those words was both damning and propitious.

Lorca hated that memory more than almost anything. What was supposed to be a mere confirmation of his and Michael's intentions had instead become a brutal exposure of everything he was. It was not acceptable to Lorca that this event should have been for nothing. Not now that he had given Sarek the very proof requested in the form of the other universe's Michael Burnham and in his own return here.

"I held up my end of the bargain," said Lorca through clenched teeth, "now you hold up yours."

"In your long absence, I find myself doubtful as to the enduring sincerity of your intentions. Now that you have this power, what is to stop you from claiming both universes for your own?"

Lorca was taken momentarily aback by the accusation. The thought had crossed his mind. At this point, a lot of thoughts had, many of them in conflict with one another, and his end game had changed a few times over the past year, but circumstances had forced him back on track and he was resolved to his original course of action. With a few adjustments. Even if he had ended up with a slightly different set of goals, the fact remained none of it conflicted with Michael’s offer to Sarek and the rebels.

"If you submit to another mind meld—"

"Absolutely not," said Lorca, hating Sarek for even suggesting it. "You've seen what I did over there, Sarek. I saved the other you. That has to count for something."

"I suspect because it felt like saving yourself."

Lorca's mouth twitched. This was true. Something the Vulcan had done during that mind meld made Lorca unable to stomach the idea of Sarek in distress because some part of him still felt like Sarek. The kinship was unwanted, but it was there. An intentionally implanted extra failsafe against the dissolution of their intended union. Some part of Lorca wondered if it was somehow part of Sarek's katra, but the larger part of him said no. Simple subliminal manipulation on Sarek's part. There might be some way to escape it, but seeking help would mean admitting the link's existence, and if word of it got out, Lorca would be finished on far too many fronts.

Besides, when he had learned Sarek raised Michael Burnham in the other universe, it had seemed like proof of something else. That Lorca and Sarek, the men who raised Michael Burnham, would be reflected across the two universes by such a bond suggested the two universes were united by a thread of shared destiny.

"Or maybe I'm just not the xenophobe you think," said Lorca, moving aside. "Lalana, get up here."

She hopped onto the seat into view of the transmission. Anyone else and the transmission would have been automatically framing her in the whole time, but since the computer did not register her as a life form, she had to rely on being in front of Lorca for Sarek to see her.

"What is that?" went Sarek, cold Vulcan façade letting slip some small bit of surprise mingled with the faintest affront or disgust at the two giant eyes.

"I am a lului. My name is Lalana."

Lorca looked entirely pleased with himself for putting this together. "She's my ally. That's proof I'm not lying. I have no problem working with aliens."

"You are from the other universe?" asked Sarek, because certainly he had never seen her like here.

"Yes, that is correct."

Sarek already knew from his mind meld with Burnham that the other universe had the potential to offer safe haven to anyone who wished it and had seen some glimmer of Lorca's involvement with Discovery's interspecies crew, but nowhere in Burnham's mind had he seen this creature. "What are you to Captain Lorca? In what way do you prove his intent?"

"I am his friend. As for his intent, what is it you wish of him?"

"He has promised to provide safe passage for non-humans to your universe."

Lalana tilted her head up at Lorca. "You said we were going to stop the war with the Klingons by bringing reinforcements from the Empire."

Sarek's glare looked entirely unamused. Lorca realized immediately where the problem lay. The first night here, when Lalana had approached him in his quarters, he had outlined a perfectly plausible plan involving killing Georgiou, taking over the Empire, and using Terran ships to fight the Klingons. While the Terran Empire and Starfleet were fundamentally incompatible, the prospect of a mutual alien enemy could have rallied the bloodthirsty Terrans to answer the call to war. They were as glory-hungry as the Klingons in Lalana's universe.

Nowhere in that plan had Lorca mentioned Sarek, Voq, and the rebels. To be honest, he was a little surprised they were still in play. He had expected to find them largely quashed by Georgiou at this point. That they endured was a testament to their value and made them worth adding back into his plan as participants rather than face them as a later adversary.

Lorca grimaced in disappointment at Lalana. Mentioning this in front of Sarek felt like a public betrayal. (In actuality, he was learning something the other Lorca had learned long ago: Lalana had no sense of propriety and did not distinguish between conversations in an official and informal context. She spoke whatever came into her mind.) "When we arrived here, I didn't know Sarek and Voq were still alive. Terrans or rebels, a gun is a gun."

Lalana's tail flicked. "Sometimes I think you are making this up as you go along."

That was entirely a betrayal. "Circumstance changed and I'm adjusting, restoring part of the original plan. That's not the same as making it up."

"It is almost. And what if the Klingons here wish to join the Klingons over there?"

Was she trying to screw this up for him? "Then we don't send the Klingons until after the war's won. If we have to send a few Terrans to clear a few battles, we do that. The important thing is we get Georgiou out of the way right now. Trust me, Sarek, I've thought of everything."

Lalana continued her dissension. "No one can think of everything, not even me, and I have trillions more brain cells than you do, Gabriel."

Lorca pressed his fingers to the bridge of his nose. She was talking about her undifferentiated tissues, which he knew from the lului medical report tended to be memory-focused, not cognitive. While the cells could provide cognitive function, they were sluggish compared to the specialized cortex cells that comprised the lului "brain" and infrequently used in such a capacity. He pulled his hand away and practically exploded at her. "This isn't the time for discussion! We have a chance right now to rid ourselves of Georgiou once and for all. The emperor's on her knees, and when she's gone, we all get what we want. But we need to do this now. Before someone else comes in to fill the power vacuum I'm about to create."

"Hm, that is a fair point," went Lalana, entirely unperturbed by Lorca's frustration. She turned back to the screen. "Sarek, will you please bring your ships to assist in this endeavor, for the benefit of your universe and mine?"

Sarek got the distinct impression there was something in this argument between Lorca and Lalana that was wholly domestic, which was more telling than anything Lorca could have actually said. He still needed more. In a measured tone, he said, "And who would you have replace the emperor? You?"

"I can't think of a better candidate," said Lorca as if he were congratulating Sarek for suggesting he take on this role rather than confirming an obvious bit of hubris.

"What of Michael Burnham?"

Lorca dismissed this suggestion outright. "It can't be Burnham. She doesn't know this universe. Her idealism will lead us nowhere. The minute they realize who and what she is, she's done for."

"And yet, it is in her idealism that I find hope for this plan, not yours."

Lorca glowered, thinking they were at an impasse.

Then Sarek said, "I was able to convince Voq of the sincerity of Burnham's intentions, even with the destruction of Harlak. I equally understand the validity of your concerns. I have seen into this Michael Burnham." That was a misleadingly innocuous description of a mind meld as far as Lorca was concerned. "She is not from this world and she cannot lead your people effectively. A new emperor is not worth the trouble if she is dead within a year. I suggest an alternative. I will back you, Voq will back you, if she stands by your side."

Lorca took a deep breath. That was, in fact, the best thing he could have hoped for. "Agreed." In a way, this Burnham was even better, because she would be sincere in a way his Michael could never have been. Lorca would have Sarek eating out of the palm of his hand.

"Then we will proceed to your coordinates."

Lorca leaned his hands against the back of the chair, feeling a great weight lift from his shoulders.

Lalana put her hands on the edge of the console and leaned forward. "Gabriel and I thank you, Sarek."

"I have only one question remaining. What of the Michael Burnham from our world?" asked Sarek.

A long pause. "Dead," said Lorca.

"Then you have my condolences," said Sarek, because he knew exactly how much Michael Burnham meant to Lorca. He knew it better than anyone.

The channel closed. Lorca exhaled, then erupted, "What the hell was that? You torpedoed me!"

"Vulcans are more easily convinced when they watch a successful defense of a position. I forced you to defend."

He blinked. That hardly seemed to excuse it. "Maybe next time a little warning?"

"You might have said we were contacting a Vulcan. As it was, you did not mention any part of this to me."

"I've been a little busy," he pointed out. He meant to tell her, but between Discovery and here, he had not had much chance to. Moving between the torture chamber and the aft hangar bay, they had been too busy ducking security, and in the brief minute before the transmission started, he had forgotten.

"It turned out well in the end," said Lalana. "Sarek is coming. I think he was reassured that you had me as an ally, and I think it is a very good plan." Now, not only was he uniting forces against a shared enemy, he was offering a chance for something better to the teeming masses of the oppressed.

That it would simultaneously remove what Terrans saw as an alien scourge on their claim of galactic supremacy was an additional windfall from Lorca's perspective. They would keep some quantity of aliens, because the Empire still had uses for many, but the rebels at least would be gone, and any species that fulfilled no Imperial purpose along with them. Best of all, they would go willingly.

"Thank you." Holding her up as a reassurance for Sarek was not the main reason he had summoned Lalana to the Charon, but it had been an entirely intentional move on his part and worked beautifully despite them both.

"Though, I should have cleaned your face before we contacted Sarek. You look quite a mess." There was still blood caked down the side of his cheek from the wounds he had given himself smashing his head against the wall of the ready room on Discovery. They had not healed much in the ensuing days of torture. Her tail drifted up towards him to clean them now.

Lorca grabbed her tail, stopping her. "Don't. People might notice."

Lalana's tail twisted slightly in his grasp. "What do you mean? They will notice there is less blood on your face?"

"Exactly, and if they figure out how..."

"They will think you cleaned your face."

"Yes, but how!" he exclaimed, voice rising. "I can't have them figuring out you're here. They'll shoot you. You understand?"

She did understand, but what she understood was not the point he thought he was trying to make. She would have blinked in confusion if only she could. Instead she stared at him and realized exactly how bad this situation was.

She had seen it, back in the torture chamber, with Maddox and Allan both. The same manic delight that had consumed him during null time, the sort of delight that overwhelmed people when they were forced to operate for far too long on far too little: a combination of sleep deprivation and adrenaline that induced a state of mind where suddenly everything in the universe seemed to make perfect sense. That point where you see all the patterns and feel you are suspended in something approaching total clarity.

A dangerous clarity, because often the patterns you saw in this state were not the sort of stable connections that made sense in the light of a more well-rested day.

She asked him the same question she had asked almost two hours ago.

"Gabriel, when was the last time you slept?"

They had been on the Charon for about half a day now, and before that, on the Shenzhou for over three. During that time, while Burnham had endured fitful but uninterrupted sleep in the relative comfort of the captain's quarters, Lorca had slept at most a handful of hours between being tortured in the agonizer booth. Four days on perhaps that many hours of sleep.

"I'm fine."

"I think you need to sleep."

Now she was being annoying. "Lalana, there's no time. We need to finish what we started. We're so close now."

"I also have a question about the conclusion of this."

There were a thousand other things he had to worry about right now, an entire coup he needed to attend to, but still he asked, "What?"

"Is it your intent that you remain here while nonhumans are sent to my universe?"

"That is the gist of it, yeah." He sounded enduringly proud about it.

"Including me?"

Lorca froze.

The main reason he had called Lalana to the Charon was that he knew he needed backup in order to reach Georgiou and kill her. Lalana's unique properties meant she could infiltrate any corner of the vessel and help him at a moment's notice. She had done exactly that.

Problem was, when he called her with those two little words, "lab rats," he had not known there existed an entire hangar of people loyal to him in need of rescue. He knew some of his people were aboard—Petrellovitz, for example, had been listed as such in the recovered data core—but an entire hangar full of them? It was too good to be true.

Once he knew they were on the Charon, freeing them became his top priority.

There was a reason his people were loyal to him after two hundred days of torture, a reason they loved him and said he loved them in return.

He did.

Not in the way he loved Michael, there was no one he loved like Michael, but in a way that made them feel valued. While Georgiou constantly culled from the top, Lorca kept people around. (Even in the other universe. It was why he let Tyler remain on Discovery.) Maybe he was not always kind, maybe he could be a tyrant, but he was a tyrant who kept them safe. So long as they were loyal to him, he was loyal to them. His people did not fear him the way Georgiou's people feared her. In this universe, that was as close to love as most people ever got.

He knew firsthand what it was like to exist as part of Georgiou's high command, to never be certain from one day to the next whether this was the day you would die or not, sometimes for no crime beyond being in the wrong place at the wrong moment. For years he stood by her side and watched her pick people off one by one and in sudden clusters. The dance it took to avoid falling victim to Georgiou's wrath was exhausting. The longer he lasted, the more exhausting it became. That his number would eventually come up seemed inevitable. Each new death brought him one step closer to his own.

Once Michael entered the picture, there were two of them to worry about. He did not think Georgiou would ever hurt Michael given her feelings for Michael's mother, but so many people had made the mistake of thinking Georgiou would not hurt them and paid the ultimate price, Michael's mother among them. Lorca had even made that mistake once himself. His price had not been fatal, but it had given him a dark and festering wound for which Michael had proven to be the only salve. If not Michael herself, then the role she offered him, which had allowed him to lose himself and become someone else completely.

In the wake of Michael’s death, his only thought had been to destroy the woman who had driven them both down this awful path together. It remained a central aim, but little by little, other desires had found him again. The desire to travel the stars, the desire to win a war, the desire to be a captain, the desire to save his people. The desire to live on as a testament to his Michael Burnham.

His people needed him and he needed them.

His people would not understand Lalana. They were Terrans through and through. They hated nonhumans. Not only would they not understand Lalana, her very presence undermined his credibility with them.

It was bad enough he had been secretly enlisting the rebels against Georgiou. He could sell this fact to his followers in the context of his long-term goals so long as he always seemed to keep the rebels at a distance in an antiseptic alliance of convenience.

There was nothing antiseptic about Lalana.

"Yes," he said. "Especially you."

"That is not acceptable."

"Well I'm sorry you feel that way," he drawled at her, "but fact is, you've done what I needed you to, so take Larsson and head on back to Discovery."

"But we have not yet killed the emperor."

"Lalana. This is the end of the road for you and me. It's time to say goodbye."

Part 87