#but i kind of liked it because he was more nuanced... as it stands cosmo lowkey has zero canonical flaws. which irks me | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

solkraka · 4 years ago

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excerpt from On Art // A Hero in Flight

Understanding heroes enables us to understand those aspects of ourselves we agree with most. We tend to ask children what their favourite heroes are, but the qualities of those heroes we idolise as children tend to be those to which we aspire as we grow. This has been the case throughout history; Gilgamesh inspired who knows how many lads to strive towards displaying magnificent feats of strength, Odysseus towards cunning and ingenuity. Tristan and Isolde, with their unyielding love, inspired how many burgeoning couples; how many generations of people were galvanised into adhering to their moral and spiritual law after reading of Moses?

The names and contexts of heroes changes with our understanding of ourselves as a whole – and yet, the hero as the embodiment of our greatest selves remains, a perpetual adaptation. One of the ways in which heroes carry our aspirations is in their ability to fly when we cannot innately do so. Superman speeds his way through the skies in the span of heartbeats; Spider-Man slings his way through a city with (most of the time) grace. Even those who cannot fly innately have their ways of ascending, even if for brief moments: Iron Man has his engineered suits, while the Batman can shoot his way into the sky. Therein lies a nuance of our heroes, then: the way heroes fly indicates something about them, and thus about those who enjoy them.

What started as mere leaps and bounds for Superman evolved eventually into a continuous and autonomous flight. He has become powerful enough to not only outrun and outleap every person on the planet, but to sustainably defy gravity itself. In many ways, it’s more than that. From a practical sense, the best way to explain Superman’s flight is to say that he carries his own gravity relative to himself, which explains his ability to hover, rather than merely leap and descend. Gravity is the weakest of the greatest forces in the cosmos, bending even light to its will – and yet, unlike us, Superman is able to defy it on a whim, enabling him to fly through space, to hover above a city, to catch a crashing plane.

What might be equally fascinating are the implications of Superman’s form when he flies. If you were to don a kid in a cape and ask them to fly as Superman does, they would more than likely extend their fists over the head and zoom onwards. This gesture, throwing up one’s hands in an exhilarating moment, with the feeling of the wind soaring past you, is identical to that of those who have, despite the odds, garnered victory. This in itself seems meaningless; Superman, of all people, deserves to throw up his arms in the sign of victory, for that’s what he does, time and time again. But it is more than that. It’s the fact that emblazoned upon Superman’s chest is – to humans – merely an S, encased in a pentagon; to Superman, however, to the species from which he originates, it is the crest of a family dedicated to hope. That is what people see when Superman flies over them, a victorious symbol of hope. Think of all that makes Superman the superhero he is: his durability, his dependability, his strength – not merely physical, but mental, spiritual.

The embodiment of hope is this durable, potent, impossible, and yet-so-grounded person, this person who is willing to do everything in his power to stop those who literally walk beneath him as he soars to save them from another danger. Until he revealed it recently, no one realised he was just a reporter from a decent newspaper, who was raised in a small country town. He made anyone capable of donning the cape; he is a universal hero. Anyone could be the man saving a skyscraper full of people from a fiery death; anyone could be the man who saved the world. Anyone could be the man who flew. In this way, anyone could be the person to whom they looked up and knew, though something was wrong, it would soon be right again.

The same goes for Spider-Man: all that anyone knew of him was that he was a man, strong and dextrous and lithe, who zipped through the skies and helped anyone who needed it. It is not solely his anonymity which makes Spider-Man so relatable, nor just his quips and snarkiness, but his evident humanity. People have seen him hurt, seen him bleeding, seen his mask torn, his limping gait. There is always the scene from the second Raimi film to recall, when those aboard the train, shocked to find out how young Spider-Man is, make themselves a barrier between the unconscious hero and the villain pursuing him. Even Spider-Man’s tagline shows how close he is to the rest of us – he’s just our friendly neighbourhood superhero, helping people in his spare time. Not because he’s beholden to help others; he does so because he can. He has the ability to do so, and so he does; and, if he can, then why can’t we also help others when we are able?

The way Spider-Man flies originally was an innate aspect of his: he could project web from his wrists. In recent years that was rendered to a web-shooter he wore upon his wrist, but in both cases his webs were triggered by pressing his middle and ring fingers to a pad near the base of his palm. For those unfamiliar, it might not strike as an interesting gesture, but for those who recognise American Sign Language, this is quite the way to fly. Spider-Man flies with a sentence: “I love you.” Examining this closer, we see that it’s through love Spider-Man connects with people – he can use his webbing to bind, to silence, to save, to leave messages. He also uses it to venture from place to place, to avoid obstacles.

Without things that reach towards the sky – whether organically, such as trees, or manmade, such as buildings – Spider-Man loses much of his effectiveness in transport. And sometimes, once he started relying on web-shooters rather than matter within himself, he runs out of that connective tissue, and is no longer able to fly as freely as he can with his webbing. From this we can gather that, while Spider-Man flies with love, if he overextends it, or is without aspirational assistance, even he is left to walk with the rest of us. And though there are other assets of his which have him stand out from a crowd – his strength, durability, ingenuity – these are not what immediately set him apart. Upon the ground, he is still capable of being hurt by all the things that could hurt everyone else.

And, just like everyone else, Spider-Man is well-acquainted with taking the bus, with walking the sidewalks. This cannot be said for those like Iron Man nor the Batman, both of whom are constantly set apart from those they seek to help. Both of these rely upon their ingenuity – the former excels in engineering and physics whereas the latter in strategy – but they also rely upon their astounding wealth to fix their problems. Without the budget either of them have access to, they would not be able to be quite the heroes they are. Iron Man, for example, were he not the extremely rich man he is, would likely find himself limited by the constraints of his wallet, rather than those of his imagination. And the Batman, were he not able to surreptitiously acquire those technologies and gadgets that his inherited company allows, would still be a strategist and fighter of great prowess, sure, but in the city of Gotham, where the divide between haves and have-nots is rigid and immense, how many times would he have died due to a lack of the proper armour and medical technologies?

This is not to say that Iron Man and the Batman aren’t heroes – though it must be mentioned that the latter is much most befitting the antihero, vigilante subset than otherwise – or are somehow lesser in magnitude than Spider-Man and Superman, but to point out the significance in how these humans without innate powers still manage to fly, and what that looks like.

Iron Man uses a propulsion system generated first by the power of his core (which is keeping his heart alive), and later on by an external core. Iron Man has a vast intellect, aside of his resources, and has shown that, in a pinch, he is able to engineer absolute marvels. And the way he flies emanates this: he launches himself through the air, continuously pushing on and onwards, requiring high amounts of energy to do so; he can continuously expend this energy, and increases the efficiency of his suit beyond physics as we understand it. He pushes himself to meet the limit of his imagination – and then pushes further. He is chronically tinkering with his suits, trying to make them – and, likely, himself – better than every previous iteration. He relies on software he’s developed to help with this, to catch things he may not pay attention to, to understand things he might not, to spot trends he has suspicions about but needed verified. Iron Man, rather than hope or love, flies with progression, with the yearning to manufacture better things.

The Batman still has both his tenacity and incredible foresight, and has shown repeatedly that he is capable of standing against all kinds of villainy, with or without access to his gear. But the Batman does not fly to remain in the air; he flies to descend, so that he might see a target better or gain access from a place unforeseen. He relies on his grappling hook to reach high places, where he may perch until it is time to fall upon his prey. And he is always falling, an aspect he prepares for with his cape. He is one who cannot fly, and he has no pretences about it. Considering his style, how this meshes with his archetype, one must realise that the Batman is not one who would fly. Socially, he comes from a place of privilege, from somewhere there is no reason to fly; he has reached the pinnacle of the social classes in Gotham and has no reason to spread his wings. More than that, though, the villains of Gotham are cast as insane, and as severely mentally ill; the Batman comes from a place of relative moral upstanding.

Though he is lost in his grief and driven by his need to make the world one his father would enjoy, though he has severe PTSD and anxiety (and likely paranoia), he has not turned to the dark side in ways of many of his rogues gallery. Yet, because of his own closeness to the madness of those he stalks at night, he is unwaveringly vicious in his handling of them. Of the aforementioned, he has the least restraint when it comes to dispelling crime, stopping only at the line of murder. But the Batman always descends to their level, always meanders the pathways of his rogues’ minds. To understand them better, sure, but in many ways as an effort to distinguish himself from them. It is vital to note, however, that the Batman may descend, but it is always with the goal of dragging himself from the depths and returning to his roost – and that difference, between himself and some of his peers, is all the difference.

#solkraka - on art #april 2021

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poorrichardslegacy · 4 years ago

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Kacxa Week 2020 Day 7 - Return to Braylar IV

SUMMARY: Keith and Acxa return to Braylar IV with their teenage daughters. It is the first time either of them has been back to the planet since their first visit as enemies 23 decaphoebs earlier.

AO3 Link: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26923546

Chapters: 1/1 Fandom: Voltron: Legendary Defender Rating: Teen and Up Audiences Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply Relationships: Acxa/Keith (Voltron) Characters: Acxa (Voltron), Keith (Voltron), Keith's Wolf (Voltron), Original Galran Character(s), Original Characters Additional Tags: Kacxa Week 2020, Family Secrets, Family Bonding, Family Fluff, Pack Family, Wolf Pack, Alternate Universe - Post-Canon

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

Acxa looks around the clearing as Keith lands their ship on the surface of Braylar IV.

“Well, that was certainly a much smoother landing than the last time I was here.”

“Mom, any landing would be smoother than the one you made the last time you were here. You crash landed, remember?”

“Actually Cataleya, I try to forget that part of that trip.”

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

Disembarking from the ship, Keith sees four Cosmic Dire Wolves approaching. He and Acxa grin from ear to ear when they recognize the lead Wolf.

“Cosmo!”

The three rush forward to great one another. Standing over 8 feet tall at the shoulders, Cosmo bends down and allows Keith and Acxa to scratch him behind his ears.

“Oh, buddy. It’s so good to see you again! How have you been?”

“I am well, Keith. I assume all is well with you and Acxa? And the pups? Cataleya and Mireya? They are well?”

Acxa laughs. “The pups are fine, Cosmo. In fact, they’ve grown up since you last saw them.” She turns, looks behind her, and summons her daughters forward. “Girls, you remember, Cosmo? You were six the last time you saw him.”

“Mom, of course we remember Cosmo!” They rush forward to greet their former companion, who is just as happy to see them.

Keith sees a she-wolf with two pups standing behind Cosmo. He taps Cosmo on his shoulder. “Are you going to introduce us?”

“Of course. Keith, Acxa, Mireya, Catleya…this is my mate Corima, and our pups Tiguan and Merina.”

The Koganes bow in unison at the waist as they greet Cosmo’s family. “Corima, Tiguan, Merina…it is an honor to meet you.”

Corima and her pups bow in return. “The honor is ours, Black Paladin.”

“Black Paladin. That’s a title I haven’t been called in a long time.” Keith pauses and looks wistfully at Acxa. “A long time.” He turns back to Cosmo. “So, it’s been awhile since we’ve been here old friend. How is the pack?”

“The Sonai are well. About two decaphoebs ago, Father was severely injured fighting the Hyenas. They attacked a neighboring clan that was friendly to the Sonai, and he and I went to help them. Corima was a member of that clan. She helped me nurse him back to health and…well, here we are. I became alpha male of the Sonai when father and I returned.”

“Mother and Father are very eager to see you again. Shall we go to the compound?”

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

They enter the compound where the entire Sonai clan has gathered to meet them. As is their custom, the wolves bow out of respect for their visitors. Keith and his family return the courtesy, bowing in greeting as well.

Stepping forward out of the crowd with a noticeable limp is Soran. He is followed closely by Ashira, who keeps a watchful eye on her mate. Ashira looks well, but for Soran it is a different story. The decaphoebs have not been kind to the old Dire Wolf. Besides the limp, Soran is considerably grayer than he used to be.

Happy for the opportunity to see his friends again, Keith steps forward to greet them.

“Soran. Ashira. It is so good to see you again!”

“It is good to see you as well, old friend. I knew this day would come. I have been looking forward to seeing you again for a long time.”

“I’ve brought my family with me. I’d like to introduce them if I may.”

Soran looks past Keith and spies Acxa. He moves close to Keith and whispers to him. “So, you finally wised up and claimed her?”

Keith whispers back. “It’s more like she claimed me, but I’m not complaining.”

“It’s just as well, since you weren’t about to do it.”

Keith assumes an air of mock indignation. “And everyone asks me where Cosmo learned to be so snarky…like father like son.”

“Hey, I taught my son everything I know.”

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

Acxa shyly says hello to Soran, apologizing for her state the last time she was here. She gives Ashira a warm greeting as well, since Ashira and her sister saved Acxa’s life following her crash landing on Braylar IV.1

Ashira notices the girls. “Tell me Acxa, are these your pups?”

“Yes, they are. Girls, come here and say hello to Cosmo’s mother.” Acxa introduces the girls, who both render the respectful greeting Keith hammered home to them on the way here.

Soran turns to Keith. “So, she claimed you and you got busy. Well done!”

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

Keith sets up camp for his family in the cave that he and Acxa used for shelter 23 decaphoebs earlier. They are joined for dinner by Soran, Ashira, Cosmo, and his family. That night, around a campfire in the cave, Soran asks Keith’s daughters if their father told them of their parent’s first visit to Braylar IV.

“Do you know all that transpired in this very cave, young pups?”

“No sir, they mentioned they were here, but they never went into details.”

“Would you like to hear about it? How that rascal of a father of yours saved your mother’s life?”

“YES, PLEASE SIR!”

Acxa shoots Keith a panicked look. There is a part of this story she prefers not be told. Keith nods to his wife, then turns to Soran. “I don’t think that’s necessary. We don’t want to put you out.”

“Nonsense! These pups need to know about their parents before they were mated! It will help them understand who they sprung forth from.”

Soran turns to Acxa, a glint in his eye. “You’re not ashamed of anything I may tell them, are you?”

Acxa gives Soran a deadpan look straight in the eye. “Would it make a difference if I said yes?”

“Nope. I’m going to tell them anyway.”

Acxa sighs and looks to Keith. “That’s what I thought he would say.”

Soran proceeds to give the girls the full unabridged version of Keith and Acxa’s earlier visit to Braylar IV.2 3

Embellished and entirely from his perspective.

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

As Soran finishes his exaggerated story of Keith and Acxa’s first visit to Braylar IV, Mireya and Cataleya look at each other then turn to their mother with smirks on their faces.

“Mom…I gotta ask this…how in the name of all that is holy did you and Dad ever get together?”

“What do you mean, Cataleya?”

“Ok. This is what Soran just told us. You and Dad are enemies. You’re trying to kill each other. You fight Dad two planets from here, he cripples your fighter and breaks your arm, then he just flies away and leaves you. You crash land on this planet, you have to fight poisonous Hyenas, one of which poisons you, and you nearly die. All because Dad put you in this position. Not exactly good boyfriend behavior if you know what I mean.”

Keith, hurt by his daughter’s words, speaks up for himself. “In my defense, your mother jumped me at Braylar VI. I was just defending myself.”

Speaking of jumping on Keith, now it is Mireya’s turn to poke some good-natured fun at her father. “So, Dad, let me make sure I understand things from your point of view. You do all that to Mom, then you feel all guilty and decide to check on her. You got Mom naked while she was delirious with fever, yet you were a perfect gentleman and didn’t touch her…well…except for taking her bodysuit off…, you got your butt kicked by Narti and had to get the Sonai to help you beat her, and then you let Mom leave without saying goodbye? Wow, that doesn’t exactly sound like a romantic date to me. It sounds more like a date from hell. Mom, tell us again why you picked him?”

Seeing the hurt behind Keith’s eyes, Acxa reaches out, takes his hand, and whispers to him. “I’ve got this.” She pulls a recording device out of her pocket and turns to her girls. “You want to know why I picked your father as my life partner? This is why.”

Keith goes wide-eyed upon seeing the device. “You still have that thing?”

“Of course, I do, love. And it still plays like it did the day I found it.”

“Mom, what is it?”

“This? Oh, your father slipped this this little gem into my bag before he and Narti loaded me into the shuttle to return to Lotor’s cruiser. I think it’s worth listening to. You girls put an interesting forensic slant on what happened here, but there’s more to the story than what you just heard. You’re missing the nuances and you don’t really know what happened from your father’s perspective. This recording will put Soran’s story in a whole new light. It opened my eyes when I first heard it, so many decaphoebs ago.”

As the girls gather around their mother, Acxa starts the playback on the recording Keith made so many years ago.

“Hey, Acxa, it’s me, Keith. The Black Paladin. The guy you probably want to tear up into a million small pieces right about now. Yeah. But before you do that, let me explain a few things.”

“Wow, Dad, you look so young there. And hunky. I see why Mom fell for you…”

“Wait…Hunky? What does that…”

“SHHH! Dad! We want to hear this!”

“You might or might not remember the first fight against the Hyenas. I came down to help you because…I needed to...it was the right thing to do. One of them got close to you and slashed your right leg. You were injured pretty badly, lost a lot of blood.”

Pausing the recording, Acxa tells the girls about the onset of the symptoms of the Hyena poisoning. The big needle Keith used to inject the medicine that slowed the poison. How he asked for permission to remove her armor to treat her leg. And, how he treated Ashira, who was also poisoned by the Hyenas.4

She hits the play button again.

“I was also the one who called for Narti to come get you. I’d gone to your fighter to figure out your communication protocols, and I happened to see her on radar. I called, she came down, and the rest, as they say, is history.”

“I wanted to tell you all of this to your face, but…you were pretty loopy. You had no idea where you were or who you were talking to you. I don’t kill helpless enemies. But I know, technically, we are enemies. The next time we meet, if you come after me again like you did the last time, I will use deadly force if necessary, to defend myself.”

“I’d prefer not to do that. I had no desire to fight you at Braylar VI, because of our shared experience in the Weblum. I have no desire to fight you now. Not after what we just went through together.”

Mireya reaches in and hits the pause button on the playback device. “Wait…you two met on a Weblum?”

“No dear. Inside a Weblum.”

“WHAT?”

“The second stomach if you want to be precise. That’s another story.”

“Yeah, one that you two are going to tell us on the way back to Diabazaal! Then we want to hear the Androse Campfire story!”

Acxa prepares to restart the tape. “Pay attention girls, this is the important part.”

“I apologize for saying you lack honor. Narti told me about you. I believe what she said is true, and I was wrong to say what I said to you.”

“I also apologize for the pilot taunt. Turns out you’re just as good a pilot as I am. If not better. The skill it took to fly that fighter to Braylar IV with a broken arm and walk away from a crash landing is amazing.”

“Finally, I apologize for removing your body suit without your permission. I know you’ll figure it out sooner or later, so it’s best I admit it now. I mean nothing happened…it’s not like I haven’t seen…well…ok it was the first time I’ve seen…but it was purely clinical. Yeah, that’s it. I mean you were sweating…perspiring…uh…your body suit was saturated. You would have gotten a lot sicker if I left you in it. I did it for your own good. I hope you believe that. Please don’t kill me for it.”

“Wow, Dad…you were quite the smooth talker there…”

“Aww, he was really embarrassed Mireya…I think it’s cute…he tried.”

Acxa smiles and blushes at the memory, and at the sight of a clearly embarrassed and flustered Keith on the video. “Yes he did.”

“In another place and another time, I like to think we could be friends. We seem to have a lot in common. Also, if you ever have a change of heart and want to join the Coalition, you can do so any time. I would welcome you as a comrade in arms. And…as a friend. I hope someday we have a chance to talk when we aren’t pointing weapons at each other. In a selfish way it would be good to talk to you about what it means to be a half Galra.”

“Good luck and be safe, Acxa.”

Acxa carefully stows the recording device and faces her daughters.

“So, you see…your father did say goodbye. All kidding aside girls, after hearing that tape I began to realize that I had feelings for the man who would someday become your father.”

She takes Keith’s hand and looks him in the eye. “He told me decaphoebs later, the first time he said he loved me, that the message on this device was his way of telling me he was interested in me.”

She turns back to her daughters. “But he didn’t have to tell me that. I knew, just by listening to this recording. It only took us just over four decaphoebs to finally get together after we were here. Too long, in my opinion. But…we did it.”

“Thanks for sharing that recording, Mom. And for telling us how you fell for Dad.”

Mireya sheepishly turns to her father. “Dad…I’m sorry for needling you about what you did when you and Mom were here the first time. What you did was sweet. I see why Mom fell in love with you.”

Soran can’t resist on final parting shot at Keith.

“Good, then perhaps you can enlighten me. Because I still don’t see it.”

Keith turns to Ashira, a deadpan look on his face. “Ashira, would you smack him for me?”

Ashira give Soran a sharp whack across the top of his head with her paw.

“Ow!” The surprised wolf turns to Keith. “Why did you ask her to do that?”

Keith laughs. “That my old friend was a love tap to say how much I missed you and your snark. You’re just too tall for me to reach your head myself.”

“Well, if that was supposed to be a love tap, any chance you could let Ashira know the next time you decide to do that? She just about killed me!”

Ashira gives Soran a stern look. “Don’t be so dramatic, you old coot. If I wanted to hurt you, trust me you’d know.”

As the group shares a good-natured laugh, the Kogane girls turn to one another.

“You know, Mireya, this is turning out to be a pretty cool trip after all.”

1 Return of the Prince, Chapter 11, Cry of the Wolf

2 Return of the Prince, Chapter 11 Cry of the Wolf

3 Return of the Prince, Chapter 12 Riders on the Storm

4 Return of the Prince, Chapter 11, Cry of the Wolf

#kacxaweek2020 #kacxa fic #vld kacxa #keith x acxa #kacxa #vld keith #vld acxa

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popwasabi · 5 years ago

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“Picard” S1 Review: Doesn’t boldly go but is nonetheless engaging

Produced by CBS All Access

Starring: Patrick Stewart, Isa Briones, Allison Pill, Michelle Hurd, Santiago Cabrera, Evan Evagora, Harry Treadaway

Many fans had high hopes for “Picard” going into CBS All Access’s continuing voyage into the Star Trek franchise.

Fans wanted to see the lore finally expanded into the future after its previous three ventures (Enterprise, Abrams Trek, and Discovery) took place in the past, bring modern themes and ideas to Star Trek’s futurist’s world view in a way that felt fresh and relevant, but most importantly continue the story of the franchise’s greatest captain; Jean-Luc Picard, of course.

(He’s the best captain. This is not up for debate. Don’t @ me!)

In some ways the new series succeeds at this. We get glimpses of the previously untouched world of Star Trek post “Nemesis,” new themes that are resonant with real world events and exploratory, even critical, of the Federation’s worldview, and of course plenty of Picard himself as he navigates the strange new galaxy he inhabits.

But Picard ultimately misses the mark due to rushed storytelling, half-baked side plots, and just plain poor execution overall. It’s sad because “Picard” and this very talented cast and production team have their moments throughout this first season’s ten episode run but somehow even with 10 episodes of content to work with fans still end up with a somewhat jumbled mess.

(Me by like the eighth episode.)

This isn’t to say “Picard” isn’t worth your time if you’re an avid Star Trek fan or just someone who likes Patrick Stewart in this role in general but the first season will leave you still hungry for more and not in a good way.

“Picard” continues the story of the titular captain, now retired admiral, many years after the events of “Nemesis” as a retired Jean Luc reflects on his life in Starfleet and of his late friend Data who gave his life for his. A synth ban has been enacted in Starfleet after a major riot on Mars some years prior and Picard is understandably sour on the idea, given his relationship with Data, while also fighting Starfleet on not helping the exodus of the Romulans after the supernova that wiped out their homeworld in “Star Trek (2009).” When a young woman comes seeking Picard’s aid after an attack by mysterious assailants, revealing that she is an android and the possible daughter of Data, and gets killed, it is up to the retired Admiral to find her twin sister before she suffers the same fate.

Before we get started let’s throw out some of the bad faith arguments on why this series wasn’t all that good.

“Picard” doesn’t suck because it has “politics” in it. At this point, if you are complaining about the existence of social viewpoints and political/philosophical discussions in your Star Trek, or let alone any series for that matter, I don’t know what the hell you’ve been watching the past few decades. Star Trek has always been more than just a show about cool-looking spaceships and laser beams, you neckbeards.

(Hell, even the other “Star” got more going on in it than that.)

It’s also not bad because of female representation or “girl power.” Again, Star Trek has always had this and frankly having a few more instances of the women of Trek taking center stage doesn’t even come close to rebalancing the scales on the overall massive representation of cis white men across the genre and even the series anyways.

Also get the fuck over the use of curse words in this series. While certainly some instances in this show felt awkward, the use of the word “fuck” does not dilute Star Trek’s overall story.

(It would have made earlier season’s funnier for sure.)

Now that that’s out of way let’s get into the real reasons that, for me at least, the series fell short of an otherwise promising goal of delivering great new Star Trek.

The main problem stems from the series overall jumping off point in its first episode. Picard is understandably still upset about the death of Data and having him deal with survivor’s guilt is a great way to bring this character into the future and reexplore the humanist viewpoints Data touched on in the older series. But also having Picard deal with his fallout from Starfleet, both from the synth ban AND the Romulan exodus, creates chasmic diverging plotlines that never quite come together. The story really needed it to be one or the other. Either Picard wanting to advocate for the continued existence of synthetic life or the rescue of the Romulans post super nova. The latter is touched on a bit through the addition of the character Elnor but doesn’t quite work given that majority of the Romulans in this series are portrayed as villains.

There is definitely a post Brexit, anti-immigrant hysteria message being told there but not enough depth and nuance is given to make it look like Starfleet was particularly wrong here to abandon them given that they do end up being spies committing espionage in the Federation and the clear villains of the first season. The showrunners could have brought these two stories together by perhaps making Soji a Romulan bent on bringing down synthetic life because maybe her twin sister died in the riots on Mars, making Picard have to choose between his commitment to both minority groups abandoned by the Federation but of course, that’s not what the series goes with.

Also suddenly shoehorning in a convoluted anti-synth worldview into the already ultra-secretive Romulan empire was muddled to say the least.

(A decent summation of the Romulans, pretty much ever. Also why is the only Asian actress in this scene in Osaka depicted as an alien, Mr Kurtzman?...)

Some of these ideas could’ve been saved through better editing and pacing though but not enough is done in this first season to mitigate these issues. Too much of plot is told through plain exposition; people sitting down and talking for five-ten minutes about prophecies and backstory instead of having the story simply show us instead. It makes the pacing often slow even by Trek standards and grinds the action to a halt even when there are lasers being shot at one another in the next scene.

Many of these plots get barely any attention too. The Borg cube, why it’s abandoned, and why Hugh is working for the Romulans through the Federation is given surface level development at best. Seven of Nine returns and at one point is momentarily hooked up to the Collective and she doesn’t really say much about it after it happens. The new character’s Rios and Raffi both have side stories given to their development that get touched on once and never brought up again. Dr. Jurati straight up murders her lover and is set to turn herself into the Federation and it’s just kind of forgotten about in the finale. And Elnor, well, he gets to do his best Legolas impression slicing and dicing fellow Romulans with his sword I guess.

(He is still best boi though :3...)

The main co-star however, Soji the perfect android, has a particularly rushed development going from a scientist unknowing of her nature, to supposed prophet of doom, to predictably the savior all in one season. Her arc needed more time to develop with perhaps her Romulan love affair with Narek being the first season’s main driving force and her realization as an android being the climax.

Instead we get basically four seasons of Battlestar Galactica’s Sharon arc crammed into one season and it unfortunately makes the story feel half-baked.

(Ok, Boomer.)

Don’t get the wrong idea, all these new characters have great individual moments as well throughout the season but sooooo much side plot is shoved in already into a muddled overarching narrative that it feels like several seasons worth of storytelling stuffed and edited down into a ten episode arc. Why the series felt it needed to conclude this robust story about synth hating Romulans in “Picard’s” first season feels like an unforced error in this reviewer’s opinion even if Sir P Stew only has maybe a couple seasons of extensive acting left in him anyways.

But the season isn’t completely worthless, as much as this review has been spent dunking on its less than stellar parts. The cast is exceptional, even working with the spare parts they’ve been given. Episode 5’s “Stardust City Rag,” in particular, stands out as a good mix of old and new Trek, with a decent dosage of cheese featuring Patrick Stewart trying on a French accent in a space bar. Santiago Cabrera is delightful as the ship captain Rios while also playing various forms of himself in AI form in equally enjoyable roles. Evan Evagora is fun as the deadly yet somewhat aloof Elnor, even if his character doesn’t do all that much except cut up a few Romulans. Seeing Jonathan Frakes and Marina Sirtis reprise their roles as Riker and Troi respectively in episode 6 was heartwarming and felt the most like TNG out of all the episodes. And Jeri Ryan seems liberated in this series in this version of Seven of Nine, no doubt glad to be rid of that restrictive corset and Rick Berman’s meddling hands.

(Big “Fuck you, Rick Berman” energy going on in this scene.)

The production value is obviously high level as Trek has rarely looked this good on the small screen. There’s some great cinematography throughout the season whether it’s Picard’s chateau winery, the haunting nature of the Borg cube, or the synth homeworld in the season’s final beats. The spaceships look cool as always and the world of the future feels well futuristic.

The musical score is also top notch, with a great opening theme that feels very much in line with Trek at its futurist glimpse into a hopeful cosmos.

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The season’s best moments though are between Picard and Data and will remind you why they were more than likely your favorite characters on TNG. Generally speaking, exploring the humanist themes of artificial intelligence in new Trek was a good choice and having Picard deal with survivor’s guilt kept the pulse of the muddled story still beating. Brent Spiner is still great as Data and will remind you all again how talented he has always been as an actor and though his age seeps through the makeup a bit he is nonetheless still a perfect android.

Though the finale as a whole is underwhelming, the characters do share a nice final moment that is both touching and reminiscent of everything a fan loves about Star Trek. It’s a great cap to an otherwise ok return to Star Trek for TNG’s top characters and its truly touching in the best way that this franchise has always been known to be.

(Deactivating my emotions chip because I just..can’t! I just can’t, ok! *Sobs*)

But great acting and high production value can only mask so many flaws with a convoluted plot and “Picard” unfortunately suffers from the bloated and uncooked nature of its many ideas. What the story really needed was three season arc not just ten episodes and it shows. I guess the plus side is with this particular plot wrapped up it leaves the door open for new ideas and a fresh start in the second season but it does feel like an overall miss for Picard’s homecoming back into the universe of Star Trek.

Overall, though there are worse ways a Star Trek fan can spend their quarantine than watching “Picard” and there’s certainly enough here for fans to latch onto and have hope for better things in the next season.

Hopefully things are less rushed or at least more focused in the second season and we can see a more proper return to form for both Picard and future Star Trek.

Here’s hoping the producers and writers make it so…

VERDICT:

3 out of 5

Let’s hope we get a return of Q in the next season.

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changingchances · 6 years ago

Text

Crossing Senses Ben Hardy!Roger Taylor Part Six

A/N: 6922 words. HELLOOO! Happy Holidays, lovelies! This part is super long. I really hope you like it. I wanted to wait a few days to post it so that I look back over it and make sure I was happy with how it turned out. Don’t be afraid to leave comments, feedback, or suggestions! Much love!

Warnings: Swearing, confrontation, depictions of a panic attack

The event is held in an extravagant hotel, the kind with chandeliers and ballrooms and grand staircases. There are paparazzi around every turn within a two-mile radius outside of the venue. The noise and flashing lights of their cameras feel like a punch to the face as Roe steps out of the car with Brian. Though she doesn’t allow herself to falter in step or pause at the overwhelming stimulation, Brian seems to sense some amount of her discomfort. Or perhaps he had anticipated that she would be nervous, unused to such a scene to begin with. No matter the reason, he wraps an arm around her waist and pulls her close to him as they wade through the crowd to the entrance. Once inside, Roe lets out a breath and allows herself a half smile at Brian.

“Not sure how you boys manage that kind of attention,” she chuckles. “Seems like the kind of overwhelming you couldn’t ever get over.” She chances a quick glance behind her at the chaos outside. She doesn’t miss how his arm hasn’t moved from her waist, despite being safely inside and away from paparazzi pandemonium.

“For me, I don’t think it will ever be normal,” he leans down to murmur, close to her ear. “It will never not be overwhelming. I think Deaky feels the same. Rog and Freddie, on the other hand…” Brian chuckles instead of finishing that thought, because they both know how Roger and Freddie are.

Roe nods in agreement. “They do love the spotlight, those two.”

Brian’s led her to a table big enough for the band plus her and Mary. He pulls her chair out for her and offers a wink as she sits. She returns the gesture with a smirk.

“Ever the perfect English gentleman, Bri.” She teases as he takes the seat across from her. By now, Deaky, Freddie, and Mary have caught up with them and take their seats as well, Freddie on her left, Deaky on her right, Mary sat next to Brian.

“Which reminds me, Roe, I’ve been meaning to ask this,” Brian begins, glancing over the drink menu offered to him by a waiter. “You sound relatively English most of the time. But you have some odd pronunciation. Where are you originally from?”

Deaky makes a noise of agreement. “I noticed that too, Roe. You’ve got an odd accent.”

Roe gives a small laugh at their observation. “I’m from the States, but my family moved to London when I was so little, it wouldn’t make much of a difference in speech. I think the weird accent comes from picking up nuances of both English and American vowels, since my parents spent most of their lives in the States. If you ever heard them speak, there would be no doubt in your mind that they’re American.”

Brian and Deaky nod in understanding. Of course, Freddie already knows her entire backstory, and Mary’s met Roe’s family once or twice, so she’s heard the accents.

The group orders their drinks, the boys choosing whiskey or beer, Mary and Roe opting for a glass of red wine. Freddie finishes his drink before anyone else, no surprise to Roe, and goes about ordering a round of random cocktails and shots for the table. When his order arrives, and everyone goes to grab a beverage, Brian frowns in Roe’s direction.

“Fred, you ordered too few. Roe doesn’t have one.” He goes to flag down a waiter, but Freddie stops him with a wave of his hand.

“Roe doesn’t need to be drunk to have a good time.” He throws back his second drink. Deaky and Brian raise their eyebrows in surprise. Freddie thinks everyone needs to be drunk to have a good time. He never lets anyone get away with only one drink, especially if that drink is wine.

Roe simply smiles and shakes her head at the two boys, sipping on her glass of red. She appreciates that she is the only person on the planet that Freddie doesn’t pressure into drinking. He knows from back when they were teenagers that alcohol is a catalyst for panic attacks in Roe’s book, and he’ll be damned if he ever puts her in a situation that would induce such an episode.

“Someone’s gotta stay sober enough to keep you rockstars out of trouble, yeah?” she smirks. Deaky smiles and pats her head teasingly.

“Thank you for being the responsible friend, Roe.”

A few more rounds pass, and the group is relatively tipsy. Roe finds herself amused in witnessing the shenanigans of the drunken band. Mary stays on just the right side of buzzed, and Deaky’s only a little more tipsy, bopping in his seat to the music. Brian’s face is flushed, and his usual filter in conversation appears to have dissolved in the alcohol, as he’s swearing left and right about a variety of subjects, ranging from the cosmos to the band, from music to badgers. Roe can’t recall having laughed this hard in her entire life, watching the vigor and passion of the guitarist throughout his ranting. It’s almost comical to watch the typically calm and collected Brian May yell about anything.

Freddie is shouting, which while not entirely unusual for him, is hilarious because he seems to have no understanding that he can, in fact, speak at a normal volume for everyone at the table to hear him properly. Obviously, Roger never sat down with them. Again, not unusual for him. Roe assumes he is merely off flirting, looking for some arm candy to take home.

The party is really beginning to pick up. People have begun occupying the dance floor of the ballroom. The music is getting louder, sexier, more fitting for a club than the hotel’s grandiose hall. The drinks are flowing. Roe can’t decide if she’s not drunk enough to enjoy herself or if this is as good as it’s going to get. Not that she isn’t having fun. She’s just obviously not having as much fun as those with a third or fourth drink in their hands.

All the same, she knows that there’s a fine, fine line between pleasantly buzzed and suffering a panic attack. One drink too many and she’ll be riddled with anxiety for the rest of the night, and she’s quite liking how calm she feels now, relatively sober.

“You’re thinking too hard, love!” Freddie shouts from right beside her. Roe laughs heartily and rolls her eyes.

“I’m just debating whether to get another drink or not, Freddie, I’m fine.” She grins at him, wrapping her arm around his shoulders and giving him a hug. “Thank you for tonight. This is the most fun I’ve had in months.”

“Of course, darling! Anything for my best friend. Now go dance with Brian. He’s undressing you with his eyes!”

Roe’s eyes shift to the guitarist, who is indeed staring at her with a gaze that is anything but innocent. She raises her brow when she catches him looking. His cheeks redden, but he doesn’t look too embarrassed at being caught. She smirks when he licks his lips, then jerks her head towards the dance floor as a question. He stands immediately and rounds the table, stopping in front of her, bowing a little dramatically and holding out his hand.

“Madame,” There’s a mischievous gleam in his eyes, playful and inviting and so very Brian. Roe’s smirk grows, and she takes his hand, standing and tilting her head ever so slightly to one side, a teasing expression. He presses his lips to her knuckles, just barely there, but it makes Roe’s smirk shift into a full Cheshire cat grin. The two know they aren’t soulmates. But that’s what makes this dynamic so easy to enjoy. They’re adults, friends who are willing to fool around for the sake of a good time. They’d had conversations about what ifs concerning soulmates and hard feelings, and the wonderful thing is that they both appear to be in the exact same place in their lives- too busy to worry about forever, more than willing to indulge themselves.

So, when she feels a tingle shoot down her spine, Roe can’t help but stiffen. And she knows Brian’s noticed when he pauses in pulling away from her hand.

“Roe,” he begins, moving to hold her hand in both of his. “I know that look.”

“I need a drink.” She turns around, pulling away from him, and sees a waiter carrying a tray of flutes filled with champagne. She grabs two and throws each back unceremoniously, wiping her mouth with the back of her hand. Brian looks a little taken aback at the action. Roe doesn’t look like the type to enjoy alcohol, ever the studious, calm voice of reason in his time being her friend.

“Do you want to talk-“

“Not at all. It’s my birthday, Bri. I don’t want to think about the rest of my life. I do that every bloody day. I want to have fun tonight.”

Were he sober, Brian wouldn’t let this be the end of the conversation. But he is relatively drunk, and drunk men are easy to distract. So, when he opens his mouth as if to argue, Roe stands on her toes to whisper into his ear.

“I want you to have fun with me, Bri,” she feels his posture stiffen as her breath brushes against his skin.

“Roe-“

“Please, dance with me.” She kisses at the spot just below his ear, trails her lips lightly down his neck for good measure, smirking in triumph when she feels his hands grip her hips as he lets out a shaky breath. She pulls away and leads him to the dance floor, all the while ignoring the lyrics painting themselves down her body.

They dance together for what may be hours. Brian disappears a few times briefly, always returning with more drinks, which she gratefully downs, all thoughts about alcohol induced anxiety pushed to the back of her mind. So long as she isn’t exposed to any triggers, she’ll be fine. So long as she doesn’t linger on thoughts of her soulmate, she’ll be fine.

It’s when she feels another body behind her, pressing into her, that she decides she is definitely not drunk enough for this kind of party. When she turns to see who’s invading her space, she comes face to face with Roger Taylor.

“Nice of you to show up!” She yells over the music, her dancing slowing to an acceptable pace for conversation. Roger smirks.

“Nice to see you having fun! Dare I say it, you’re pretty hot when you’re not so uptight.” He offers her the rest of his drink, which appears to be whisky. Roe hates whisky.

“I’ll take offense to that later,” She retorts, taking the glass and throwing back the contents. She doesn’t let herself make a face at the taste, but instead turns to see Brian dancing with another girl. He makes eye contact with her and gives her a smile. She grins back, grateful that he’s got himself entertained, before turning her attention to Roger again. He appears to have been staring at her ass.

“Oi!” She snaps her fingers at him. “What are you looking at, drummer boy?”

When his eyes meet hers, it startles her how serious they are. Suddenly, he’s got a hold of her hips, pulling her close.

“What are you doing?” Roe goes to pull back, a little stunned by his actions, but his grip tightens, only a little.

“Your soulmate is here, Roe.” He says quietly, looking directly into her eyes. Roe pulls her head back, confused. She doesn’t want to talk about her soulmate.

“What are you talking about?”

“There are lyrics on your back. To the song that’s playing. Right now.”

The two of them stare at each other a moment, his gaze serious, hers bewildered. When he lets her go, it’s with an encouraging smile.

“Go find that unlucky bastard, Roe baby.” He gives her a wink before making to move away, deeper into the crowd. Roe surprises herself when her hand shoots out to grab at his wrist, effectively garnering his attention again. When he faces her again, he’s smirking, but his brow is raised in inquisition.

“I don’t want to think about soulmates tonight!” She yells at him over the music. Roger moves closer, hand finding its way back to her hip.

“What do you want to think about then, love?” His voice drops, and Roe can’t help but take note of the hue swirling behind her eyes in association to his tone. She can’t help but recall that when men’s voices lower, it’s typically to assert dominance or to attract a mate. But she just rolls her eyes, snorts, and moves to stand with her back facing him, and begins to dance again. His other arm wraps around her waist and pulls her flush to him.

“Don’t get any ideas, Taylor.” She warns, allowing her head to lean back and rest on his shoulder. “You’re not my type.”

He laughs out of his nose. “Don’t you worry, Roe baby. You’re too smart to fall for my charms.”

“Damn straight, drummer boy.”

“Darling,” Freddie takes a seat next to Roe at the bar, plucking a shot glass from her hand. “This does not seem like a good idea.”

Roe sighs, heavy and dramatic, and puts her face in her hands.

“My soulmate is here, Fred. I need to be drunk.”

“Roe, lovely, you are two types of drunk- horny or angry, and there is no in between. And that’s when drinking doesn’t make you a panicked mess. I stand by the opinion that this is not a good idea.”

She groans at that. “I cannot deal with this, Freddie. I don’t want to meet him right now. It’s my birthday, I wanted this night to be perfect.” Her voice is on the brink of being whiny.

“Maybe it still will be, love. Maybe he is what makes tonight perfect.”

There’s a beat of silence. Roe doesn’t have it in her to argue with him. The room is spinning too much for her to make a good argument.

“May I please have my vodka?” Roe asks, holding one hand out for the class, face still resting in the other. Freddie sighs and hands her the glass.

“Be smart, Roe, yeah?” He murmurs, standing from the stool he had been sitting in. “It’s your soulmate. You don’t have to be drunk to connect with him.”

“Don’t want to connect with him, Fred. I just want to have one night where I’m not worried about how my actions will affect my future, okay?” She throws back the shot and makes a face. She fucking hates shots. She knows they’re only filled with bad decisions and inevitable hangovers, but she wants to get trashed and she wants to do so quickly. She hears her friend sigh.

“Roe, my love, look at me.” She swivels in her seat to face him, a look of mild exasperation plastered across her features. Freddie, who is no more sober than she is, smiles at her and touches her cheek gently. “Have fun, my love, do what you feel is best for you. But one day, you’re going to fall in love, you know. Maybe not today, but it’s going to happen. And you can’t run away from that.”

Roe nods, glancing out at the crowd, rubbing her thumb over her upper thigh where there are still lyrics tickling her skin. “I know, Freddie. It happens when it happens, blah blah, it’s inevitable, it’s fate. But if I can help it, it isn’t happening tonight.”

“Then here’s to avoiding our problems until they outrun us, darling.” He hands her another glass, obviously having given up trying to talk some sense in her. Roe snorts at his declaration and takes the drink, shooting the vodka with her friend. When she looks back towards the crowd, scanning the area for Brian or Roger, she sees something that makes her chest seize. She drops the shot glass to the bar. Thankfully, it doesn’t shatter, but the clatter is loud enough that Freddie starts a little bit, looking at her strangely. She’s suddenly on her feet.

“Roe?” Freddie reaches for her arm, but she moves away too quickly, trying to control her breathing, trying to look okay in front of the vocalist.

“I, um, I just-“ her eyes remain glued to the man in the crowd, dancing and singing along to the music. It’s in that moment that he glances over and makes eye contact with her. She sees the recognition in his face instantly. It feels like someone’s punched her in the stomach. “I’ll be right back, Fred, I’m going to find the restroom.”

And she takes off in some direction, a direction that may or may not take her to a bathroom. But it’s in the opposite direction from the dance floor, and that’s all she cares about.

“Shit, shit, shit,” Roe stands in front of the mirror, having finally found the restrooms after several moments of avoidance and pacing around the ballroom like a bloody lunatic. “He can’t be here,” she gasps quietly, feeling the panic creep up her lungs. Deep breaths, in and out. “God, that cannot be him.” But it had been him. She’d recognize him anywhere. The man out there is her ex-boyfriend, her last serious relationship. She’d thought, briefly, he was her soulmate. Every time lyrics would pop up on her body, he would tell her he had been thinking of the song. He would sing along as they tickled against her skin.

However, she grew suspicious when he began to have trouble naming the tunes- often times they were Queen songs, when the band had just started out. Sometimes they were songs she’d never heard nor ever found, they were so obscure. When she questioned him about it, he would go ballistic, swearing and calling her a liar and a whore, threatening to leave her, telling her how hurt he was that she could ever doubt him.

Roe didn’t get out of that relationship for years. Freddie was the one who, over a phone call while on tour, could tell something wasn’t right, that she wasn’t as happy as she told him she was. And she couldn’t lie to him, her best friend, so she broke down into tears and told him everything. Freddie was livid- it was the only time she could ever remember witnessing legitimate anger from him. He told her that what this man was doing was cruel, that he was lying to her obviously, that he was gaslighting her, and how none of that was okay. That night, she attempted to talk to the man one last time, to set the record straight, to hear the truth. That night ended with her packing up her bags and sleeping in the lab for the first time, an icepack to her cheek, a paper towel to her split lip.

And here he is, at this party, on the night of her birthday. As if that isn’t enough to send her into a panicked frenzy, Roe is drunk on god only knows how many varieties of alcohol. But she cannot let him do this to her. It’s been over a year. She cannot let him have this kind of power over her. But she can’t stay here, in the ballroom, at this hotel. She decides, after getting her breathing under control, that she will leave the bathroom, find Freddie, and explain what she’s seen. She will ask him to take her home, and she will nurse her hangover tomorrow morning and focus only on how much fun she’s had before all of this occurred. So, she takes a few more deep breaths, plucks up all the courage she can muster, and leaves the bathroom in search of Freddie.

Nothing about the event has changed since she locked herself away half an hour ago. The music is still thrumming through her body at an ungodly volume, the people are still dancing, still drinking. But the entire mood has shifted and turned upside down. Roe isn’t having fun anymore. She’s fighting off a fucking panic attack, and the stimulation from the party isn’t doing her nerves any favors. The music is bright, glaring in her eyes, reds and oranges and neon purples. She can taste the vodka she’d recently had in the back of her throat, blinding white and striped in black streaks. Everyone’s voices blend together into a mess of splattered colors, blues and greys and browns and greens, yellows and creams, and her head begins to pound.

Where is Freddie? She thinks, looking around and attempting not to appear as frantic as she feels. He isn’t at the bar anymore. No way in hell is she wading through the crowd of dancing people to find him. It’s then that she sees Brian, Deaky, and Roger sitting at their table from earlier in the evening. She makes a beeline towards them and is only about a couple of feet away when a figure steps in front of her, a figure which she promptly runs straight into.

“So sorry,” the person says, voice bright and yellow. She mentally cringes, recognizing it immediately.

“Excuse me, I’m trying to get to my friends-“

“Roe?” He looks down at her, towering above her at a height of six foot something. She swallows thickly but narrows her eyes in faux confusion.

“I’m sorry, do I know you?�� Despite being far more drunk than she has been in years, her voice is steady, exasperated at not being able to pass. Irritation is the least transparent façade, and she makes sure that he can see she is well past annoyed.

“Don’t pull that shit, Roe, it’s Matt.” The man retorts, and her stomach churns at the name. But she really looks at him, takes in his features, keeping her gaze bored and mildly critical. He’s not as lanky as she recalls, broader and sturdier looking now. He’s trimmed his beard, looking cleaner and more put together than he had a year ago. His hair is styled, blonde waves contained by product. But his eyes are still just as she remembers from the night she left- cold, judgmental, prying. Her eyes narrow further, now an undeniable glare.

“What are you doing here?” Roe’s voice is low, almost monotone. Freddie was right. If she isn’t a horny drunk, and she isn’t an anxious drunk, then she’s an angry drunk. And right now, she’s furious.

“My manager invited me,” Matt’s tone is not friendly. “He thought it would be good to make connections with the important people.” His chest is puffed out. He is purposefully looking down at Roe, unconsciously making himself appear bigger, literally talking down to her. His smirk is nothing short of a sneer. He’s always been a prideful bastard. “And you? Get tired of playing scientist and decide to crash a party?” His eyes rake down her body, taking in her fitted dress and lingering a moment too long at the neckline. His mouth twists into something cruel. “What kind of graduate student can afford such tasteful clothing, Roe?”

Roe bites the inside of her cheek, fuming. She wants nothing more in the world than to kick this guy’s teeth in. But she knows, she knows, that’s a fight she would lose. She glances around Matt and catches Deaky’s wandering gaze. When he sees her, his eyes go wide. Maybe she isn’t hiding her emotions as well as she had hoped. She watches as his lips move and notices Brian and Roger look at the bassist, then in her direction. Their expressions mimic the bassist’s shocked reaction. They shift, all three quickly rising from their seats.

Realizing she’d been silent for a long moment, Roe turns her attention back to the man before her. “I’m here with some good friends of mine, actually.”

His responding scoff has Roe clenching her hands into fists, which she subtly moves to rest behind her back. Matt practically got off on watching her get angry. She is not going to give him that satisfaction. Her face burns. She tries to ignore the angry flush, but Matt’s expression shifts from mocking to curiosity, then to callous amusement.

“I saw you earlier, little angel,” he spits the nickname as though it’s a curse. “Dancing like a whore on that one man. And his friend. Did you know at that point that your soulmate was here too?”

Roe bristles. “You are not my soulmate.”

“Oh, I’m well aware,” his smile is twisted. “But you’ve got some lyrics, precious.” He lifts a hand and rests his thumb on her cheek. Roe takes an immediate step back, jerking her face away. Matt laughs, cackles practically.

“Oh, you do know!” He claps his hands together in front of him. “Tell me, angel, what kind of slut gets drunk and dances on a handful of men that aren’t her soulmate? What kind of tramp flaunts herself for them rather than spends her night searching for the man that was made for her? Huh?”

“Fuck off, Matt.” Roe growls through gritted teeth. She’s going to punch him. She’s going to start a fucking fistfight in the middle of a five-star hotel and she’s going to get her ass kicked, but she’ll be damned if she walks away from this asshole without at least one swing.

“Same old Roe, eh? Always running away from anything that isn’t exactly by your design. Probably for the best. Put off the inevitable, precious. He’ll figure see it one day, too, that you’re just a dirty, used whore-“

“Roe, love, is everything alright?” Someone steps up to her right and an arm wraps around her shoulders. She doesn’t break eye contact with Matt. She doesn’t have to in order to recognize Brian’s voice. Matt looks a tad bit taken aback at the intrusion. He straightens up and lifts his chin.

“you must be one of Roe’s good friends. We were just having a chat,” he doesn’t smile at Brian. There’s a long pause. The space around them is thick with an awkward tension. Matt looks the guitarist up and down. “Saw you two dancing earlier. Who might you be?”

Brian huffs out a short, unfriendly laugh. “Brian May. Guitarist for Queen.”

Matt’s eyes widen, almost imperceptibly, for a fraction of a second before he regains his composure. Roe takes a great deal of pleasure in that fraction of a second.

“And I’m Roger Taylor, drummer.” Roe hears Roger’s voice from her left. She feels one of his hands gently rest upon her own, which are still balled up into a fist behind her back. She doesn’t let the tension leave her shoulders though, still does not break eye contact with the man before her.

“John Richard Deacon,” There’s a pause. Someone clears their throat. “Bassist.” His voice comes from behind her. Roe feels like she’s got a small rockstar artillery surrounding her, at the ready to aid her in kicking in Matt’s front teeth.

But Matt, after a beat, regains that sick smile of his. “Got yourselves quite the little groupie, don’t you, lads?”

Brian’s grip on Roe’s shoulder is suddenly more firm. She hears Deaky suck in a breath. Roger appears to remain relatively calm, but Roe doesn’t look at him to see if his shoulders have tensed up. When he speaks, though, she’s willing to bet money that his entire frame is taut as a bow.

“Roe’s our friend, mate. I suggest you back off.” He warns.

“Good friend, I’m sure. Could tell be the way you were practically grinding against her a few hours ago, mate.” Matt scoffs. Roe’s fists tighten further, so much so that she feels her knuckles pop. She shifts her thumbs from inside of her fists to the outside. She’s going to sock him in the fucking face.

“I think it’s best that we go,” Brian suggests, but there is no calm demeanor in his tone. He’s saying, let us leave now or we’ll bloody end you.

“You know her soulmate’s here?” Matt comments suddenly, smile curling into a toothy grin. None of the boys say anything. Of course, they know. Of course, for the sake of her birthday, none of them pushed the subject. But Matt interprets their silence as shock, and his grin grows. That is, until the man next to her speaks again.

“Obviously,” Brian snorts. “That would be me.”

Roe’s breath catches in her throat at that. She breaks eye contact with Matt to look up at Brian, who smiles at her. She can still feel lyrics racing up her back, down her arms and legs. Catching onto his game though, Roe feels a crooked smile spread across her face, and she looks back at Matt, eyebrows raised in the most satisfied, smug expression ever to cross her features. Matt’s façade falters. His brows furrow together, and he opens his mouth, closes it, repeats the action a time or two. Out of the corner of her eye, she sees Roger’s shoulders lower a little on an exhale.

“As I said,” Roe states, brow arched and smirk venomous. “I’m here with good friends.”

There’s a moment of silence. Roe is the first to move, making to pass Matt and head for the door with Brian, Roger, and Deaky following. But the fucker opens his mouth.

“Show me your lyrics.” He moves to stand directly in front of Brian. The two are just about the same height, so they are standing practically nose to nose.

“Piss off, man,” Brian rolls his eyes, clearly more than a little irritated.

“Show me your lyrics. If you’re really her soulmate, prove it.”

“Why the fuck does it matter to you in the first place?” Roger fumes, taking a step towards the two. Roe feels her breath catch again.

“No big deal, mate, just show me your lyrics.” Matt taunts. Roe can see Brian’s patience thinning. She can see Roger’s shoulders tensing, the muscle in his jaw jumping. She can’t breathe.

“Walk away.” Brian’s voice is quiet, voice low, and it’s possibly even more terrifying than it could be were he to scream.

“Or what, mate? Hm? Just show me your lyrics. Prove that she’s really yours.” Matt knows he’s getting to them. He fucking basks in it. Despite being in the beginnings of a panic attack, that last sentence catches Roe’s attention.

“I don’t fucking belong to anybody, you misogynistic fuck.” She hisses. Matt laughs loudly.

“No, of course you don’t. Not anymore. You belonged to me, you fucking ungrateful whore! I was the only person that could ever want you. Now, you’re just some bitch running away from a soulmate that will never care about you.” He takes a heavy step towards her and all she can think about is that he might hit her. All she can think about is another bloodied lip and bruised cheekbone, and it scares the hell out of her.

Roe stumbles back into Roger so suddenly that they both nearly fall to the floor. There’s no stopping any panic attacks now. Roe’s having a full-blown episode- hyperventilating, tears stinging at her eyes, chest feeling as though she’s being electrocuted. She scrambles to her feet in spite of it. Matt’s back is turned to her as he’s facing Brian again, the tension between the two men rising rapidly. Both are shouting at each other now, and she knows shit’s hit the fan when Matt abruptly shoves Brian into a nearby table.

Someone grabs at her wrist and yanks her in the opposite direction. Her head whips around to see Roger as he begins to drag her away from the scene. They round a corner, out of sight, and Roe leans against the wall, breathing too hard. She slides down to the floor as the first sob bubbles from her lips. Roger stares at her, alarmed.

“Stay here,” he stammers, glancing around the corner. “I’ll be right back, I’m going to find Freddie.” And before she can respond, he’s sprinted off.

Roe, now seated, now alone, feels the full weight of anxiety crash over her, and she’s gasping, sobbing, hands pressed to her sternum in an attempt to force air out so that she can take another breath. She feels like she’s dying. She feels like her skin is crawling, like her insides are vibrating violently. She tries to find something in the room to ground her, but the music is in color and she feels like she’s watching from a third person point of few, like she’s standing beside herself. She tries saying her ABCs, but the letters are in color too and there aren’t enough of them to keep her occupied. She tries some breathing exercises, but she can’t fucking remember how to breath. It’s like once the air comes in, it won’t leave. Her head is spinning. The lyrics that were tickling her skin now feel like claws raking themselves down her body. She feels like she’s fucking dying.

There are hands on her face suddenly. She jerks backwards and screams, but all that really escapes her throat is a choked yelp. Screaming requires the ability to breathe.

“Roe, darling, my love, it’s me,” Her eyes focus on Freddie, crouched in front of her, hands moving to gently cup her cheeks again.

“Don’t,” she whimpers. “Please, don’t touch me.”

Freddie’s hands drop immediately. He stands and turns slightly, and Roe is suddenly hyperaware that Roger is standing there too, watching her while Freddie murmurs something to him. His brow is furrowed, his eyes are wide, shoulders tense. He’s chewing on his lip, holding a cigarette and fishing out a lighter from his pocket. Freddie hands him something before crouching down again in front of Roe.

“Listen, love, Roger told me what happened. I’m going to get security, alright? Roger’s going to take you upstairs to a room. We paid for them earlier this afternoon, to surprise you. So, don’t worry, yes? Roger’s going to take you upstairs, alright? In the elevator. Then I want you to take a shower, drink some water, and go to bed. Do you understand?” Freddie is speaking slowly, calmly, voice soft. Many people may find it condescending in tone, but he knows that Roe suffers from overstimulation during panic attacks. Any loud or intense noises would only make this worse for her. Roe, still gasping, choking down the tears, nods at him.

“I’m sor-“

“Don’t you dare apologize, my love,” Freddie shakes his head. “This is not your fault. None of it. Are you alright to go with Roger?”

She nods again, frowning as she tries her damn hardest to breathe normally. Freddie smiles, stands, and speaks to Roger again briefly before going to find security.

“Don’t touch her, okay? It will only cause another wave of this. Just try and talk her through it.” He says as he passes the drummer, who makes a noise of understanding. Once Freddie disappears, Roger approaches Roe slowly, as though he may frighten her if his steps are too heavy or quick.

“Are you alright?” He murmurs.

Roe, in spite of herself, scoffs at him. “Am I alright? The fuck kind of question is that, Taylor?”

He can’t help but to smile at that. Looking at her, she doesn’t look fragile. She looks frightened, most certainly, but when she looks up at him, her eyes are not wide with fear. They are wild, angry, shiny with unshed tears. Her chest heaves in her attempt to breathe. She looks as though she’s just returned from war. Something in Roger’s chest aches.

“Let’s get the fuck out of here, Roe baby.”

They get to the elevator quickly enough, successfully avoiding the chaos that is the altercation between Matt and Brian. Roger wants more than anything to ask who the fuck that guy is and what the fuck his problem is, but something tells him now is not the time. Roe is still breathing hard, still crying, but he can tell she’s really trying to cover it up. It’s shocking to see her, the firecracker that she is, in this state of ungodly fear and frenzy. He wants to help, so he tries talking her through it, like Freddie suggested.

Except his chatter isn’t helpful, in Roe’s book. It’s distracting from her grounding exercises. She loses count when trying to steady her breathing. While waiting for the elevator, she feels like she finally has a hold of herself. Then Roger’s voice snaps her out of it, and her reverie slips through her fingers like sand.

“Are you still getting lyrics?”

Roe clenches her teeth together, shaking her head. She hasn’t felt the lyrics in several minutes. She closes her eyes and takes a deep breath in.

“Do you think he left?”

Roe exhales heavily and shrugs, trying to block out all thoughts of her soulmate. There’s a long moment of silence, and she’s feeling her composure return.

“Mine was going crazy earlier tonight, too.”

Roe opens her eyes and looks at the drummer. She catches his wistful expression. When he sees her staring, he shakes his head and smiles.

“She’s always singing something. Always has something stuck in her head.” His voice is longing. He doesn’t even try to mask it.

“And you have no idea what she’s singing.” She doesn’t phrase it like a question.

He shakes his head. “I don’t speak colors, Roe baby.”

They’re quiet for a moment except for the sound of Roe still trying to catch her breath.

“You know,” Roger drawls. “You probably need better coping mechanisms.”

“Fuck you.” Roe snaps, but she smirks a small bit.

“Fred would kill me.”

“Excuse me?”

“If I even tried hitting on you, Freddie would castrate me with one of my own cymbals.”

Roe tilts her head very slightly to the side. “You’ve put some thought into this.”

“I have.” Roger gives her a half smile.

The elevator door dings and opens, and Roe is relieved to see that it’s only the two of them getting on.

“We’re at the very top, so it may be a moment.” Roger presses the button to their floor. Roe nods and goes to sit in the corner of the elevator, head in her hands. Several seconds pass, but the anxiety doesn’t. She sobs a bit into her hands, frustrated.

“What do you usually do when it gets this bad?” Roger inquires quietly.

Roe groans, shakes her head. “It doesn’t usually get this bad. That’s the thing.” She wraps her arms around her legs and rests her chin on her knees. “Breathing exercises aren’t working. I feel like I’m dissociating. I can’t stop fucking crying.” She leans her head back and lets it rest against the elevator wall, staring up at the ceiling. It’s decorated with an oceanic aesthetic, abstract sea shells and fish, waves and seafoam patterns, a trident like symbol outlined in gold. Roe narrows her eyes in thought.

Neptune of the seas,

An answer for me please.

“I dance.” She ponders quietly. “That usually helps a lot.”

“Then do that!” Roger exclaims. She laughs out of her nose at the suggestion.

“I can’t fucking dance here, Roger. It’s an elevator.” She shuts her eyes.

“Doesn’t dancing require counting or something? You could try and go through it in your head?”

Roe opens her eyes and turns her head to peer at the drummer. “What makes you think that will work?”

Roger shrugs and folds his arms over his chest. “It’s what I do when I get pre-show jitters. I run through drumming patterns and tempo changes.”

She looks at him for a moment longer before nodding a little. That may work.

So, she turns her face towards the ceiling again and shuts her eyes, beginning with counts. It takes her a moment to find the right tempo, but once she does, she’s imagining the movements, forcing herself to inhale and exhale as she envisions the rise and fall of her shoulders with the rhythm of the counts.

On her first full breath, she holds it for a second, letting herself slowly fall into the momentum of the music. Her hands make small, subtle movements to trace the path of her turns. Her feet shuffle minutely, following her leaps and lines. Her breath comes back to her, slowly but surely. The tightness in her chest begins to unravel after several long moments. Soon enough, she’s feeling more composed, more capable of breathing, more safe. She opens her eyes and looks to Roger, wanting to thank him for his suggestion.

Instead, her eyes widen when she catches sight of his face. His cheekbones are tinted in shades of lilac and royal purple. His jaw is shaded in blue. Across his nose, whites and yellows bleed into one another. She realizes that this is what his soulmate indications look like. This is how his soulmate experiences the music that she hears, the songs that she sings. And Roe knows these colors. She’s seen them before, but never so solid or tangible, never so vivid. She’s become familiar with them in the past couple of months, basking in them while working in the dance studio, while singing in the shower, while spending hours upon hours in the lab. Roger has Lily of the Valley painted across his face in blooming watercolors. And Roe knows what that must mean.

“Ah, shit.”

Taglist

@voidfanfiction

#roger taylor #roger taylor imagine #roger taylor x oc #ben hardy x oc #ben hardy #queen #queen imagine #slow burn #soulmate au #bohemian rhapsody #borhap

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scrawnydutchman · 4 years ago

Text

‘The Search for Gamora’ Chapter 1: Goodbye Again

The following fan fiction comes with a Spotify playlist with songs meant to reflect the feelings of any given scene (and every chapter is themed after one song). Here is a link to said playlist:

https://open.spotify.com/playlist/2kgLy69wx87S4Csz09MrcN?si=4CoIvHX2Ra2kTS7nce-8DQ

This fan fiction takes place after the events of Guardians of the Galaxy 1&2, and directly after Avengers: Infinity War and Endgame. There will be spoilers for those films throughout.

In the twinkling starry sky of no particular part of space, a ship solemnly floats through the cosmos, seemingly aimless. Any passerby with half a brain would instantly recognize this ship with it’s distinct orange color and it’s bulky yet slick shape. This is the Benatar, the ship piloted by the legendary intergalactic heroes-for-hire; the Guardians of the Galaxy. It was affectionately named “the Benatar” after a beloved singer from the planet Terra; where the Guardians’ captain known as Star Lord grew up. Star Lord, the dashing, handsome, good hearted but uneducated leader of the Guardians known for his reddish brown trench coat and his hair that was some mix of blonde and ginger. He is known by his crew for his particular taste in music; uplifting and catchy classics from a very specific era of his home planets’ history. But Peter Quill is not playing from his typically whimsical list of songs. This time he is playing something more somber and heartbreaking: John Denver’s ‘Goodbye Again’. The title alone is all he can think of at the moment, as it seems an apt description of his current predicament. As he half listens to this sad song for -- honestly he doesn’t know how many times anymore -- he stares at his ship’s monitor scanning for a familiar face throughout all the galaxy. His face is a cocktail of frustration, guilt and grief as the monitor blinks the words “searching” in bright red back at him. For every planet the search goes through, it has yet to produce any satisfying results.

“Quill, will you please play some other song already?? This depressing gunk is driving me nuts!” Says Rocket, the rough-edged, snarky raccoon-like creature who has been by Peter Quill’s side through thick and thin.

“I am Groot!” says Groot (obviously), the small tree like comrade-made-son to all the Guardians who can only speak in different inflections of the same phrase.

“Yeah, I thought it was okay the first time around, but it got REAL old REAL fast!” Says Rocket to Groot. For a long time, Rocket was the only one who could translate for Groot until the other Guardians learned his peculiar language.

Peter doesn’t even hear Rocket and Groot’s inquiries. He’s too sucked in to the blinking of the monitor . . . and the lovely green face accompanying it.

“Quill! Hey Quill! Listen to me, dammit!” Rocket insists more, but to no avail.

“Perhaps our captain has gone deaf.” Says Drax, the muscular green man known for his fighting prowess and his tenuous grasp on nuance in conversation. “I shall see.”

With that, Drax gets up from his seat below Quill’s, marches right up to him and, in what can only be described as a “very Drax move”, leans right into Quill’s left ear and shouts “QUIIIIIIIILL!!!” at the top of his lungs.

Quill jumps out of his seat, shouting and cursing as he falls down the little staircase next to him leading to the right hand side of Drax’s seat. At the sight of this, Drax lets out his unmistakable bellow of a laugh and Thor, the golden haired retired God of Thunder who is nearby on the ship, joins in his laughter.

“Well done, Drax! Now we know Quail is not deaf!” Thor says, wrapping his arm around Drax and shaking him in a brotherly manner. Groot laughs along with them as Rocket wears a wide grin on his face.

Quill gets up quickly, frustrated and in pain. “First of all, Goldilocks, it’s QUILL!! and Drax, what the hell is your problem???”

“Aw, c’mon Quill. That’s just Drax being Drax, you know that by now!” Says Rocket, still clearly entertained by Drax’s antics.

“Yeah, and like always, it’s REAL charming” said Quill as he twists his pinky in his left ear as if to try and soothe the pain.

“Thank you!” says Drax in response, predictably being completely oblivious to Quill’s sarcastic tone.

“You’re welcome” Quill says, not even bothering to point out his sarcasm to Drax because he knows by now it would achieve nothing. “Alright, assholes, you got my attention. What do you want?”

“We just want to turn the music off, Quill. You’ve been playing the same song over and over.” says Rocket, already making his way to the ship’s built in Jukebox (with it’s newly added Zune port) to turn it off.

“Has he? I did not notice. All of Peter’s music sounds the same to me.” says Mantis, the bug-like woman with large eyes and antennae peeking out from the seat across from Drax’s. Upon noticing where Mantis is sitting, Quill gets an angry look on his face.

“All of my music is the greatest in the galaxy and we play it because I’M THE CAPTAIN!” says Quill, momentarily giving the stink eye to Thor upon the emphasis of that last part, to which Thor responds by lifting his arms in the air as if to say “I didn’t do anything”

“And I told you, do NOT sit in that chair!” Quill continues, “That’s--”

“--Gamora’s chair”, everyone on the ship responds in unison, cutting Quill off. It’s clear they’ve had this conversation numerous times by now.

“--T-that’s right” Quill says, trying to maintain his composure even though saying Gamora’s name clearly upset him.

“We know you miss Gamora deeply, Quill” says Drax in an understanding voice. “We all miss her. And we will stop at nothing to get her back.”

“I am Groot!” Groot says in agreement. “You said it pal!” says Rocket in turn.

“Thank you, Drax” Quill says, sincerely showing appreciation for Drax’s reassuring words.

“I also support your quest to earn her love, even though you two do not make a good couple at all” says Drax, immediately undermining what nice things he had to say.

Quill looks at Drax quizzically. “You literally saw us kiss!”, he says, but then immediately shakes it off after remembering who he was talking to.

“Look, I appreciate your guys’ concern and everything . . and I’m sorry for playing John Denver over and over . . . but this whole thing is hopeless! We have no idea where the hell she went, and even if we did she’s not the same . . . her. She’s from a point in time in which she never met any of us -apparently- so even if we find her what are we supposed to do? Tie her up and drag her onto the ship?”

“Is that an option?” Chimes in Nebula, the menacing blue cyborg sister of Gamora who had been quietly skulking to herself in the corner up until now.

“We DO have a power cord and duct tape” Rocket adds. “Assuming we’re able to disarm her should she have any knives--”

“That was NOT a real suggestion!” Quill shouts, clearly losing his patience. After brushing his hands through his hair and letting out a frustrated sigh, he looks back at Nebula and points at her. “You know her better than anyone. You HAVE to have SOME idea of where she might go!”

Nebula thought for a moment, looking at the floor, and then her eyes meet Quill’s again.

“Zen Whoberi.” She responds

Quill squints in confusion. “Zen Who-what-now?”

Nebula gives her almost signature menacing glare. “You mean to tell me that for as much as you love my sister, you never bothered to learn what planet she’s from?”

“O-Oh! No no, we talked about it”, Quill said, sputtering “I mean she told me about what happened to her parents and stuff, but she never brought up the . . . or at least I don’t think--“

Nebula sighs. “When she was just a child, Thanos abducted Gamora from her home planet - - Zen Whoberi -- Where he slaughtered half of her kind, including her parents. But she is now free from Thanos, has no memory of you, and thus has nowhere in all the galaxy to go . . . except home.”

Quill thinks to himself for a moment and then looks to Rocket. “Hey, can you bring up Zen Whoberi on the search?”

“On it!” Rocket says assuredly, cracking his fingers as he walks over to Quill’s controls and types Zen Whoberi into the search. The image of a large green and yellow planet shows up on screen. It looks not too dissimilar from Terra; although the air seems a little thicker and there seems to be a lot more desert. Alongside the image of the planet one can see all sorts of information like wildlife, solar system rotation . . and the population of the world’s registered citizens, the Zehoberei. Tragically, however, the population hovers at roughly 6 billion, a shadow of it’s former standing at 10 billion . . . . thanks to Thanos.

“Run a scan on the planet” Quill says with just a glimmer of hope in his eyes. Rocket does a scan for Gamora accordingly and they wait patiently for results, Quill muttering “c’mon . . . c’mon . . . “ to himself as he eagerly awaits good news . . . . but by the time the scan is done, a message pops up saying “no results found”.

“Aw, you gotta be kidding me!!!” Quill shouts and clenches his fists as he sees it’s another dead end. Everyone else looks on in saddened disappointment and silence.

But then . . . Rocket realizes something.

“Hang on a second” Rocket begins, “Did you say that this Gamora is from a time where she never met us?”

Nebula nods.

Rocket throws his arms up at the revelation. “OF COURSE! THAT’S why the stinking scan isn’t working! It’s looking for OUR Gamora. As in it’s tracking the travel log of a Gamora that . . . well . . y’know . . . but it’s not tracking this past Gamora AT ALL!”

Quill looks at Rocket, impressed that Rocket managed to put this together. “Alright, so . . . what do we do to fix it?”

Rocket ponders. “We might be able to find her if we had some sort of old archive of that past Gamora’s travels. Something from that other timeline . . .”

“I have it.” Nebula chimes in. Everyone looks at her quizzically.

“During our travel through time I discovered that my cybernetic network was linked to that of the Nebula from the other timeline”, Nebula explained. “The same timeline that this Gamora is from. Which means I have access to all of the data that that Nebula had. And so I downloaded it to my system in case it would ever be useful. “

“Why would the other Nebula have Gamora’s travel records?” Quill asks, still sort of confused. Nebula looks down in embarrassment.

“. . . . I used to find and download Gamora’s travel logs so I always knew where she was . . .”, Nebula says with pregnant pauses between, “in case I ever wanted to go after her . . . for revenge.”

“Of course you did” Quill said, smirking.

“Alright, NOW we’re getting somewhere!” Rocket said, excitedly. “Okay, Freaky, get over here and help me with this. We got some hacking to do!”

Nebula walks over to Quill’s terminal and starts helping Rocket with the plan. She unplugs a drive-looking-device from the side of her head and hands it to Rocket, who then plugs it into the system and starts typing away. He stops to look back at the rest of the crew.

“This is gonna take some doing” Rocket explains “basically I’m gonna hack the intergalactic travel logs and overwrite Gamora’s data with this stuff from the other timeline. So now instead of tracking a lady that Thanos took off the grid and . . . well . . . y’know . . . . we’ll be tracking a lady that went unaccounted for for a few years and then suddenly popped back up. Once we plug all this in the search should have the right parameters to work with”

All this talk about hacking the travel logs and overwriting data . . . it confuses the hell out of Quill. It seems like nobody but Rocket really gets it. That’s probably the time travel stuff making things ultra confusing like it always does, Quill figures to himself. But frankly, he doesn’t care. If this cockamamie scheme means finding out where Gamora went, he’s all for it.

Still, Quill has some concerns. “Isn’t hacking the travel logs going to immediately draw some attention? Like . . .Nova Corp attention?” He says to Rocket.

“Aw c’mon, Quill! We’re the freakin’ Guardians of the Galaxy! The Nova Corp loves us!” Rocket says assuredly. “And even if tampering with their logging system DOES tick them off . . . eh . . . . we’ll cross that bridge when we come to it.”

“What bridge must we cross to evade the Nova Corp?” Drax asks ponderingly.

“Once again, that’s just an expression, big guy!” Quill says with the first bit of optimism he’s had in some time. He then claps his hands together. “Welp! Rocket and Nebula clearly need some time to figure this out, so how’s about the rest of us give them some space? Everybody else just go about your usual business.”

“Very well” Drax agrees. Drax then goes perfectly still, once again practicing becoming invisible to the naked eye with his stillness.

“Woah! Did anyone see where Drax went? I can’t see him anymore!” Thor shouts, clearly just trying to make Drax happy.

“What are you talking about, Thor?” Mantis asks, tilting her head quizzically. “Drax is right there!” She then points to Drax, and Thor looks at her annoyed for ruining the fun.

“Hey idiots! Can you go be stupid someplace else? We need to work in relative silence!” Rocket shouts in his typical rude tone of voice. With that, everyone disperses . . . except for Groot, who slowly walks up to Rocket.

“I am Groot?” Groot asks, wishfully looking at Rocket.

Rocket smirks. “Of course you can hang out with us, buddy. I missed you. I ever tell ya that?”

“I am Groot!” Groot says with an inflection as if to say “aw, c’mon”.

Soon it’s just Rocket, Nebula and Groot in the piloting section of the ship.

“Where did you learn to hack the travel logs?” Nebula asks, trying to hide how impressed she is by Rocket’s technological prowess.

“I didn’t learn anything” Rocket says, grinning. “I’ve ALWAYS had it. Ain’t the first time I’ve done this either. Overwriting your travel log comes in REAL handy when you gotta escape the Nova Corp!”

Stay tuned for Chapter 2: Sweet City Woman

#gotg #guardians of the galaxy #mcu #mcu spoilers #marvel #fanfic #fanfiction #sfw

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dailyaudiobible · 7 years ago

Text

12/16/2017 DAB Transcript

Micah 5:1-7:20, Revelation 7:1-17, Psalms 135:1-21, Proverbs 30:5-6

Today is the 16th day of December. Welcome to the Daily Audio Bible. I’m Brian. It's great to be here with you as we close down another week. And we’ve been reading from the Holman Christian Standard Bible all week, which is what we'll do today. We’ve been reading through the book of Micah in the Old Testament, which we will conclude today, and then take the next step forward in the book of Revelation, but first, Micah chapter 5 verse 1 through 7:20 today.

Commentary:

Okay. So, let's take a quick look at what we read in Revelation today. As I said when we began this book, it’s interpretations are many. And that's a gross understatement. And these interpretations in no way agree with each other in a lot of cases because we have lots of complexity in prophetic utterances and in symbolism and no way to concretely determine time. So, our goal here isn't to interpret every nuance of the book of Revelation, or any of the associated Old Testament visions and apocalyptic prophecies that exist. We’re just trying to look at things as we go along to keep ourselves rooted in the story and have a bit of context so that we can engage with the text. So, there were seven seals. And Jesus, depicted by John as a lamb, was able to open these seven seals. And we've seen six of them opened. And four of those seals represented horsemen and their riders who were tasked with unleashing unrest upon the earth. The fifth seal had to do with those who had been killed for holding on to their faith, martyrs. And the sixth seal seems to depict the end of the cosmos as we know it. So, we’re expecting this seventh seal, but that's not what we get today. We will get to the seventh seal, but what we have today is a discussion on people who are sealed. So, we had these four horsemen that were sent into the earth and then as we began today's reading, we have four angels who are standing at the four corners of the earth, restraining the four winds of the earth. And most scholars would agree, this is symbolism that is meant to show that they have power over the earth. And then another angel rises up from the east and mentions that the earth or the sea or the trees shouldn't be harmed until the servants of God are sealed, that the seal of God would be placed on their foreheads. And the number of those to be sealed are 144,000, 12,000 each from the named tribes of Israel, but the tribe of Dan and the tribe of Ephraim are omitted from this list. And it gets pretty complicated here, this hundred 144,000. You’ve probably heard of the hundred 144,000 in a lot of ways before. And there's a wide range of speculation among scholars, and entire church denominations have been formed out of interpreting this. So, if you’re taking a literal view of the book of Revelation, then 144,000 people, 12,000 people exactly from specific tribes will get the seal of Christ. And these are all ethnic Jewish people who know the tribes that they come from, which would be rather complicated, because in a northern kingdom, the kingdom of Israel, the 10 tribes there were taken into exile by Assyria, they’re lost, like, they’re lost to history. And with the southern kingdom, which would be Benjamin and Judah, were taken in exile by Babylon. They were eventually able to go back and they were paying close attention to the Levites, like to the priestly tribe, but tribal identity was mostly lost. So, if John is talking about ethnic Jews then it's complicated. And if we were taking a presentist attitude, interpretation, like, this is all happening, or this is about to happen, then it's kind of complicated to find 12,000 ethnic Jews who know the tribe that they are from in this day and age. And it would be equally as difficult to find 144,000 ethnic Jews who live in modern-day Israel who are believers in Jesus. The number is more like 10% of that, just for a little perspective. I mean, there are mega-churches in the world that contain more people who are professing to be followers of Jesus then all of the believers who live in modern-day Israel put together. And for those who don't take 144,000 as a literal number, some would say that this represents all ethnic Israel, all those who are ethnically Jewish will be saved at Christ's second coming, while others would say the 144,000 isn’t a literal number, it's a figurative number, and it represents all who would be sealed, the people of God, and the formation of a new and true Israel. And I'm not going to unpack that conflict right now, like, we’ll wait until we get into Paul's letters next year, because it would take us on a bunny trail that would take way too long. So, I think it's safe to say that most, but not all, scholars do not take this 144,000 number to be a literal number with exactly 12,000 people from specific tribes. Like, this is more of a figurative speech representing God's true people and part of that comes from what comes next. So, we have this 12,000 from all of these tribes numbering 144,000, and we get to the end of that and then John says, after this I looked, and there was a vast multitude from every nation, tribe, people and language which no one could number standing before the throne and before the lamb and they were robed in white with palm branches in their hands. So, if the numbers just 144,000, then the next thing we know we have people without number. No one can number them. So, more than 144,000, which leads some scholars to say, okay, there’s 144,000 and those people are being sealed in this time of testing, this tribulation, and they’re the remnant army of God. And then we move to this other visionary experience, where the host of heaven, all the souls standing before God and before the Lamb from every nation, and tribe, and tongue are standing before God. And we can easily think these are the ones that have been martyred, but the ones that are martyred are talked about here. So, who is this throng of people dressed in white, if not the hundred 44,000 and the not the martyrs? So, we get an answer that as we read along. One of the elders, so, one of the 24 elders, asks John who they are. Who are the people robed in white? Where did they come from? And, so, John's like, sir, you know. So, he’s saying, like, you would know but I don't know. And, so, the elder tells him, these are the ones coming out of the great tribulation. They washed their robes and made them white in the blood of the lamb. So, these are the ones that stay true. And some interpret this as that these are the true children of God, descended from Abraham. God's promise to Abraham was that he would multiply their descendants and they wouldn't be able to be numbered. So, these are the children of God who have come out of the great tribulation. So, for interpreting this futuristically, then there is a great tribulation to come that’s going to be very, very, very difficult on the earth. But if we’re a little more pragmatic in our interpretation, then tribulation has been around a while and Christian specific tribulation has been around since Jesus. And enduring that and growing strong because of it and allowing it to shape us and build character and make us true is part of the metanarrative of the New Testament. Either way, this throng of people from every tribe and nation and tongue are before the Lord and they have washed their robes and they have become white and they have washed them in the blood of the lamb. So, to look at this literally would present some challenges. Like, if you wash a robe in blood it's not going to come out white. And where did they get these robes in the first place? And where can one acquire one of these robes? It just becomes difficult to make literal. Symbolically, the interpretations are that, you know, those who wash their robe in the blood of the lamb and it comes out white, that is representing the ongoing work of sanctification, the process of becoming pure and clean and Christ like, which requires endurance and perseverance and all the things that we‘ve been talking about all year. And for those people, beautiful, beautiful imagery is given. These people serve God day and night in his sanctuary, in his presence, and the one seated on the throne will shelter them and they won't hunger anymore and they won't thirst anymore and the sun won't beat down on them and strike them anymore and heat won't hurt them anymore because Jesus, the Lamb, who was at the center of the throne will be their shepherd. He will shepherd them. He will guide them to springs of living waters and God will wipe away every tear from their eyes. And I think that is beautiful no matter how you're looking at this book, no matter how you're interpreting this. It's a beautiful picture that, in the end, there is God's presence and things are as they should be, and nothing is lost, and there is no lack, and our tears will be wiped away by God himself, which is where we end today, in the book of Revelation.

Prayer:

Father, once again we’re inviting You to speak through all that we’re reading in Your word and we’re taking it all in and inviting You. And it is our hearts desire to be one in that throng with people from every tribe and nation and tongue. We want to be one of them and we have the clear picture that we must endure and that we must remain true and that our lives can’t be spent just trying to be one in that throng, but one of many that You were able to reach and love and rescue because You were able to work through us. Come, Holy Spirit, give us the eyes and the ears of the Kingdom. May we each be responsible for a great cloud of witnesses celebrating before Your throne. Come Jesus, we pray. In Your holy name, we ask. Amen.

Announcements:

dailyaudiobible.com is the website. It’s home base. It’s where you find out what's going on around here. It's certainly Christmas time, so it's Christmas stuff that's going on around here.

The Daily Audio Bible Christmas Box for 2017 is still available, basically just through the weekend. Monday will be, sort of, last call for arrival by Christmas, you could still order, but by Christmas. And that is only if you live in the United States. If you're outside the United States that time has passed. We certainly will still send them to you, but it probably won't arrive for Christmas. So, we’re kind of getting down to it on that. The Christmas Box is, itself, full of goodies – things for you, things for you to give away. There’s the Advent CD from our friends at Mission Chattanooga in there to just continue the season of contemplation of the arrival of the Savior. The family Christmas CD is in there - lush orchestrations of traditional carols. It's very contemplative, perfect for a night of shutting off all the lights and just leaving the Christmas lights on taking some time to just drink it in. Two copies of Sneezing Jesus are in the box this year. A book by my friend Ian called The Road Back to You is in the Box. It's been a book that's been helpful to me this year. A Black Wing pencil. The Daily Audio Bible Christmas bulb for 2017. And you can only get that in the Christmas Box, is included. A pack of 20 of the Daily Audio Bible Christmas cards for this year. And then your choice of coffee or tea, our Wind Farm coffee or tea. So, check that out. They’re still available.

If you're looking for that special gift for somebody that you just have been able to figure out yet, especially if their a journaler or a writer, I recommend one of the Daily Audio Bible journaling bundles. Those are fantastic. I love them. I use it every day. And you can look at those in the Lifestyle section of the shop.

Early registration for the More Gathering for women, which happens to make a great gift idea, is open until the end of the year, the early registration pricing until the end of the year. And you can and find out all about that dailyaudiobible.com in the Initiatives section or just go to moregathering.com and you can get all the details there.

If you want to partner with the Daily Audio Bible as we approach the end of the year, and thank you for your partnership, profoundly, there’s a link on the homepage at dailyaudiobible.com. If you prefer, the mailing address is PO Box 1996. Spring Hill Tennessee 37174.

And as always, if you have a prayer request or comment, 877-942-4253 is the number to dial.

And that's it for today. I’m Brian I love you and I'll be waiting for you here tomorrow.

Community Prayer Requests and Praise Reports:

Hello Daily Audio Bible family. This is SarahJane. Yes, that SarahJane. And I would like to say Happy Jesus birthday to all of you. But particularly, Christmas, is a bit of crazy time. You all buy Christmas boxes, which is wonderful, but I get to pack them all and I could not do that without Brad and Patty B, Katy U. The Seabrun family helped out this year and also Al and a bunch of others. In fact, I always have to do a throwback to Marc and Sheryl M. I am very, very, very blessed that we have awesome help in Colorado Springs. So, if you live in Colorado Springs and you’re interested, drop me an email. And again, as for every year, thank you to my volunteer team and bless all of you enjoying your Christmas Boxes. Love you.

Hey family, it’s SarahJane again and I forgot to say thank you to Beth and Paul, who were also there…and I shouldn’t have named names…but I really am blessed for my volunteer team. Love ya.

Hey Daily Audio Bible family. This is Joyce in California and I had a really rough day with pain today. And I just finished hearing the prayer line. Thank you so much. I just love you guys so much. And I’m so grateful. These are…I’m just so happy. I’m so amazed at our beautiful family, that even if we haven’t seen each other or met each other that we can love each other so much. Thank you so much. I just…and mother Annette from Oklahoma City, I love your voice. I love all your calls and so many others. I just…thank you. Thank you so much, all of you for being here with me. And my studies have been amazing. I’ve been retaining things. I read it once and I can get through it. And I scored 100% on some of my practice tests and I slept well and I’m just praising God for each of you. The Lord’s brought me here so I could find family at last and I’m so grateful. Thank you so, so much. God bless you. I love you all. Ok. Bye-bye.

Hello everyone. This is Abiding in Him. I’d like to pray for our sister Marked as His in Wisconsin. Lord, we thank You so much for our sister and we rejoice with her in the news that her mother is doing well after fighting cancer Lord, that the harvest has come in plentiful Lord. We just thank You for Your wonderful goodness and Your mercy to us Lord. And I also thank You for my sister’s honesty in that she’s struggling, that someone that once took advantage of her in enjoying things in life that she’s yet to enjoy, but it seems horribly unfair in a life that has had many unfair moments. Lord, I pray that You come meet with my sister in a special way, that You reach out to her in the depths of her struggle and the pain and You reveal to her a deeper love, a deeper connection, a deeper abiding that is available to those who have suffered and lost much. It seems that in this world Lord, You strip many things away from us in order to bring us closer to You. And in a way, we should be thankful for these opportunities but they still hurt. They still cause pain. So, that great mystery Lord, where You enter into our pain and You manifest Yourself as being present and close, despite our anguish Lord. I pray for that peace to come to her for my sister. She says she’s Marked as Yours Lord, so, prove it to her, in a special, individual and unique way that only You can do. We ask for the comfort of Your Holy Spirit. Lord, we praise You and thank You for everything we have. In Jesus’ name.

Hi family. I desperately, desperately need your prayers. This is Amanda from Williamsburg, Virginia. I need prayers for my children’s school. We went to a parent’s meeting last night and they told us last night that we are going to be doing emergency fund raisers and things like that, but the landlord has really taken advantage of them and like tripled the rent and all of this. And they’re not sure how they are going to make this…through the school year. And the heartbreaking part is, this Greenwood Christian Academy is amazing. It has incredible academics and incredible teachers and it’s a small Christian academy. My 5 children thrive there. And it breaks my heart. I don’t know what to do. So, the only thing I know to do is to turn to you. Family, please, lift up Greenwood Christian Academy. Help us to raise $100,000, help us to find a new location. We just…we need God to move. And we know that He has a plan and we’re trusting Him and we’re are all working hard…but we just need…we just need intercession, please. Please just lift up the community of Williamsburg, Virginia, that they can come around this amazing school and these amazing kids and these amazing teachers and see it for the gem that it is and just be able to push forth and grow this school. We need this. Our children’s future needs this. Just, please, pray for our education. Thank you.

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christinasayswhatsnext · 5 years ago

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The first thing that strikes me about Kenya are the sounds.

From landing in Nairobi at the airport, to the village we stayed in, it’s the sounds the pop up in my mind: brightly-colored, bustling matatus honk as their exhausts loudly blare and swerve through streets; men dressed in bright pink shirts play trumpets on a truck bed as they drive down the street. Even the language— rich, velvety accents that transformed European English into something beautiful and unique— reminds you that this place is musical and special. Kenya is an audiophiles dream.

I don’t mean to say Kenya is “loud.” First off, it’s a big country that I saw a very small part of. Even then, my experience wasn’t that it was “noisy,” with all the negative connotations that espouses. Instead, it is a space where sound resonates deeply. In the city, it’s urban rhythms of street vendors and throngs of people moving around. In the village, the days and nights are equally alive— cows moo, sheeps bleat, people call out in greeting as you pass by. At every community we visited, there is a welcome of song and dance, voices and footsteps creating a beat that moves through you as you enter a new space.

It’s different than New York or Los Angeles, places where sound seems to beat at or on you– both prepositions implying a cacophony of noise thrown at you very much against your will, your best hope to shield yourself from the hailstorm. Kenya’s sounds, in comparison, feel much more like the first time you hear the rhythm of a song you think you once knew, and that you want to learn again.

It makes sense, since Africa itself is the original heartbeat of our world. It’s where our origin story starts. Kenya’s sounds weave through our very DNA, and being there triggered a connection that was both powerful and jarring. It was powerful how deeply the rhythm of Kenya can speak to the soul, and it was also jarring, because it’s effect was both unexpected and, in some ways, uncomfortable. How can I try and capture that, given who I am? How can I begin to tell you about my time in Africa? How can my short experience in any way encapsulate this place?

We’re told in the West that Africa is “foreign” and “dangerous.” It’s also a place that still very much grapples with the oppressive and colonial history foisted on it. My privilege and lack of understanding was evident from the moment we drove through the city. Who am I to make any connection to a place I clearly do not know enough, if anything, about?

Now, though, I see just how wrong I was. I see that Africa itself holds the origin of so many things, a great cradle for the beginning of earth and life itself.

There was a part of me that honestly thought I wouldn’t be able to write about Kenya. It was too hard. It wasn’t my story. There was too much to try and convey: the bare-walled and dirt-floored classrooms, with wooden benches filled with some of the widest smiles you’d ever see. The smell of the sewer, open in the streets, that we walked over to see where students at the Bethany school in the Kawangware slum live, because the director wanted us to understand what his students overcome to get to school. The way it felt when, despite challenge we think we know about living in a slum, the women in every home we visited said, “Karibu,” and welcomed us in so lovingly so we could hear their story. The powder blue shirts and brightly patterned hair-wraps of the Kithito Kya Kyeengai women’s group as they danced and shuffled over red dirt up the hill to the commune they rented to work and share music and song. The quiet, stoic pride of a nineteen-year-old named Tony, gallant in coveralls and rubber boots, as he told us, “I am not a proud man, but I wanted to have something of prestige for my family and my town.”

It felt (and still feels, frankly) like too much to try and write down. Each experience was so personal yet so removed from my everyday life, and I don’t always know how to marry the two feelings together. I initially decided wouldn’t bother trying. I’d squirrel away the memories for myself instead, privately ruminating over them like worry beads in the hand of an anxious thinker.

Then, on our last night with our hosts at Kenya Connect, the staff threw us a going away party in their bright yellow and green buildings. There was food and song, as there had been in so many places, and the staff was kind enough to present us with our own Kenyan Animal Connections– the animals they thought best embodied our personalities. We laughed and became teary-eyed as we were connected to elephants, giraffes, gazelles, and impalas.

“Finally, Mwikali,” said James, one of the organizations Executive Directors. Lean, elegant, and quietly funny, James had called me up but my Kikamba name, given to me by a group of Kamba children at the first school we visited, meaning “the one who stays.” He invited Sharon, the other ED of Kenya connect, to present me with my animal. I nervously rose up, wondering what their impression of me was.

“These creatures are known for looking out over the Savannah and observing that everything is safe. They’re named for the feathers on their head, which looks like a quill behind their ear, and we know how proud you are to be a writer.”

Then, she handed me a beautiful wooden carving of a long-legged, heavily-crested bird. It was the Secretarybird, a crane-like, fierce looking creature. I was in love.

James nodded as I looked at the beautiful plaque presented to me. “We hope you write good stories about us. We hope you share what you have learned here.” He smiled at me as I sat down.

And I knew what I had to do.

As much as I‘m still trying to figure out my relationship with Kenya, I know that I should still try and tell this story. I know it’s not my voice that matters most, but perhaps sharing what I saw can help center us all on the voices that do need to be at the forefront of talking about this beautiful place.

The next morning, I went on an early morning run as I had done every day that week. The red dirt and rolling hills along the country highway were filled with scrubby brush and trees, and Kenya’s winter made for perfect running weather. The road was occasionally populated by matatus, or people riding their bikes. Men, women, and children passed by in brightly colored outfits headed to some of the shops or boda boda stands that lined the road. At the beginning of my trip, I had smiled at people, but generally kept to myself— I was a woman alone, after all, and I take precautions to try and ensure I don’t invite unwanted attention in ways that might jeopardize my safety.

After a few days, though, I began to see familiar faces and feel more comfortable out on the road. By the last day, I was smiling and greeting people as I past by, and was met with loving, animated responses and cheers as I ran.

As I crested a hill at the half point of my run, I looked up to see a bright, beautiful red sunrise on the horizon, a ball of flame that completely enveloped the sky around it. It stopped me my in my tracks, my heart squeezing at the powerful, ethereal thing I was witnessing, the sun blazing over the rim of the Kenyan horizon. It was the stuff of movies, and the sheer spectacle of color overwhelmed me as I watched.

I took a moment to marvel, and then take some photos before turning around, and saw that the moon was also high above the horizon on the other side as well. A complete 180° of the cosmos enveloped the village, arcing over to hold that moment and everything in it– me, the village, the brush, the people, the sky– in a perfect embrace.

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I stopped, eager to appreciate just how blessed I was– I was a girl who had traveled halfway across the world and found myself cradled between the heavens. I had come to the place where our earliest ancestors were founded, a place where music, history, art and civilization had so many of its origins, and a place that had overcome and thrived in a world that often denied its brilliance– and been gifted the feeling of belonging in that beautiful place. Africa did not ask me if I was worthy of that experience– I was not– but simply asked that I exist in kinship with it.

I closed my eyes and heard the steady thumping of my own heart, a song that I admittedly rarely take the time to listen to. And in this moment, I finally understood how powerful Africa is and my time in Kenya. In a few short weeks, being here had taken two juxtaposed ideas in my mind– connection and the unknown– and melded them together. It showed me that the rhythm beating throughout Kenya was linked to the beating of my heart, an ethereal rhythm of the heavens much bigger and grander than I thought possible. It existed in every child’s dance step, in the voices raised high in welcome, in the hands working to thrive each day.

My trip had shown me that the actual human experience is so much deeper and more nuanced than the dichotomy I had created. Instead, it revealed that there are songs and singers more powerful than the lines I have used to try and define the world. They are there, as they have been for millennia; I need only I take the time to see and, more importantly, listen to them.

The Rhythm of the Heavens The first thing that strikes me about Kenya are the sounds. From landing in Nairobi at the airport, to the village we stayed in, it’s the sounds the pop up in my mind: brightly-colored, bustling…

#Africa #Kenya #travel #traveling

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one-of-us-blog · 7 years ago

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Eleven Minutes in Heaven – An Eleventh Doctor Retrospective

In this bonus post Drew will reflect on his time spent with the Eleventh Doctor, his hopes for the Twelfth Doctor and his assessment of the Doctor as a character so far.

Geronimo!

I don’t know if I’m just getting old, but it seems like my time with Matt Smith just flew by! Since both the Ninth and Tenth Doctors got their own retrospective posts, I felt it was only fair that the Eleventh Doctor got his fair shake. I feel like I need to be blunt and say that I liked Eleven a lot less than Ten. My time with Nine seems so long ago that I’m not even sure if I like him or Eleven better, but I know for sure Ten is still my favorite Doctor by far. So, to jump right into it, let’s compare Eleven to the Doctors who came before him.

The Ninth Doctor was bogged down by grief and remorse, and this fueled his desire to travel the cosmos and help people. The Tenth Doctor still grieved for what he lost during the Time War and regretted the role he played in the end of his planet, but also knew how to live in the moment. He never forgot where he came from, but he didn’t let the past get in the way of him enjoying his life and doing as much good as he could. Nine was usually either morose or manic, whereas Ten was nuanced and complex. He displayed a range of emotions, but he moved from one to the other seamlessly without it feeling forced or jarring. Both expressed kindness, empathy, a love for adventure and a fulfillment that came from helping people, though I believe Nine helped people to assuage his guilt while Ten helped people because that’s just who he was.

Now let’s compare all of these very simplified traits to Eleven. Nine was bogged down by his past, Ten regretted it but didn’t let it get in his way, whereas Eleven actively refused to acknowledge it. Nine was running from planet to planet desperately looking for people to help and Ten was running around because he loved running, but Eleven ran because so long as he kept moving he didn’t have to think about anything that had happened in his past. The Moment referred to him as the man who forgets, but I think it would be more accurate to say he’s the man who refused to remember. He built his personality on weird quirks like wearing bowties and fezzes and eating fish sticks in custard because things like that always keep people talking, and if they’re talking about his bowtie they’re not going to be talking about where he comes from or what he’d done in his past. He defines himself as a madman with a box because this excuses any erratic behavior he might otherwise have to explain, because he never wants to explain anything he does or has done. He never does quite enough to escape his own self-loathing, however, as it manifests as the Dream Lord and later he accuses himself (or his past self, to be more accurate) of screwing up the lives of Rose, Martha and Donna.

Part of why I think he wants to avoid having to explain himself is because he does some pretty awful stuff on a regular basis. As River Song said on multiple occasions, the first thing you need to know about the Doctor is that he’s a liar. He’s manipulated and lied to enemies, friends and companions alike consistently, and always justifies these actions because most of the people involved usually survive in the end. But, at the same time, he’s usually a very silly, fun-loving guy who likes to talk to babies and horses and pretend they’re talking back to him. That’s the person he wants people to think he is, but that doesn’t stop him from lying to the people closest to him on a moment’s notice. Not that he didn’t genuinely care for the people he was close to; he was willing to sacrifice himself to save Amy, Rory and Clara on multiple occasions, and I think he genuinely cared for River.

As far as things that I would like to see in the Twelfth Doctor, I would like him to strike the same sort of balance that Ten managed. I don’t want him drowning in regret like Nine was, and I don’t want him smothering self-loathing with bowties and fish sticks like Eleven did. I want him to acknowledge the very dark, horrible things that have happened in his past but not let them dictate how he spends his time in the TARDIS. I want him to learn from the past, but not live in it. Also, please, please, please stop having him sleep with historical figures. I just need for that trend to stop. Other than that I hope this new Doctor is able to surprise me with a personality that will set him apart from anything that’s come before, while still being at least partially recognizable.

Finally, it’s time for my assessment of the Doctor as a whole up to this point. I would say the Doctor is someone who runs because if he stands still for too long he’ll start to think about himself and his past, and he doesn’t want to do that. During the course of his running he gets involved in any distracting mystery he can find, and helps as many people as he can while he’s at it. He’s someone who doesn’t get close to a lot of people, but he deeply cares for those he lets into his hearts. He’s a liar and a manipulator, but he always thinks he has a good reason for being those things.

How will this assessment compare to my assessment of the Twelfth Doctor? We’ll just have to wait and see!

#doctor who #One of Us

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gibsongirlselections · 4 years ago

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A Limited Case for Trump

Is there anything that could be more expedient than expressing vitriol for Donald Trump? It is one thing to offer legitimate critiques of a President, and not a few come to mind with Trump. And yet, is it not something else, different in kind, to offer an unrelenting and constant stream of disdain and disgust? No knowledge of the subject matter is required, or even presumed. The vast ocean of opinions is what we are wading in, and many are desperately willing to jump in for the swim.

The mention of opinions and knowledge with respect to politics is reminiscent of an ancient quarrel that is worth calling to mind, as it may be of certain help in our present time. The specific quarrel I am referencing is that between politics and the practice of philosophy. The tradition of classical political philosophy, illuminated by Plato and Aristotle, inaugurated this political problem that is still with us: what will be the status of the philosopher (or philosophy) before the politician?

For classical political philosophy, the activity of philosophizing was considered to be the highest good, or the best life, for human beings. It was through philosophy that one would come to know the the whole of nature and the causes of things, of what is. This tradition of philosophic inquiry affirms that the purpose of the human mind is to know the order called reality, independent of the mind. The claim to know entailed the connection between the mind and the order of things as they actually are. Such an alignment is called truth.

Among other things, the central implication of this means that the mind-independent order of reality is not something which properly belongs to the political realm. In other words, it does not fall to politics to determine what nature or justice is. Aristotle, thus, rightly observed that politics does not make man to be man, but accepting man as he is, looks to make him good. What it means to be human is a question whose answer lays outside the authority of the political. It was precisely this point of departure that classical political philosophy makes the ultimate declaration: philosophy alone will save us. If only philosophy will save us, then we must affirm that politics cannot. Here, in summation, is where we can hopefully see why it is worth pondering this relationship over the political character of philosophy.

The precise nature of the problem was articulated well by the 20th century political philosopher Leo Strauss. According to Strauss, democratic citizens, in general, did not have much of an affinity for philosophy.

According to Strauss, it is modern liberal democratic regimes that could be better than any other at fostering philosophy. More than anything else, liberal democracy has a strong capacity for staving off the worst political (or apolitical) conditions imaginable, namely, tyranny. To stand against the threat of tyranny is to openly acknowledge that the horrors of arbitrary and oppressive rule are not conducive for human flourishing. Regardless of one’s conception of the human good, what John Rawls coined as a “comprehensive doctrine,” democratic citizens can certainly agree upon this truth. Understood from this angle, democracy appears decently equipped to thwart an individual or collective Thrasymachus, whose philosophic modus operandi is to equate “justice with power.”

Although this is a rather caricatured account of the classical tension between philosophy and the city, it is offered to serve as the foundation for the main thrust of a larger argument. The argument put simply is the following: a Donald Trump presidency is a rather strong case in support of staving off the political threat of tyranny. How could such a case be made?

Various answers can be given, and the question is worthy of much more insightful reflection than will be offered here, but I want to zone in on the particular context of Trump’s presidency, and the possibility of a second term.

The political left in the United States does not have, deep down, a political philosophy in the strict sense of the term. More accurately, it is an ideology whose motto is derived from Thrasymachus (mentioned above): the aim of politics is to attain and maintain power. The riots and civic unrest experienced since the end of May are coordinated attempts to cause social instability and political decline. And because the actions of the rioters are being intentionally portrayed within the category of identity politics, then it is undeniable that their framework is, and will be, that of the contemporary Democratic party. It does not seem much of a stretch to equate “being woke” with “being a Democrat.” This admission is no longer something requiring proof, but is overwhelmingly self-evident.

As this alignment between rioters and the political left has solidified, we can also affirm the unconventional success of President Trump. For whatever one thinks of his various strategies, it seems incontestable now that since taking office, the President has had a singular focus in getting those on the political left to reveal their cards. I agree with the assessment of the political philosopher Joshua Mitchell, who contends that Trump’s use of Twitter is like a “sixth sense.” The President’s tweets act as a kind of sonar sent out into the cosmos. He is waiting for a kind of reverberation, a bleep on the radar of public discussion wherein he can gauge some real sense of various dialectical narratives surrounding a said issue.

Trump’s tweets may be vulgar, crass, and un-presidential. But a limited defense of Trump does not rest upon his virtue, or even lack thereof. The fundamental concern within the tradition of classical political philosophy is not whether everyone can be a philosopher, even a sitting president. Instead, the issue is whether the very conditions of philosophy would still be possible. For Strauss, this was the political status of philosophy. Will the philosopher, or those who seek those truths that transcend the current political orthodoxy of mere opinions, be allowed to live in the liberal democratic regime? To put this more poignantly: would a President Trump bring a Socrates, or Christ, before him and threaten them with death if they did not give unfailing allegiance? Is hemlock or the Cross really possible in an America where Trump is President?

The answer to these latter questions would seem to be a resounding “No.” Of course, Trump is neither a philosopher, nor a rhetorician. The ad nauseam attacks that he is not are beside the point. What we should seek, at one level, are the social and political conditions whereby truth is still allowed to be voiced and heard. The tension before us as democratic citizens is whether nuance in thought is permissible. The dialectical squabbles over COVID-19, especially the ever increasing attempts to silence and snuff out dissenters, is providing disturbing answers.

Will a second term for President Trump ensure a victory for philosophy against tyranny? Maybe, maybe not. Perhaps there is no better public visual of this classical tension incarnated in our time than in the recent congressional hearing with Attorney General Bill Barr. Like the rioters we see on the news, Barr’s interlocutors at the hearing were not interested in that thing called speech. The goal was much more sinister, and direct. They simply sought to smash, not his arguments, but his capacity to speak.

The 2016 election was ever the humble reminder that human affairs cannot be predicted, as much as our scientific political models may desperately try. Yet, Michael Anton might be right once more, with Flight 93 in the air again.

My hope would be that a continued Trump presidency, if it might be anything, can continue to support those conditions where truth can be uttered and heard. The alternative will not be a world of peace and rationality, of open dialogue and speech ordered towards grasping the truth. Instead, we will witness those political and social conditions wherein we come to worship in the only religion left, namely, the despotism of our own opinions.

Brian Jones is a Ph.D Candidate in Philosophy in the Center for Thomistic Studies at the University of St. Thomas.

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