#epic rattle battles of history

[zinzabee]

Have some out of context doodles from a Gartic Phone session with my friends the other night, lol

[breath-of-fresh-grantaire]

Marius felt no desire to retreat; he turned towards Enjolras, and his voice burst forth with a vibration which came from a quiver of his very being:--

"Aight, fam, let’s break this down ‘cause I’m about to drop some truth. No disrespect to France, you feel me? But mixing Napoleon in with her history ain't slapping her, it's elevating her. So, let's debate this. I just pulled up, but for real, y’all got me shook. Like, where we at? Who’s who? Who’s popping, and who even am I in all this? Let’s talk about the Emperor—y’all be out here calling him Buonaparte like you’re royal or somethin’. My granddad would do you one better, he’d hit you with “Buonaparte” too. Thought you were all young and lit? So where’s your hype at? What’s good with that energy? Who are you backing if not the Emperor? And what’s even more to want? If you ain't rocking with him, then who’s your “great” man? Bro had it all, no cap. The dude was a whole package—mind, body, and spirit. He wrote codes like Justinian, ruled like Caesar, and when he talked, it was like lightning mixed with thunder. He didn’t just make history, he was history. His bulletins? Straight up epics, like the Iliad. Dude mixed Newton’s math with Muhammad’s metaphors, and in the East, his name’s still ringing like the pyramids. At Tilsit? He taught emperors how to flex. Laplace couldn’t even with him at the Academy of Sciences. He rolled with the top lawyers, kept it sidereal with astronomers, and, like Cromwell, he was out here flipping deals for curtains. Bro saw everything, knew everything—and still had time to vibe with his kid. Then, when Europe was shook, they all stopped and tuned in. Armies rolled out, artillery booming, cavalry on the hunt—thrones were rattling. Maps were shifting like they were in a video game. When that sword came out, you could feel the whole world hold its breath. And there he was, lighting up the horizon with flames in his eyes, wings spread—his army and the old guard—and boom! He was the OG war angel, out here changing the game."

All held their peace, and Enjolras bowed his head. Silence always produces somewhat the effect of acquiescence, of the enemy being driven to the wall. Marius continued with increased enthusiasm, and almost without pausing for breath:--

"Let’s keep it 100, bruh. Can you imagine the vibes? For a nation like France to be the empire of a dude like that? That’s a whole flex! And when France adds its own fire to Napoleon's genius? That’s next-level. He was built different, fam. The way he showed up and straight-up ran the game, marching through cities, owning the capitals like they were nothing, turning his soldiers into kings, and flipping dynasties like a deck of cards. This man didn’t just play the game—he rewrote it, all while moving like a boss.

Every time he made a move, it was like he was holding the sword of God in his hand, sending shockwaves across Europe. The dude wasn’t just one man; he was the GOAT combo of Hannibal, Caesar, and Charlemagne. He wasn’t just leading a country; he was the reason your day started with news of another victory, like “Yo, we just won that battle!”

He had the cannon at the Invalides literally waking up the whole nation, blasting out names like Marengo, Arcola, Austerlitz, Jena, Wagram—those words weren’t just history, they were legends that lit up the sky. Every time one of his victories hit, it was like stars exploding in the heavens, bro. He made France a whole empire, like the Roman Empire's cool little brother, but with extra swag.

This dude had the world in his hands—his army was flying across the globe like eagles off a mountain, dominating, striking like lightning, flexing glory. France wasn’t just a country; it was a nation of gods, rolling through history with that Titan energy. He conquered the world—not just by winning, but by dazzling. This is the stuff legends are made of, and honestly, what could be better than that?"

"To be skibidi," said Combeferre.

[agreatperhaps12]

There are a lot of misconceptions about Warren Peace. Five times Layla Williams saw through the bullshit, and one time Warren returned the favor.

happy holidays, @katiewont :) 

Misconception No. 1: Warren Peace loves a good fight.

Warren Peace does not go looking for fights. Fights find him.

See: Stronghold chucking a lunch tray at him the first week of class. Dumb and Dumber challenging them to Save the Citizen. Stronghold’s date going full supervillain at homecoming and nearly dropping a school-size anvil on an unsuspecting suburb.

That’s just the highlight reel for September.

When another villain interrupts Warren’s History of Heroism midterm with another school invasion, Warren’s first thought is: Could everyone around here chill for five fucking seconds.

No. Literally, not ever. See: three weeks later, when Warren is standing in line for lunch with the entourage of freshmen he’s long since given up trying to shake off. It has not even been five minutes since Warren and Stronghold defeated their latest challenger at Save the Citizen, and Zach is already doing a clumsy live-action replay.

To Stronghold, “Did you see his face when you were like?” Zach swings his arm with the spectacular confidence of someone not standing in a very crowded cafeteria. To Warren, “And then you were like—” Zach mimes shooting fireballs from his fists, complete with sound effects. “Totally brutal. You looked scary, bro.”

“He always looks scary,” Ethan says, smiling at Warren like that’s a compliment.

Warren glares down at his tray. He and Stronghold have been defending champions of Save the Citizen for over two months, Hero Team every time. He doesn’t get how people are still managing to make him feel like the bad guy about it.

“How was play-pretend battle?”

Layla has emerged from the crowd to stand beside Warren, with a smirk that makes a stupid something flutter behind his sternum. Layla stopped coming to their Save the Citizen matches after their dozenth victory, because “violence should be the last resort in any hostage situation” and “Save the Citizen completely undermines a valuable opportunity for Sky High students to learn strategic negotiation skills.” Warren doesn’t know what she does with the free period. 

Take me with you, he thinks.

“The match was epic,” Zach says. “Will got to throw a car.”

A bashful smile overtakes Stronghold’s dumb, Labrador face.

“And Warren almost barbequed Evans,” Ethan says.

Jesus, could they shut up about it already.

“Really,” Layla says, eyes on Warren while he pays for his food.

“Yeah,” Warren says, in a deadpan to rival Magenta. “It was epic.”

Layla frowns, but instead of launching into the pacifist manifesto that Warren is expecting, she holds up her bagged lunch says, “Want to eat outside?”

Before Warren can answer, Stronghold says, “Outside?” like he’s never heard of such a place. “It’s freezing out there.”

“It’s almost forty degrees,” Layla says, “and I had to come in early to finish a project, so it’s been over—” She checks the clock. “—five hours since I’ve felt roots under my feet. I’m eating outside.”

“Okay, but like.” Stronghold glances at Warren. “Do… you want me to come?”

“No, you’ll just be a baby about it,” Layla says gently. “Warren doesn’t get cold, do you?”

She looks to Warren for confirmation of a fact that Warren is one hundred percent sure he’s never told her. He shrugs to hide his wrong-footedness.

“Great.” Layla claps a hand on Stronghold’s shoulder and uses it to steer him toward the others, who are already sitting at what used to be Warren’s personal lunch table, once upon a time. She shrugs on her jacket, flips her hair out, and looks to Warren. “Shall we?”

Warren follows her outside warily. Sitting down across from her at the picnic table closest to the edge of school grounds, he says, “So, what is this, exactly?”

Layla pauses in uncurling her lunch bag. “What do you mean?”

Warren shrugs. “We don’t really hang out. Alone.”

They did, a little. Back when Layla was using Warren to make Stronghold jealous. But that pretty much ended with the homecoming debacle—after which Layla and Stronghold spent a few weeks trying to get their romantic relationship off the ground, decided they worked better as friends, and went back to normal.

“What are you talking about?” Layla says. “We hang out at the Paper Lantern all the time.”

It’s true that Layla eats at Warren’s workplace a few nights a week, when her mom is too busy with day-saving to make family dinners at home. But Layla is always doing homework, and Warren is always doing Work work, so, “I don’t think that counts.”

“It does,” Layla says confidently. It’s the kind of confidence that only Layla can pull off, because rather than coming across as arrogant, she gives the air of a mysterious woodland nymph, whose secret knowledge mere mortals wouldn’t understand.

“Okay,” Warren says, because he has precious little personal experience to back up any assertions about how friendship is supposed to work. “But this isn’t the Lantern.”

Layla raises an eyebrow. “Do you want to go back inside?”

“No,” Warren says. He doesn’t want Layla to leave, either. There’s a sureness about her that Warren finds comforting. She’s never been afraid of him—probably because she could kick his ass. Warren likes that about her. But he also likes to know where he stands with people.

By way of explanation, Layla says, “Did you know that when you get stressed out, literal steam comes out of your ears?”

“What?”

“Mm-hmm.” Layla pulls an apple out of her lunch bag. “A little. It’s easier to see when your hair is pulled back.”

Warren brings a self-conscious hand to the rubber band he used to tie his hair up during Mad Science Lab.

“It happens a lot when Zach is doing his Save the Citizen play-by-plays,” Layla observes. “Thought I might spare you an entire lunch of that.”

“Oh.” Warren’s hand drops into his lap, blind-sided by the unexpected kindness. “Thanks.”

“Any time.” Layla maintains eye contact while taking a bit of apple. Warren shifts in his seat and drops his eyes to his pizza. “You could tell Coach Boomer to assign Will a different partner,” she says after a moment. “Save the Citizen isn’t mandatory.”

Yeah, except it kind of is. No one’s ever voluntarily stepped back from a winning streak like Warren and Stronghold’s. Benching himself would never be worth all the extra side-eye in the halls. Not to mention the explanation he’d have to give Boomer. What kind of superhero-in-training refuses to fight?

Except for the one Warren is currently sitting across from, of course. Who’s looking at Warren with such doe-eyed earnestness that it almost squeezes a “Yeah, maybe” out of him. But Layla is a difficult person to lie to, so he says, “I thought we weren’t going to talk about Save the Citizen.”

Layla sits up a little straighter. “Right,” she says. “Consider it forgotten.”

“Thanks.”

Not that Warren doesn’t trust Layla, but she is the kind of person to press points she thinks are important. Before her mind can cycle back to Save the Citizen from some other angle, Warren says, “Sorry I dragged you outside in the middle of November.”

Layla tilts her head to the side. “You didn’t drag me. I dragged you.”

“Yeah, but for me,” Warren says, and there’s that stupid fluttering feeling again.

“And for me,” Layla says. “I wasn’t lying about needing to get out for a bit. Being inside all day, with the linoleum and cinderblock.” She wrinkles her nose. “It’s creepy quiet, when you’re used to feeling everything alive around you.”

He���s never actually thought about it, before. How Layla has her finger on the pulse of something so vast and intricate, even when she’s not bending it to her will.

“Even in November?” Warren says. “Isn’t everything, like… dead?”

Layla laughs. “No. Just taking a long nap.”

“Huh.” Warren looks around the grey-brown landscape of the schoolyard, with its bare branches and faded grass, with new eyes. It’s a nice idea, that all these lifeless-looking things are just waiting to wake up.

Misconception No. 2: Warren Peace doesn’t give a damn about his bad reputation.

Anyone who dyes a single streak of hair, wears fingerless gloves, and walks around like he’s got nothing to prove has something big to prove.

For Warren Peace, that is: I do not give a fuck about my family legacy.

Before starting high school, Warren figured a couple kids might recognize him, by name or by strong family resemblance. But Warren’s dad had already been locked up for a long time. It wasn’t like he made the news anymore. Worse came to worst, Warren thought he might have to field a few awkward questions about it.

Homeschooling did not prepare Warren for how big a household name Barron Battle was.

The first week of school was all open seats around Warren in class and at lunch, cold and curious looks over shoulders on the bus, “Check it out, that’s Barron Battle’s devil spawn” and “I can’t believe they even let supervillain kids in.”

It was treat or be treated like dirt, and Warren chose the former.

Fast-forward to junior year, and Sky High students know Warren Peace for the asshole he is, rather than the asshole his father was. Warren is comfortably back to pretending like his dad doesn’t exist. It mostly works.

Except during a History of Heroism unit on the most notorious villains of the twentieth century, when Warren’s class is staring at a PowerPoint slide that depicts the leveled Brooklyn neighborhood where Barron Battle and the Commander had their final showdown.

Warren ignores his classmates’ not-so-covert glances as Mr. Magnificent rattles of statistics like ‘seven dead and dozens injured’ and ‘nearly one billion dollars in damages.’ Magnificent has to pause his lecture to silence the white noise of whispers that has swelled up, and Warren wants to sink through the floor.

It’s like the first week of freshman year all over again. Warren is projecting I don’t care vibes so hard, there’s a good chance he’ll spontaneously combust.

What feels like an eon later, the classroom lights come up. Warren shoves everything into his backpack and heads for the door before anyone can try to talk to him. As usual, Layla is out of Hero Support early and waiting in the hall to meet Warren for lunch. Her patent sun-bright smile slips as Warren escapes the classroom.

“Whoa, where’s the fire?” she says.

“What?” Warren stops up short. “Nowhere. There’s no fire.”

“I was kidding,” Layla says, and winces at herself. “Poor choice of words. Sorry.”

“It’s fine.” Warren rakes his fingers through his hair. “I can’t come to lunch today. I have to—work on something.”

Normally, when Warren is feeling like shit, there’s nothing he’d rather do than sit with Layla in their little oasis of calm at the schoolyard picnic table. But right now, Warren needs at least thirty minutes to pace around the empty auto shop classroom, literally and figuratively cooling off, before he subjects himself to more human company.

“Okay,” Layla says, hugging her notebook to her chest and looking at him critically. “Are you—”

“Yeah. It’s—whatever. I’ll see you later.” Warren shoulders his way through the crowded hall toward the shop room, head down.

Smooth, he thinks at himself. Very smooth.

Shut up.

Warren assumes the first chance he’ll have to apologize to Layla is the next day at lunch. But when Warren shows up for his shift at the Paper Lantern at five, Layla is already sitting at her usual table. Weird, because Layla usually doesn’t come to the Lantern on Thursdays. Weirder, because when she does come, she typically arrives sometime after eight, when the dinner rush has mostly cleared out.

“What can I get you?” Warren says, drawing his pencil out from behind his ear as he approaches Layla’s table. They do try to maintain some appearances of an employee-customer relationship, to appease Mrs. Zhou.

“Hmm.” Layla examines the menu. “I’d like one kung pao tofu, one green tea, and—” She looks up at him. “—for you to explain why you fled your History of Heroism class today.”

“I didn’t flee,” Warren says. “I stormed out.”

“All right,” Layla agrees easily. “Why did you storm out of History of Heroism?”

Warren crosses his arms. “None of your business.”

“Okay.” Layla holds out her menu.

Warren blinks. “What?”

“You’re right, it’s not my business,” she says. “I just thought you might want to talk about whatever it was.”

“I don’t.”

“Okay.”

Warren squints. “Okay…”

“Okay,” Layla says again, and flaps the menu in her hand.

Warren takes it slowly, waiting for the catch. But Layla just pulls a binder and notebook out of her backpack. “Honey with the tea, please,” she says, and clicks open a pen.

“I know,” Warren says, and leaves Layla to her homework. He spends most of the next half-hour trying to untangle why he feels disappointed rather than relieved.

The thing is, Warren sometimes gets a “What was that about?” or “Dude, what the hell happened back there?” from classmates after he goes nuclear. Like after his cafeteria fight with Stronghold in September. Those questions always feel voyeuristic. Prickly and probing.

With Layla, though, the question feels less invasive and more inviting. For the first time, Warren wants to explain himself. He wants Layla to understand. He doesn’t want her to see him as some moody, unapproachable asshole. But he also doesn’t know how to approach her, or the subject, now that he’s already shut it down.

He’s been talking himself in and out of going back over to Layla’s table for ten minutes when Mrs. Zhou sidles up to the pass-through window where Warren is brooding.

“If you’re going to stand around making eyes at your girlfriend, take your fifteen and go over before the dinner crowd arrives,” she says.

Warren’s face heats, and he looks around to see whether anyone is in earshot, even though he’s pretty sure none of Mrs. Zhou’s whitebread suburban customers understand Mandarin. “She’s not my—never mind.”

Deciding he’d rather be having any other conversation besides this one with Mrs. Zhou, Warren forces himself to walk over to Layla’s table and sit down.

“We learned about the Barron in class today,” he says, abandoning any attempt at preamble, “for a lesson on notable supervillain takedowns.”

If Layla is surprised by Warren’s sudden attempt at conversation, she doesn’t show it. She hooks her pen through the spiral of her notebook, closes it, and waits for him to continue.

“Magnificent was showing pictures from the last time Dad and the Commander fought in New York,” Warren says, “and people were looking at me like I was involved somehow, even though all that shit went down when I was still in diapers, and those people have been in my classes for three years, like—I know, we all know Barron Battle is my dad, why can’t everyone fucking get over it already—”

Layla lays a hand on his forearm, cutting Warren off and drawing his attention to the fact that his clenched fist is smouldering like a hot coal. “Shit. Sorry.” Warren shakes out his hand, and Layla pulls back. He wishes she wouldn’t.

Layla waits for the red glow of Warren’s knuckles to dim and then says, “Mr. Magnificent is an idiot. It was totally inappropriate to include your dad in a presentation, especially without asking you first.”

Warren shrugs. “A lot of people’s parents end up in his presentations,” he says. “They’re just usually on the right side.”

“He still should have asked you,” Layla says. “Also, you helped save the entire school in September. If people still think you’re anything like your dad after that, they’re idiots and you shouldn’t care what they think.”

Warren wants to say “I don’t.” What comes out is, “This is high school. Everyone cares what everyone thinks.”

“I don’t,” Layla says.

Warren wants to contradict her, but from what he can tell, Layla genuinely doesn’t. “You have to care a little,” he says.

Layla raises her eyebrows like oh, yeah? and points to her characteristically Whoville-style twist of braids and glittery clips. “You think these hairdos made me a lot of friends in middle school?”

“I didn’t go to middle school.”

“Well, they didn’t,” Layla says.

“Then why do you wear your hair like that?”

“Because I like it.” Layla twirls a stray piece of hair around her forefinger. “And I don’t need to be one of the pretty girls to feel good about myself.”

“You are pretty,” Warren blurts, and immediately has to suppress the urge to set himself on fire.

Layla’s eyes go wide. The last time Warren saw her blush this deep, he’d just called her out for crushing on Stronghold. But instead of straight-up embarrassed, this time Layla’s blush is weirdly, shyly pleased. “You think so?” Her chin is tilted down so that she’s looking up at him through her eyelashes, which is not fair.

“Me?” Warren points at himself, like an idiot. “I don’t—I mean, I do, but it’s not just—you are pretty. People know that. It’s an objective fact.”

“Really.” Layla’s cheeks are still pink, but her smile has a playful slant now.

“Yeah,” Warren says, more defensively than he intends. Christ, he was so much better at this when they were fake-dating, when none of Warren’s smirks or swagger could mean anything. Now, without the protection of pretense, everything feels altogether too personal. Warren is not good at personal.

“Thank you,” Layla says, and bites her lip in hesitation before tacking on, “you’re pretty, too.”

Whatever that comment is—reflex, or politeness, or something else—it is officially too much. “I have to get back to work,” Warren says, overloud in the quiet restaurant, and bangs his knee on the underside of the table in his haste to stand up.

“Okay,” Layla says, trying to hide a smile behind her hand. Before he can turn away, she adds, “Warren,” and points to either side of her head.

Warren stares at her blankly for a second before he catches her drift, yanks his hair down from his ponytail to hide his surely steaming ears, and practically runs back to the kitchen.

Misconception No. 3: Warren Peace thinks he’s got the best power.

“I feel like I should warn you,” Layla says as she turns the key in her front lock, “my house is kind of crowded.”

Warren frowns. “I thought you were an only child.”

“No siblings,” Layla says. “A lot of roommates. You’ll see.”

What Warren sees is a menagerie that would do Ace Ventura proud.

“Watch out for the—everything,” Layla says, leading him through a flock of peacocks, a few dogs and several cats that slink by too quickly to count.

“Why… is this?” is the only semi-coherent question that Warren can formulate as he shoos a parrot from his shoulder and shakes his pant leg free of a fox’s jaws.

“You’re not the only one who has to live with your parent’s superpower,” Layla says.

Layla’s mom, apparently, is a zoolinguist. The only place in the entire house not overrun by furry or feathered residents is Layla’s room.

“Wow,” Warren says as he crosses the threshold.

Layla’s bedroom is situated on the back corner of the house, and the two external walls and ceiling are all paneled glass. Presumably to usher in maximum sunlight for the greenery that crowds almost every inch of space besides Layla’s bed and desk. Warren has to shed his winter coat immediately to avoid overheating in the humidity.

“Yeah,” Layla says. “Sometimes I forget how weird it is. Will’s the only friend I’ve ever had up here.”

Layla is the only friend Warren has ever had in his room—which she immediately declared “entirely predictable,” on account of the punk rock posters plastered across his walls. Layla’s room is way more predictable, if you ask Warren. Or at least, Warren would have predicted this, if he’d known literal greenhouse was a legitimate option.

“It’s nice,” he says. “Peaceful.”

“Isn’t it?” Layla takes Warren’s coat and hangs it on a hook behind the leaves of an elephant ear plant. “Mom had the place renovated before we moved in. I think she figured, if she was going to let every animal in the neighborhood have the run of our house, it wasn’t fair to exile my plants to the backyard.”

“Do they all live here all the time?” Warren says, pointing at the floor to indicate the veritable petting zoo downstairs.

“Some of them,” Layla says. “Mom is good at finding homes for most. I think donations from her fans are single-handedly keeping every shelter in the city afloat.”

It’s rude to ask about superheroes’ secret identities, but context clues give Warren a pretty good idea who Ms. Williams might be. Charismatic Megafauna is basically a one-woman PETA operation, liberating animals from factory farms and delivering them to free-range pastures as often as she commands her elite squadron of apex predators to take down baddies. She’s a more controversial figure than the Commander and Jetstream, but she does have an extremely dedicated cult following.  

“Her power sounds amazing,” Warren says.

“Most of the time,” Layla says. She collects a watering can from beside her bed and begins to fill it with a knee-high spigot beside the door. “But there’s a lot of animal suffering in the world. It can get exhausting for her to be tapped into it all the time, you know?”

Warren pauses to consider. “Yeah, I guess that would be overwhelming.”

Layla turns off the tap and carries her watering can to the closest table laden with potted plants. “Everyone’s superpower looks spectacular on the news,” she says, with a very un-Layla-like smile. “No one’s around to see it when your power makes you so sad you can’t get out of bed.”

“Except you,” Warren guesses.

Layla drops her not-really-smile. “Except me.”

Warren shuffles along the row of plants beside Layla while she waters them. He waits until she finishes refilling the can and starts a new row before asking, “Does that ever happen to you? Your powers getting you down.”

Layla studiously waters a flower with orange starburst petals. “Plants have more…auras and vibes than thoughts and feelings,” she says, and tickles the flower under one leaf. The plant visibly perks up under her ministrations, and Layla smiles. For real, this time. “Their pain doesn’t feel as sharp to me as animals’ pain does to my mom.”

“But,” Warren prompts.

“But sometimes, yeah,” Layla says, and moves on to the next plant.

Warren casts around for something comforting to say, but comes up with nothing better than, “That sucks.”

“Yeah,” Layla says, “but it’s the exception to the rule. Most of the time, I wouldn’t give up feeling this—” She rubs her fingertips over a browning leaf to paint it green. “—for anything.”

Warren shouldn’t be jealous of Layla’s powers. Especially after she’s just admitted what a burden they can be. But Layla has also just confirmed what Warren has long suspected: Superabilities, even the ostensibly powerful ones, are not created equal. Warren’s pyrokinesis is, fundamentally, a weapon. A blunt tool to wield when the situation calls for violence. Layla’s power, on the other hand, seems more like a sixth sense. A trapdoor to another plane of reality.

How much of Layla Williams’s worldview draws on the alien insight of plants that no other human being, least of all Warren Peace, could ever possibly understand?

Layla interrupts Warren’s inferiority spiral with, “I’ve never talked about this with anyone but my mom.”

Warren watches Layla coax a stem into standing up straighter. “Not even Stronghold?”

He should not take as much pleasure as he does in Layla’s dismissive laugh. “Especially not Will.”

“Why not?”

“For a long time, he didn’t have any powers, and he was so jealous of mine, it seemed mean to complain about them to Will.”

“And now?”

“Now, he’s in the honeymoon phase with his new powers,” Layla says, “and it seems mean to bring him down.”

Not even Warren believes Stronghold can be that fragile. “I’m sure he’d get over it.”

“Maybe, but, you know. The things we do for our best friends,” Layla says, with a what can you do shrug, and returns to the faucet for another refill.

“So, why tell me?”

Layla chews the inside of her cheek. “I guess because you already have a complex about your own powers the size of Texas, thanks to your dad.”

“What?” Warren balks. “I do not.”

Layla squints. “Don’t you, though?”

“No. I—shut up.” Warren looks away, feeling hot all over.

Layla bends down to turn off the tap. A moment later, her hand on Warren’s shoulder startles him into looking back at her. Her big, brown eyes are wide with sympathy. “I shouldn’t have said that. I didn’t mean to upset you. I’m sorry.”

“I’m not upset,” Warren snaps.

“Okay.” Typical Layla, letting him feel whatever he’s going to feel and say whatever he’s going to say and refuse to throw hands about it.

Warren’s spark of anger sputters and dies. He huffs out an exhale. “It’s not only about my dad,” he admits, quietly, mostly to the floor.

Layla’s hand remains on his shoulder while she waits for an elaboration. Warren very carefully does not acknowledge it in any way, for fear it might stop.

“Fire is...useful,” he says. “But it can only destroy things. I can’t create. Not like…” He waves a hand around Layla’s room. “All I’m good for is fighting, and sometimes I wish—” Warren shoves a hand through his hair. “I dunno. It’s stupid.”

Layla’s hand squeezes his shoulder. “First of all, you are not your power,” she says. “No matter what Boomer or anyone else says. Second, fire is creative. It creates light and warmth.”

“If I’m ever transported back in time to an era before electricity, I’m sure that’ll be extremely handy,” Warren says, aiming for wry and not quite making it, because the tickly feeling that flitters to life in his chest whenever Layla says nice things about him is going wild.

Layla rolls her eyes. “Third of all, you do not need a superpower to create and nurture things.” Before Warren can stop her, Layla has pushed her watering can into his hand.

“What?” he says. “I don’t know anything about plants. I’d probably kill them all.” He holds the watering can out to Layla, who does not take it.

“Don’t act like you don’t have a book of Keats in your backpack right now,” she says. “If you know ‘To Autumn,’ you already know the most important things about plants. Everything else is technicalities.”

Warren gives her a doubtful look.

Layla sighs. “Trust me. Which you should, because I know literally everything about plants, and I’m a very good teacher, and I would not let you hurt any of my babies. Okay?”

Layla holds out her hand, and Warren has to channel all his concentration into keeping his cool enough that he doesn’t burn her when he takes it in his own. Layla grins, and Warren feels a little light-headed with the thrill of it.

“Come on,” she says, and pulls him toward the row of potted flowers where they left off. Warren follows, as helpless as any of the flora around them to resist the benevolent force of nature that is Layla Williams.

Misconception No. 4: Warren Peace doesn’t get scared.

This illusion is at least partly on purpose. Part of the do not fuck with me ethos Warren has been cultivating for the better part of three years.

In reality, plenty of things scare Warren. Like the idea that everyone is right about him after all, and he’ll end up on the Superheroes Guild’s Most Wanted List someday. Or that deep down, a kernel of grudge in his mother resents Warren for taking so closely after his father. But those are more midnight-existential-crisis concerns than acute fears.

Warren gets scared during battles, too. But the initial kick of adrenaline always seems to knock his consciousness clear of his body, such that he spends most of the fight controlling the firestorm of his fists from somewhere above the action. He usually doesn’t realize how freaked out he is until after the fact, when his brain plugs back into his body and he thinks, huh, my hands won’t stop shaking.

It’s rare that Warren feels, in real time, the bass-drum beat of his heart and a cold sweat breaking out on the back of his neck. But that’s exactly what happens every time he gets close to asking Layla out on a date.

He’s come close so many times. He’s had the tickets in his jacket pocket for weeks. But the prospect of actually asking Layla invites the prospect of Layla saying no, and Warren—can’t.

Sometimes, he can almost convince himself that she would say yes, despite the fact that Layla is kind, beautiful, mystical Layla, and Warren is social-pariah, problem-child Warren. Like last Tuesday, when Layla said “you’re such a disaster” with such heart-stopping fondness, while she pulled a rubber band from Warren’s hair to replace it with one of her own, more comfortable fabric hair ties. Or last Friday, while they were watching a movie at Layla’s place, and she tucked her socked toes under Warren’s thigh on the couch. Or yesterday, when she held her hands out over the picnic table for Warren to warm her pink fingertips between his palms.

And always, in the back of Warren’s mind: “You’re pretty, too.”

But whenever Warren opens his mouth to ask, his tongue goes dry and his palms go damp. It’s such a stupid thing to be afraid of, it makes Warren want to close his head in a locker. Worst case scenario, Layla turns him down. They’d still be friends. She wouldn’t be cruel. She’s Layla. But Warren isn’t used to having so much of himself caught up in another person. The idea that Layla isn’t equally caught up in him provokes a strangled, withering feeling in the pit of Warren’s stomach that he can only imagine would intensify tenfold after the actual rejection.

So, Warren’s been procrastinating.

But time is running out.

It does not help that Stronghold’s flock of freshmen is currently obsessing over Winter Formal like a bunch of… well, freshmen.

“You guys asking anyone?” Zach says at lunch, one day when freezing rain is lashing Sky High too hard for even Layla to sit outside. Zach hooks an arm over Magenta’s shoulder, as if to underline the fact that she’s already spoken for. Magenta rolls her eyes but doesn’t shrug him off.

“I would ask Larry,” Ethan says, pushing steamed vegetables around on his plate with his fork. “If I could stop going full-puddle every time he looks at me.”

Layla and Magenta make sympathetic noises.

“I think I’m gonna ask Abby,” Stronghold says, eyes cast over at a table where Warren assumes this Abby must sit. He hasn’t bothered to keep up with Stronghold’s latest romantic fixation. They’re already two—three?—full crush cycles past Layla. Warren can’t believe he ever felt threatened by a kid with the attention span of a housefly.

“She’d totally say yes,” Magenta says. “I overheard her about how hot you are during the Shapeshifting Students Association meeting.”

“Really?” Will says, at the same time Layla goes, “Magenta!”

“What?”

“Gossip.”

“Okay, Mother Williams,” Magenta says. To Will, “We’ll talk later.”

Layla looks intent on pressing the matter, but Ethan says, “Do you have a date, Layla?”

Everyone turns to Layla, except for Stronghold, whose eyes inexplicably flick over to Warren—who glares him into dropping eye contact.

“No,” Layla says, unconcerned.  

“Not yet,” Zach says. “Just a question of who asks first.”

Warren’s heart stutters, and he swallows back a “What?”

Luckily, Stronghold has less restraint. “What?” he says, like he wasn’t ogling another girl 0.2 seconds ago.

Zach looks at Stronghold like, Are you kidding? “Layla’s hot,” he says slowly. Magenta nods in agreement. “Chen, Robinson, and Feinstein are all thinking about asking.”

“And those are just the ones we’ve heard about,” Magenta says.

“Where are you guys getting this intel?” Ethan says. “We’re your only friends.”

“You can hear a lot from the inside of a locker,” Zach says.

“Or from the vents,” Magenta adds.

“Who’s still shoving you in a locker?” Layla says, frowning at Zach.

“Don’t deflect,” Magenta says. “Who are you going to take?”

“I don’t know,” Layla says, very pink and very determinedly acting like she’s not. “I didn’t know I had options until right now.”

Warren didn’t know he had competition until right now. In his defense, he deliberately pays as little attention as possible to rest of the Sky High student body, except for the five freshmen who invaded his space last fall and refused to leave. But of course other guys want to ask Layla.

Fuck.

“What about you, Bucky Barnes?” Zach says, throwing Warren an upward nod. “Got your eye on any hot junior goths we don’t know about?”

Warren scowls. “No.”

“Warren’s too cool for school dances,” Magenta says.

Stronghold frowns. “He took Layla to homecoming.”

“Only to make you jealous,” Layla is quick to correct.

Warren’s eyes snap over to her, but Layla isn’t looking at him. Just stabbing at her salad with her fork and letting her hair partially obscure her still pink cheeks.

An uncomfortable, sour feeling settles in Warren’s stomach. He makes himself look back at Zach. “I don’t do school dances. I have a thing anyway.”

“What thing?” Magenta says.

“A thing,” Warren says, with enough finality that even Zach knows better than to push it.

That is, until Stronghold corners Warren at his locker after final period to ask, “What thing do you have to do instead of Winter Formal?”

Warren continues loading books into his backpack. “A thing.”

Stronghold, in a bid for Warren’s full attention, shuts his locker door. As soon as Warren turns a glare on him, the kid goes bug-eyed.

“I am so sorry!” he says, reaching out to open the locker, only to remember that, duh, it’s Warren’s and he can’t. “I don’t know why I did that.”

“You’re an idiot.”

Warren must be spending too much time with Layla, because instead of picking Stronghold up by his shirt collar, he merely swats Stronghold’s hand away and unlocks his locker.

“It was only—I know someone who was hoping you’d ask them to Winter Formal,” Stronghold says, bouncing on the balls of his feet.

Warren fixes Stronghold with a flat expression. “You’re not my type.”

For an aspiring superhero, Stronghold flusters extremely easily. “Wh—not me!” he says, and then leans in and lowers his voice. “You know.”

Warren, who is not in the business of getting his hopes up—no matter how many summersaults his stomach is doing—raises his eyebrows.

“Layla,” Stronghold murmurs, so low that Warren has to read his lips.

Summersaults, cartwheels, handsprings. Warren’s stomach is performing a full-on gymnastics routine. “Did she tell you that?”

“No,” Stronghold admits, and Warren’s stomach immediately flops. “But I am something of an expert on Layla Williams.”

Warren, who has an entire September’s worth of evidence to the contrary, makes a psh noise.

Stronghold squares his shoulders and ticks off on his fingers: “She hangs out at the Lantern all the time. She eats lunch with you, alone, every other day. The way she talks about you—”

“She talks about me?”

“Dude.” Stronghold lays a hand on Warren’s shoulder, looking so delighted with the irony that it takes everything in Warren not to ignite. “You’re so stupid. She’s totally into you.”

“Don’t touch me.”

“Right.” Stronghold’s hand immediately slides off. “Seriously, though. If you don’t ask Layla to the dance, someone else will.”

“Noted,” Warren says, like he isn’t already tying himself into knots over that exact possibility.

“You’re gonna ask her, then?”

Warren heaves a sigh. He can’t believe he’s about to confide in Will Stronghold, of all people, but at this juncture it seems like the path of least resistance. “I have tickets to something that night, and I want to ask Layla to go with me.”

Stronghold has the audacity to look innocently perplexed. “So, why haven’t you?”

“I’m, you know.” Warren pushes back his hair. “Waiting for the right time.”

Stronghold looks dubious. “It’s a date, not a prom-posal.”

“I know that,” Warren snaps.

Stronghold blinks, and something seems to click in his head. His expression goes slightly amused and, even worse, sympathetic. “You’re nervous.”

“I am not,” Warren says, but it sounds like a lie even to his own ears. “I’m just waiting for the right moment.”

“Okay, well.” Stronghold blows out a breath and puts his hands on his hips. “Any chance the right moment might be, like, today? Around now-ish?”

Warren narrows his eyes. “Why?”

“Because Magenta texted me five minutes ago that Andrew Chen is standing next to our bus, waiting for Layla.”

Warren’s heart lurches. “You should have led with that, Christ.” Guess he’s doing this now. Is he really doing this now? He has to, so he is. Warren slams his locker and swings his bag over his shoulder. “Where is Layla?”

“Magenta said she stayed after class to talk to Mr. Boy about—oh, okay, then. Bye! Good luck!” Stronghold calls after Warren’s retreating figure as he strides off down the hall.

Warren is so preoccupied with figuring out what he’s going to say to Layla when he finds her that he nearly runs into her as she exits Mr. Boy’s classroom.

“Warren,” she says, blinking up at him in surprise. “Hi.”

Warren, who suddenly feels like he’s stepped on stage with no lines prepared, takes a second to remember how to breathe before he gets out a “Hi.”

Layla stares up at him expectantly. Right. He’s supposed to say more words.

“I wanted to talk to you about something.”

A pucker forms between Layla’s eyebrows. “Sure. I actually wanted to talk to you, too.”

Warren clenches the tickets between sweat-damp fingers in his pocket. “Okay. Do you want to…” He jabs a thumb over his shoulder at the mostly empty hallway.

“Okay.”

Layla follows him out into the hall, and they stand in semi-awkward silence until Warren says, “You first.”

“All right.” Layla tucks her hair behind her ears. She already looks embarrassed. Not good. “So, I might be way off base here, but I get the feeling you’ve been working yourself up to asking me to Winter Formal?” Her voice lilts up like a question, but she must find all the confirmation she needs in Warren’s expression, because she immediately continues, “and I just wanted to make it clear that you don’t have to.”

When Warren opens his mouth, “Oh” is all that comes out.

“Yeah.” Layla hooks her thumbs through the straps of her backpack. “I know school dances aren’t really your thing—and they’re not exactly mine, either. So I didn’t want you to think homecoming set some sort of precedent, that you have to ask—”

“I wanted to ask you,” Warren says, finally unsticking his throat.

It’s Layla’s turn for surprised silence. It takes a full two seconds for her to get out, “You did?”

“Yeah, but—not to the dance. Here.” Warren pulls the tickets out of his pocket. His thumb has smudged the ink of the top ticket, so he hands the bottom one to Layla. “Town hall is holding a fundraiser gala next Saturday to raise money to build a park on an empty lot in my neighborhood.”  

Layla takes the ticket in both hands and stares down at it.

“There’s going to be food and music and dancing,” Warren says, heart rate accelerating. “I think they’re going to auction off dedications for benches and flower beds and stuff. There will probably be a couple boring speeches by some government officials, but.” He shoves his hands in his pockets and shrugs. “I dunno. It sounded like it could be fun.”

Layla still hasn’t said anything, and Warren’s heart is throwing a fit in his ribcage, so he adds, “It’s the night of Winter Formal, though. So if you wanted to go to the dance with someone else and hang out with your friends, I totally—”

“No,” Layla says, looking up at him with bright eyes and a wide smile. “I’d love to go.”

“Yeah?”

“Yes.”

“Okay,” Warren says, too overcome by the cold flood of relief pooling in his gut to say anything more substantive than, “Cool.”

Layla carefully slots her gala ticket into the front pocket of her backpack. “Took you long enough,” she says, angling a teasing smile at Warren. “I couldn’t take another week of you opening your mouth like you were going to ask me something and then not saying anything.”

“Thank Stronghold,” Warren says, wondering what his life has come to, that those words just came out of his mouth. Must be the generosity of giddy relief.

Layla’s nose scrunches up in tickled confusion. “Why?”

“He warned me that Chen was gonna ask you to the dance this afternoon,” Warren says. “Sort of lit a fire under my ass.”

“But Andrew—” Layla breaks off with a laugh and shakes her head. “Will.”

“What?”

Layla takes Warren’s hand and starts walking them down the hall. “Andrew Chen’s been sick with the flu all week,” she says. “He’s not even here today.”

Warren’s mouth hangs open for a few seconds. “Stronghold.”

Layla laughs again and swipes her thumb across the back of Warren’s hand, and a great, soft warmth blooms in Warren’s chest.

Well. If he has to be indebted to Will Stronghold for something, this is as good a favor as Warren could have asked for.

Misconception No. 5: Warren Peace is not a touchy-feely person.

Warren himself would have sworn by this one, until a month ago. He has never, in all his life, considered himself a cuddly person. By any stretch.

It turns out that in order to identify as a cuddly person, you need someone to cuddle. Or, more specifically, someone you have permission to cuddle.

Dating Layla Williams finally gives Warren that permission.

He expected it to be harder, weirder, more awkward to transition from being someone who looks at Layla and thinks I want to put my arm around you, to being a person who can actually reach behind her back and curl his fingers over her hip bone.

It’s not hard at all. The first time Layla kisses Warren, up on her toes with her hands fisted in the lapels of his suit, in the dark of her front porch after the fundraiser gala, there’s a shift. A gravitational kick that sends them into closer orbit around one another, so that now it’s routine for Warren to wrap Layla in his jacket and tuck her into his side as they walk. Steal her hand to press her knuckles to his lips. Knock his knee gently against hers under their picnic table.

“Who knew Warren Peace was such a cuddle bug,” Magenta says, tipped back in a papasan chair to peer at Warren upside-down.

Warren is sitting on the shag carpet of Stronghold’s basement with his back against the couch to let Layla play with his hair while they talk over a movie. She’s just tied off an elaborate braid, so now his cheek is resting against her knee while she twirls the fine hairs at the nape of his neck around her fingers.  

“Call me ‘cuddle bug’ ever again and I’ll roast you like a marshmallow,” Warren says, too sleepy and comfortable to put any real heat behind the threat.

Magenta, true to form, doesn’t so much as blink. “Hate to break it to you, but an elegant Dutch braid kind of undermines your whole tough-guy act.”

Warren simply shrugs. It’s an occupational hazard of dating Layla, spending a lot more time around her—their?—friends outside school. Warren resisted at first, but at this point, it’s more exhausting to continue holding them all at arm’s length than to let them have the run of his life.

“Layla, in general, kind of undermines his whole tough-guy act,” Zach says. “You know he wrote her a poem for Valentine’s day.”

“Read her a poem,” Warren says. What else was he supposed to do? He couldn’t very well get Layla clipped flowers.

“That’s still sappy as hell, dude,” Ethan says.

“It was very sweet,” Layla says, leaning forward to plant a kiss on Warren’s forehead.

Warren unsuccessfully tries to bite back a smile.

“He’s preening so hard right now, oh my god,” Magenta says.

“Shut up.”

“Don’t tease him, or he won’t come back,” Layla says, but Warren hears the smile in her voice.

“Please. He’d go anywhere you go,” Magenta says, and as Layla’s fingertip traces the shell of Warren’s ear gently, always gently, Warren doesn’t even attempt to contradict her.

+1 Misconception: Layla Williams is a just happy, go-lucky hippy chick.

Outside Layla’s bedroom window, everything green is tucked under snow and the weight of waiting for spring. On the other side of the world, everything is burning.

Record-setting wildfires have raked Australia for weeks. Neither Layla nor her mom can directly feel what’s happening to the outback. But Layla knows her mom must sense it like she does, every time a singed koala or graveyard of splinterlike tree trunks appears on the news: a gnawing sensation that something on the far edges of her mind is vanishing into smoke.

The worst part is knowing there’s nothing Layla can do. Even if she had the means to get to Australia, there’s no way to salvage the aftermath of a forest fire. Layla wields incredible power over living organisms. But it’s like conducting an orchestra. Not much to be done if the entire ensemble is already dead when she takes the stage.

Actually, the real worst part is knowing that the inferno currently eating up Australia isn’t an outlier. The warming world is parching landscapes and revving up hurricanes, and every weather-related threat to her beloved biosphere is only going to get much, much worse. It makes Layla feel horribly, inescapably small.

To avoid sitting around the house and chewing her nails down, Layla takes on more volunteer shifts at the animal shelter. Helps Magenta with outreach for the Shapeshifting Students Association. Spends a couple Saturdays with the local river cleanup volunteer crew. Cooks dinner on the nights her mom is actually home. Overstudies for an exam in Hero Support.

It’s all a good distraction, but at the price of exhaustion. Layla feels emotionally sore. Like she’s been doing the psychological equivalent of running springs.

Case in point: “Layla?”

Layla blinks herself out of her middle-space-stare at the picnic table. “Hmm?”

Warren frowns. “I said, are you coming to the Lantern tonight?”

“Oh, no,” Layla says, and winces her apology. “Will’s coming over to study for Hero Support.”

“Why? You’re gonna ace that thing.”

“I promised Will I’d help him review.”

Warren’s frown deepens.

“What?”

“You should take a break,” he says.

Layla hides a yawn behind one hand and waves the other dismissively. “I’m fine.”

Warren gives her a flat look. Most of his expressions are pretty flat, but Layla has gotten good at reading the subtleties. This one says, quit your bullshit.

“What?” she says.

“You—” Warren spends a couple seconds struggling to find the right words. “Your hair is in a ponytail.”

Layla replays that in her overtired mind, wondering whether she heard correctly. “Excuse me?”

“No sparkly clip things. No scrunchies. You didn’t even do the thing where you wrap a little piece of hair around the elastic to hide it,” Warren says, as though that clarifies anything. When Layla’s expression makes clear that it does not, Warren sighs. “Babe. You’re exhausted.”

“Am not,” Layla says, and feels totally betrayed by her own body when the words are stretched out by a yawn. “Coincidence,” she says, in response to Warren’s unimpressed eyebrow-raise.

“Layla.”

“It’s fine,” she insists.

“Take a break,” Warren says, more insistently. “Stronghold can survive cramming for one exam on his own. Let baby bird learn to fly.”

“He’ll drop like a rock,” Layla says mournfully.

“Probably,” Warren says. “But you don’t have to be there for everyone all the time.”

Layla studies her bitten nails. “It makes me feel better.”

Warren’s ever-warm hands take hold of Layla’s, making her look up. But whatever he has in mind to say is interrupted by the bell. Warren gives her fingers a brief squeeze before releasing them, so that they can collect their things.

“Tell Stronghold to find himself another tutor so you can have a night off,” Warren says, hooking an arm over Layla’s shoulders as they head for the front doors. “Please.”

Layla does not. Which is why, when she says “come in” to the soft knock on her bedroom door at eight o’clock, she expects Will. Instead, she gets Warren, hovering on the threshold with his usual carefully concealed uncertainty, like he’s a vampire who has to wait to be invited in.

“What are you doing here?” Layla says, sliding off her bed. “I thought you had work.”

“Got someone to cover my shift,” Warren says. He’s holding what looks like a magazine. “This was more important.”

“What is… this?” Layla says. “You know Will’s going to be here any minute.”

“No, he’s not,” Warren says. “He’s at Magenta’s”

Layla narrows her eyes. “What did you do?”

“Told him to go find another study partner,” Warren says. “Since you’re already prepared.”

Layla crosses her arms and sinks her weight into one hip. “I told you, I want to help.”

Warren adjusts his grip on the magazine. Layla hears the paper stick to the sweat on his fingertips, but his determined expression doesn’t change. “Then help me.”

Layla blinks. “With what?”

Warren holds up what turns out to be a gardening catalog. “I want to get my mom a couple of indoor plants for her birthday,” he says. “Something pretty but doesn’t require a lot of attention, because she’s gone so much. I thought maybe you could help.”

Layla stares at him. “I love shopping for potted plants,” she says slowly.

Warren exhales a short laugh. “Uh, yeah, I know. And you are a good teacher, so.”

He rolls the catalog up between his hands and looks at Layla with guarded hope that shoots a bolt of affection like heat lightning straight through her stomach. She needs to sit down.

“Come in, then,” she says, and ushers him through the door. While Warren is taking off his shoes, “Just so we’re clear, you are not going to make a habit of rearranging my schedule behind my back.”

Warren stands up straight, dead serious. “Got it.”

Layla indulges a smile and leans up to kiss him. “I’ll forgive you this time, though.”

They sit on Layla’s bed, flipping through Warren’s catalog, as well as a stack of magazines that Layla has pulled out from under her desk. Warren loops his arms around her waist and hooks his chin over her shoulder, listening intently while she explains the care and keeping of flowers. It’s comfortable and easy and requires just enough idle attention to avoid falling into a slump. Layla could do this forever, she thinks.

Not an hour later, Layla is lying with her chin propped on her hands, which are folded over Warren’s chest, struggling to keep up conversation through yawns of increasing frequency.

“You can go to bed, you know,” Warren says, dryly amused, and tucks a strand of hair that has fallen out of Layla’s loose ponytail behind her ear.

“I might fall asleep right here on top of you, if you keep talking about it,” Layla says, closing her eyes and pillowing her cheek on her hands.

She feels, rather than hears Warren’s hitched inhale, and suddenly feels more acutely awake than she has all week.

Three seconds pass before Warren murmurs, “You can. If you want.”

Layla very carefully keeps her body relaxed and does not open her eyes to avoid breaking the fragile moment. “Mmm-kay,” she says, and adjusts to find a slightly more comfortable position. “Goodnight.”

“Night,” Warren says, one hand splayed between her shoulder blades, his other thumb smoothing the hair back at her temple.

Layla is so keenly aware of every point of contact that she thinks she might stay awake after all. But within minutes, the soft touch pulls her down into sleep.

[noprodigalson]

@tzdkh​ gets a drabble because i have no self-control

the place had an unsettling atmosphere, the stale breeze that kicked up dust and ash in the hallways whispering words of the building’s past tenants. even the shadows moved without a change in lighting, twisting around corners in way that should be impossible. the whole place held the weight of souls, too tormented to move onto the afterlife, but even in life, they lacked a grasp of reality and that made them fade into the background. these ghost were practically harmless, moving in the peripherals of one’s vision, whispering behind your back, but unable to really touch the world around them.

however that was not the case for all spirits in this asylum. when doing his research on the history of the building, dean quickly found the particular doctor who was to be hunted. there were a good amount of old case files and news articles that held the list of crimes they committed, his hubris causing pain to those who had been placed in his care and then became his eventual downfall. tables could turn on a whim and the good doctor seemed to forgot that.

the lights of the entire building began to flicker, dean watching the old and broken bulbs begin to glow and dim sporadically, knowing that the no power had been available to this institution for almost half a century. a flash of white catches the hunter’s attention and the sound of a shotgun being primed quickly echoed down the grimy halls. the hunter could feel the tickle of lips against his ear, eyes staying straight ahead as he refused to lose his focus on the more dangerous target before him. The soft rattle of buckles coming from behind him as he receives a singular warning.

“ he’s coming . . .  ”

once more, the lights flare and dean’s faced with the ghost that had tormented these halls even when alive. the deafening sound of his shotgun sends the spirit away with flecks of dust kicking up into the air. dissipated, but not banished— not yet. dean knew he had to move on to find whatever had been binding this man’s spirit here before it became too late.

he continues with a brisk pace, not wanting to risk any time. those that had lingered here, so-called ghost hunters or stupid kids chasing some thrill, had been found eventually. no one was quite sure of what had killed them, but electrical burns had been found along their body. dean had been sure that this particular spirit held some ability that caused those injuries, the constant power fluctuations that happened only supporting his theory.

it’s not until he reaches the office he had been searching for that he’s greeted once more with a face. he’s met with wrinkled skin, their eyes hazy as they reach for the hunter with boney fingers. It had caught the hunter off guard as he opened the door to be faced with the enemy, hand grabbing the front of his shirt as he was thrown across the room, landing on a desk. with the breath knocked out of him, chest heaving as he struggled to get air back into his lungs, he felt the soft caress of a hand against the side of his face. the lights flared once more as pain seared the side of his face, a blinding white covering his vision while continuing to struggle in their grasp.

“ i’m calling bullshit. ”

dean takes a sip of his whiskey, eyes lazily moving over to where stacey sat at the other end of the table. joey punching him in the arm as she gives him a stern look for interrupting.

“ why ?  ” dean asks. he knows not many here believe in the supernatural, but even then they at least seemed to enjoy his stories. most of them were tame, things that have been talked about in the media such as ghost stories and demon possessions. the hunter doubted they would believe he’s fought against gods and waged war against heaven.

“ ghosts aren’t real, right ?  besides, shouldn’t you have those burns you mentioned as well if you were getting zapped ?   it’s not there !  ”

while they had a fair point, the reason for those scars not remaining wasn’t something dean could easily explain. this particular hunt he was talking about had happened before his death and no scars from the time remained on his body after heaven had raised his tormented soul from hell and rebuilt his body. his skin had been unblemished except for his freckles, unlike the scarring that twisted and marred his soul.

“ it happened . . .  long ago, ”   dean says, giving deacon, who was sitting beside him, a look. they knew the story of his scars and lack thereof. dean wonders if they have memorized those marks on his body like the winchester has.     “ and i was saved pretty quickly. turns out some of the other spirits there really didn’t like the guy. there was this epic ghost battle. It was pretty rad. ”

he could hear a disbelieving scoff from the other deputy, but that was of no worry. the other’s enjoyed his story and dean knew pratt was just simply biased.

“ that’s why you’re staying at the hotel aren’t you ?  ” he hears Joey ask, receiving a nod in confirmation from the hunter. after explaining he was something of a ghost hunter, some of the people in the prescient had become interested in his activities, asking for stories. the winchester had to gain their trust first, of course, but after winning deacon’s heart and knowing just how far this stranger would go for one of their own deputies, they had begun to warm up. that was what led them to this particular scene, with the drawl of southern rock in the background, beer bottles beginning to build up on the round table they had claimed. dean’s own bottle of whiskey stood out like a sore thumb, but they didn’t ask considering mary may had brought it out for him herself. While he did receive some pointed looks, dean simply shrugged and poured his own drink ( besides, he didn’t have to work in the morning, why did he have to take it easy ?  and he’s been good. they should have a tracker :  no fights in 8 days. )

his thumb rubs against deacon’s shoulder, dean having thrown his arm around the deputies back as he got into the story. some of the other patrons had begun  to pay attention to the wild tale about ghosts, but mostly they stuck to their own groups. the presence of both the officers and the hot-headed winchester was enough to make them mind their own business. simply put, it was a relaxing day. with the music filling the silence, the sharp crack of pool balls from a game just across the bar, the murmurs of soft conversation, one could almost believe this town was normal.

with a little effort, dean pushes his chair back, removing his arm from deacon’s shoulder to start rummaging his pockets for a pack of cigarettes. once he finds them he nudges the man with his elbow, motioning towards the door with his head. “ gonna grab a little bit of fresh air, wanna join me ?  ”

he sees a small smile forming on the deputy’s face, acquiescing to the offer and rises with the hunter. as dean hip checks the door open, he points his cigarette towards the shaggy haired deputy who had doubted his story.    

“ and no touching my bottle !  nonbelievers don’t get any !  ”

he hears joey’s laughter as the door closes behind them, knowing she’s gonna rub it in her partner’s face as she steals a swig from the bottle herself. the act brings a smile to his face, one that is mirrored by his particular favorite deputy. the soft sound of a lighter being clicked only blends into the muffled music coming from the bar. the hunter leans close to them while standing against the wall, eyes trailing up and down that weather face he holds so reverently in his hands. if he hadn’t just lit his smoke, dean probably would be doing exactly that. of course, there was later tonight, but the hunter had never been one for patience.

“ having a good night ?  ” deacon asks, seeing the dumb smile on the winchester’s face. dean hopes they know how much his heart aches for this man, that even if his soul is lost, blackened and scarred beyond belief, dean would give them the one last thing he had left. there may not be any cheesy body and soul moments, but the hunter wasn’t going to let that stop him from at least offering what he could.

“ you know it, cowboy. thinking about havin’ a even better night later, ” the reply comes, falling easily off the winchester’s tongue as he shifts suggestively closer and making a show of sucking on his cigarette before blowing the smoke out slowly. there’s a small flush that begins to form that starts to cascade down their neck even as the deputy rolls their eyes. they may have been the focus of dean’s teasing and suggestive comments ever since he laid eyes on the beautiful, hat wearing, handcuff happy deputy, but that didn’t mean they were able to brush the lascivious comments off.

“ you’re drunk. ” they say with a smile on their face, ignoring how dean has begun to shift closer and closer. with a flick, the cigarette flies off onto the pavement, freeing a hand for dean to grab a belt loop with a quick hook of his index finger.

“ and you, my deputy, are burning hot. what do you expect me to be thinking about ?  ”

there’s a small sigh, fondness escaping from their lips as dean watches them with adoration in his eyes. while he may be drunk, he still means the words he says and the emotions behind them. as dean continues to watch that face he loves so much, he catches the growing smile. he wonders what is going through that head, what thoughts were hiding behind those stunning eyes. he gets his answer soon enough.

“ you know, while you’re spending all that time out here fantasizing, I’m pretty sure joey’s finished the rest of your whiskey by now. ”

green eyes widen, showing off the whites in realization of just how much time has passed, enough to finish a cigarette and tease. there a small string or curse words mutter as dean quickly turns around and barges through the front door. laughter and friendly shouting manages to slip through the door as it closes behind the winchester. dean not getting to hear the chuckle that comes from Saint or the eyes that follow the hunter with a level of care and emotion. with one last sigh and roll of their eyes, they push off the wall to follow the hunter back in. someone had to make sure the idiot didn’t get into too much trouble.

[akanemiura]

Epic

Muscle against metal, bones to dirt; the thudding and scraping of the smaller scuffles that make a larger war had become secondary to her own rapidfire breathing pumping in and out and in and out of her charred lungs, choked thick with the cinders of a village that couldn’t be saved. Parrying chimes were answered with warcries were answered with the death scream of horses being slaughtered and dragging their masters down, too.

The smell of petrichor rising up from the wet ground⁠—wet with rain, with viscera; who could tell anymore?⁠—made the whole bloody mess feel deeply, unshakably ritual and elemental to being. Soldiers who had once displayed an unmovable, stoic discipline for years in their training right down to the ruler-straight seams of their uniforms now transformed in an instant to muddy, feral beasts who licked their lips to a glisten and gnashed with impatience, roiling and seething with volcanic rage while hot flames tore through shopfronts and cottages distantly beyond the field of battle.

But not her.

She had a focus not unlike a trance, one that saw her swaying and moving like water around the impotent swings of those who would see her cut to pieces. It was as though she’d been possessed by spirits unknown who saw fit to expose her enemy’s motions a moment before even he knew what he would do. She adjusted her grip on her patient blade, invoking the perfect stillness of a coiled viper, and watched the lowered horns of a soldier’s helmet lower toward her like a bull ready for a gore. It was over in a matter of seconds and the blood tasted the way her sword sounded when it clashed with his, turned it away, and immediately drove deep into the unguarded, yielding flesh that makes a mortal mortal. Victory.

--

The early light of day was just beginning to warm the paper screens of her simple room when she arose from dreams of war bloodless and unscathed. Akane had never known the brutal struggles of her great-great-great-great-greats, but the stories of valor had echoed down through the ages until it pervaded her sleep, until she was playing out lessons from the training yard in her mind’s simulations of history as told by her forebears. At her most honest, she yearned mightily for fantasy to be made flesh, wished selfishly for Kugane’s newer age of peace to rattle ever-so-slightly so she might have a chance—a real chance—to prove her Miura worth as all who came before, with body and mind thrown into the environment for which it had been honed tirelessly for years. Alas.

As the sound of bokken clacking and childish laughter permeated the stillness of morning, she sighed. Heroes looked a lot different these days.

[andrewuttaro]

New Look Sabres: GM 26 - TOR - The Eichel Standard

6-4 Regulation Win

Let’s have a moment of honesty. I’ll start. I expected this to be a signed sealed and delivered loss (I think many of us did). I had a rip-roaring time watching that epic Buffalo Bills game on Thanksgiving to the point where I was near dreading a home and home series with the team I hate more than any other in the world (I think many of us did). The Buffalo Sabres, losers of 11 out of 13, up against a hated Leafs squad fresh off the firing and roasting of their former coach rattling off three straight wins, is the setup for a massively painful loss… or a very cathartic win... and a playoff spot at the moment *Heavily suggestive nudging*. We’ll come back to that. One more moment of honesty: I have begun to feel dirty roasting the Leafs fans who file into Key Bank Center in droves as of late. The reality that has been attested to me a dozen times is these are mostly folks who haven’t and may never see a Leafs game in Toronto. They’ve been priced out. Instead of feeling offended that so many thrifty season ticket holders in the lower bowl sell their tickets to Leafs fans… we should really pity these Leafs fans and give them good treatment. They are priced out by an organization that has sucked ass for half a century and not even granted them the dignity of watching it live. Just a thought. I digress. What is the greatest game against the Leafs in Sabres history? Greatest Game Against for this divisional rival actually has scanter options than you might think. There is no Leafs-Sabres game in the top fifteen of the Buffalo News’ top 50 games in franchise history. These teams are rarely good at the same time and the one time they were gave us the only playoff series between the two in the 1999 Eastern Conference Final, a series won by the Sabres I may add. The Greatest Game Against the Leafs in franchise history comes in that series: Game 5. The 4-2 win sealed the second trip to the Stanley Cup Final in franchise history. Like many big moments the team got in the late 1990s it was backstopped by Dominik Hasek being the best goaltender in the world but nonetheless the Sabres won a trip to the biggest series for the organization since the mid-70s so whose complaining? That series allows us to carry the historical playoff edge against the Leafs into a playoff series I now feel is as inevitable as Thanos. I guess we’ll see about that. Last night was a boost, no doubt about that.

Buffalo did what they’ve been good at lately: getting a neat little hot start and getting our hopes up before absolutely roasting our turkey. There are nights where Jack Eichel has a game. There are nights when Linus Ullmark has a game. Last Night they both had a game. William Nylander outmaneuvered Johan Larsson and Marco Scandella back on the other end and suddenly found himself on a breakaway. Linus Ullmark said: ain’t no problem. He scooped it up to thunderous applause. I wasn’t at this game so I’m not going to comment on the Leafs jerseys to Sabres jerseys ratio but from the sound of it both fanbases had the power of applause. Auston Matthews disappeared throughout this game; but the guy who was mature enough for the C did not. This game could be framed as the battle of the Captains. John Tavares broke the scoreless tie late in the first period with a quick shot from Ilya Mikheyev. I think Linus Ullmark was screened by both Leafs and Sabres players on that one. Sometimes it seems as though this club either doesn’t know how to defend the net or defends it so hard the goalie can’t do his job. Either way it was 1-0 after one period. Tavares struck again early in the second period. Eichel and Spezza had both gone to the box creating a 4-on-4 and some space for creative players on the Leafs. This 2-0 goal I feel comfortable blaming on Ullmark. Tavares leads a 2-on-3 and the puck ends up way behind the net. Ullmark splayed out on his belly way too early and JT got his own rebound and tapped it in. I suppose it also would have helped if the Sabres defenders were a little tougher on Tavares but hey, they held Auston Matthews off the score sheet so I’m not complaining, well at least not after the Buffalo Sabres arrived in this game shortly before six minutes into the second period.

Brandon Montour kept the puck in the offensive zone on a failed Leafs zone exit and passed it to Johan Larsson. Larsson goes in and doesn’t see his shot, so he drop passes it to one of the best trailers in the league in my humble opinion: Jeff Skinner. Yes, Skinner on a line centered by Johan Larsson is some interesting strategy from Ralph Krueger and you probably have seen the roasts of the strange deployment. Me, well I’m going to save those roasts for the losses. Skinner ripped off an Eichel-esque wrist shot that Michael Hutchinson never responded to. Just right in. Funny part of this story as we go onto the flowering of the Sabres offense here: man-of-the-people new Leafs coach Sheldon Keefe asked the players what they thought of the difficult backup position they got up there and they wanted Hutchinson called up. Hutch must feel like he got the raw end of that deal, eh? Spoiler Alert: he let six goals in. After the Skinner goal both teams botched a powerplay and as the Leafs’ one expired Jack Eichel came out of the box to pick up a juicy stray puck that had wandered into the neutral zone. Him, Marcus Johannson and Conor Sheary go off to the races on a 3-on-1. Jack Eichel does a Jack Eichel Special and this game is tied. If you watch this team regularly you probably know what a Jack Eichel Special is: quick release wrist shot from the point, preferably on the rush. That’s yummier than Thanksgiving stuffing! The feast had just begun! Marco Scandella shot from the point and Casey Mittelstadt bats at it to create a redirect of the year candidate for the 3-2 lead. Now if you want to find some similarities between these two teams its not hard. One might be that both have enough skill guys to draw defenders out of their coverages. That’s what happened when another Leafs powerplay was ending and Jack Eichel had the puck. He has the puck behind the Leafs net along with 3(?) blue & white defenders… yeah, you know who that left open: Victor Olofsson. Goalofsson is no longer in an exclusive relationship with the powerplay, now he’s taking shots in all situations and he puts the Sabres up 4-2 to put a nice little bow on the first forty minutes of this game.

Almost seven minutes into the final frame Dmytro Timashov get a shot off through the woods and the Leafs are back within one. You can’t sit back in this league, the Sabres have learned that the hard way. But with the Leafs you can’t only not sit back, you need to bury them alive. You have to beat them so bad they’re thinking of their next opponent to beat these guys. The third period was a kind of touch-and-go experience as the Leafs closed in and the Sabres extended their lead. I was in a movie for this game and when I was looking at the scorers afterwards I saw Jimmy Vesey unassisted and thought to myself: three unassisted breakaway goals in the three games? What are the chances? I come to find out it wasn’t a breakaway, but it was one of those embarrassing goals you watch happen and think: “Yeah, that’s going to be showed in a Leafs video session.” They gave up the puck right in the slot and Jimmy Vesey takes it and hardly has to do the cotton eyed joe to get through the defenders right up to Hutchinson. When Vesey got there he put a goal that actually merits the name “Greasy Vesey”: five hole from point blank. Oh, this was the moment this game became cathartic. Not only is Jack Eichel roasting the Leafs, now its his BU drinking buddy tapping in five-hole stingers. Kasperi Kapanen closed the Leafs to within one again mere minutes later on another goal Ullmark probably wants back. And so it would be a one goal game for the last eight minutes until Jack Eichel got the puck in the defensive zone with a Leafs empty net and launched an ICBM all the way down ice into the open cage for the final score line of 6-4. That’s right, the Sabres didn’t just beat the Leafs, they did it in regulation like a bunch of Gs. If we could have a game like that every night a lot fewer fans would be calling Buffalo’s turkey roasted at this phase of the season.

The NHL gave three stars honors to Eichel, Vesey and Tavares but I’m going to change one of those. Jack Eichel was not only good on the score sheet; he literally had a perfect game in zone entries and breakouts. Those are the stats of a leader. If that behavior infects his teammates we won’t be talking about another lost season much longer. If we see players on this team at least showing Eichel’s drive to win each night then what could happen? The answer is beautiful things with the Eichel Standard. Star number two ought to be Linus Ullmark who has secretly been behind some of the Sabres recent almost success and tonight: actual success. Ullmark has a .913 save percentage, which is very much on the good side, having started five of the last seven games. Think about the last seven games, how many of them do you think the goalie came out looking that good? The tide might be turning on this tandem. The time is shortly before noon on Saturday I’m going to post this. A lot can change in the next 24 hours in this league, not to mention the outcome of a second game between these two teams tonight in Toronto; but as of right now the Buffalo Sabres sit in a playoff spot at third place in the division. Say what you will about this club wasting a fantastic October, or losing in spectacular fashion against lesser teams, or even the seeming inability of the GM to rotate out some defensive depth so his Coach can stop rotating good defenseman out of the lineup; this team is not out of it. Not yet. I did Thanksgiving Playoffs last postgame remembering that most of the teams in the playoffs on American Thanksgiving are in the dance come the end of the season. The playoff picture in the east right now is tight AF. No, frustrated we might be game to game this season has all the makings of not being over. Stop writing the epitaph while the body is warm. Being a Sabres fan sucks but you got to give it the space to not suck sometimes.

After the Leafs tonight we have the DEVILS who are just as bad as the last time we checked. After that the Sabres fly out on a Western Canada road trip I’m not too afraid of. I’m not telling you they’re going to create separation in the standings, we’ve watched this team enough to know opportunity is often squandered, but I doubt we’re as doom and gloom about this team when we see the Leafs again in three Tuesdays. Just an idea, I’ll probably be wrong, right? Tampa is also waiting to come alive like a loaded coil sitting outside the playoff picture so I should be more hesitant to get excited, eh? Like, share and comment on this blog to hop on board to remind me when I’m wrong. Happy Holidays, it seems as though we can be happy this holiday season just off Bills energy. Call me a fool but I’ve got some serious Sabres energy going on right now too. Let’s Go Buffalo!

Thanks for Reading.

P.S. The Tim Hortons Rivalry. Let’s make that a thing. Nobody outside Southern Ontario or Western New York knows wtf the QEW is so let’s not name the rivalry after a fucking highway. This is a sleeping giant of a rivalry that we are naming after a fucking road. Think about it. The more you think about “Tim Hortons Rivalry” the more it makes sense.

[lokilickedme]

So actually two: Dia Laisir and The Liar

I don’t even know where to start with Dia Laisir, honestly.  Folklore?  Mythology?  A 3 a.m. rant fueled by too much coffee, way too many Little Debbies, and a seven day run of not enough sleep?  Getting close, I think.

Dia Laisir is a totally made up little minor god that I invented to explain King McClary’s apparently fireproof boots.  Loki battled him in the Scottish Highlands way back in the day before people were the dominant species there, and upon the minor god’s defeat and subsequent banishment, Loki cast him into an inanimate object and bound him there so he couldn’t fuck around with the few heathen humans that had migrated into the land.  The whole casting thing might have been totally on accident, by the way - Loki’s never been terribly accurate with his magic and popular opinion has it that he was actually trying to obliterate the demon.

Shit goes wrong and alcohol’s a hell of a problem, ya know?

Dia Laisir didn’t like that much, as you can probably guess.  First off, Loki wasn’t even supposed to be in Scotland.  Norse god, messing around in the Highlands?  What the hell’s that about?  Second, that wasn’t all the god of mischief and general fuckery did to old Dia.  Before he shoved him into the trunk of a tree to live the rest of his natural-born as a knotty pine, Loki banished Dia’s lover, Souflou, into a nondescript chunk of silver that some axe-wielding lunatic had tucked into his sporran, thus separating the two forever.

Yeah, there was a whole lot of fuck you Loki spinning around in Dia Laisir’s head for the next few decades until some axe-wielding lunatic chopped down the tree he was bound to (probably the same one hauling haunted semi precious metals around in his crotch bag, but history doesn’t verify much) and accidentally set him free.

Stuff started burning.  Forests, villages, pretty much anything with a flammability rating went up in smoke, because Dia was pissed.  Souflou had been shuffled around from place to place in that silver chunk, molded into various bits and bobs as the heathens learned how to turn silver into useful things, and every time Dia got close to finding her the silver that housed her spirit changed hands or was made into something else.  And so Dia Laisir’s rage burned, and so did big chunks of the Highlands.

Eventually Loki caught a whiff of the smoke from wherever he was, I dunno probably getting dicked down by some eleven-legged something or other, and with a dramatic sigh he poofed himself over to Scotland again to find out what the hell was going on.  Dia was supposed to be in a frigging tree trunk, wasn’t he?  Naw, he was running all over the hills and moors and lochs doing his damndest to obliterate the human scourge that kept moving his love around so that he couldn’t find her, and after an epic battle royale in which Loki siphoned off about half of Dia’s firestarting powers (hey, those might come in handy later) he finally managed to send crankybutt’s spirit into a sword strapped to the saddle of a passing local.  May or may not have been a McClary, btw.  Just sayin.

But that sword had a nasty habit of transferring the soul inside it to whoever it killed, which you can imagine was a messy bit of business because the guy who owned it was a bloodthirsty son of a bitch.  Like I said, possibly a McClary, and you know how they are.

So Loki yanked Dia Laisir out of the sword after a few years of hearing stories about the cursed blade and all the lopsided battles its owner kept winning, and while sitting in a dark smoke-filled pub one night half drunk out of his head and obsessing over what the hell to put this thing into where it couldn’t interfere with the natural progression of Scotland’s ruling power, he tried to send it into a shield that was hammered onto the wall over the fireplace - but too much mead and Loki being Loki, he passed out in the middle of the banishment spell and when his head hit the table the soul’s trajectory went south to the floor instead of northeast to the fireplace.

Into the left boot of a big black haired brute of a warrior that was currently wolfing down a leg of lamb while simultaneously groping a leg of barmaid.

Loki woke the following morning laying face down across the table he’d passed out on, and the brute with the cursed boots was gone.  Eh, good riddance, the boots would eventually wear out and be discarded and Dia would go with them into the fire, where his spirit would disperse into the cosmos.  Not Loki’s problem anymore.

Except Dia Laisir was a wily fucker, and figured out a way to slip out of the boots through a hole in the sole.

So Loki dragged his gettin-tired-of-this-shit hiney back to Scotland again, and since putting a fearsome god inside something like a pair of shoes that some lowly human would wear on their feet - stepping in cow shit and stomping on bugs - made Loki giggle like a schoolgirl, he did it again, only this time with a sturdier pair of footwear that wouldn’t be so easy to get out of.

It worked.  Dia was stuck, harmless, incapacitated, forced to watch the decades and then the centuries pass from two inches above the ground.  And each time Loki started to smell the smoke that signaled the end of the lifespan of Dia’s current home and the likelihood of his escape, he would return to Scotland and move the angry spirit into another pair of shoes.

Until finally the modern era erupted around humankind, and with it came good quality, durable, high-lifespan materials and the means by which to turn them into goods that could take a beating without disintegrating quickly.  A man named Klaus Martens was born and started using those materials to make shoes that were damn near indestructible.  And Loki’s problems with the fire god were finally over.

The thick-soled sturdy boots that he sent Dia into would last damn near forever.  But just to be safe, when those boots started to show heavy wear and had changed hands multiple times, he returned to Scotland one more time and acquired them through somewhat nefarious means (we won’t go into that part right now) and, using the illusion of a homeless man, he roamed the streets of Glasgow with them on his own feet in search of someone trustworthy to entrust them to.  Because he was sick of running back and forth to Scotland every couple of decades to keep doing this shit - he was getting old, he had other things to do with his time thanks so much.  He needed someone he could trust to keep the fire god’s spirit safe and secluded and far, far away from his lover...because Souflou had eventually ended up in a child’s silver rattle which was sitting right that moment in the display window of a gift shop in Edinburgh, and Dia Laisir could sense her nearness.  If the two of them ever ended up in close proximity again it would be the end of the world as we know it.  Humankind would burn.

The Trickster had no particular love for humanity, but it provided him with entertainment and he wasn’t big on the idea of taking the blame for yet another genocide.

So Loki, in the guise of a street beggar, waited for someone worthy to acknowledge him.  Tens, hundreds, and then thousands of people passed him by, disinterested in him, ignoring his presence -

- until the day a young boy sat down next to him wearing a brand new pair of boots.

“Nice boots” Loki said.

The boy just nodded.  He didn’t like his new boots.  They were stiff and hurt his ankles.  His grandda had insisted they would break in soon and be comfortable, but the boy felt his nerves going up in flames with every step as the hard leather rubbed his skin.  His eyes, green like Loki’s, kept going to the ratty worn out boots on the beggar’s feet.

And then without a word the boy unlaced his brand new Doc Martens and took them off, then knelt down at the beggar’s feet and unlaced the worn out boots and replaced them with his own, tying the ties slowly before putting the old, dusty, broken down pair on his own feet.

And Loki smiled.

He’d found a human that he knew could handle the cranky fire god.  This boy was quiet but strong, silent but smart, and somehow he knew the child understood the importance of those boots.

He must be one of mine, the trickster god thought proudly.  He’d never visited Scotland without availing himself of the charms of the locals, and as a result the land was fairly crawling with many generations of his offspring.  The boy’s soft green eyes and black hair certainly reminded him of himself.  Hmm.  There was something else too...the line of the kings had come to a lurching halt a couple of generations back as the modern age stripped the people of any desire to hold onto the old ways, but Loki sensed it in the lanky teenager.  He was a king.

“They don’t look like much, but they’ll get you where you’re going,” he told the boy, pointing toward the boots on his feet.  “Fireproof, you know.  And you will be too, when you’re wearing them.”

The boy nodded.  An old woman ducked her head out of the bakery they were sitting against and smiled when her eyes fell to them.

“Get in here boy, I’ve got your sweeties on the table.”

The boy stood, testing the fit of the boots.  They felt good.  Comfortable.  Like they belonged to him.  The barest hint of a smile tugged his lips and he looked at the beggar, holding out one hand to help him up off the sidewalk.

The heavily frosted and ridiculously decorated pastries the boy shared with him as they sat together at a little table in the back of the bakery were the best damn thing Loki thought he’d ever tasted in his long, tiresome, faintly ridiculous life.  And Dia Laisir smoldered, sending a heat into the boy that tempered him like a flame hardens steel.  He would need that strength, Loki knew.  But it would be okay.

The boy was worthy.

[starringemiliaclarke]

Emilia Clarke on Why Game of Thrones Is the Perfect Form of Escapism + HQ Scans

As Daenerys Targaryen on Game of Thrones, Emilia Clarke created a warrior queen for the ages. Her legend can be told on the walls of caves or on T-shirts at Comic-Con. But behind the Valkyrie wigs and very testy dragons, Clarke has an inspiring origin story of her own.

A valley sprawls before her, rich with every color of green in the kingdom, reaching out to a twinkling city, which borders the infinite sea. Her hair (tinted not with peroxide, but tiny flecks of actual gold) glows with a radiance that makes the setting sun so jealous it hides behind the surrounding mountains, and the evening sky blushes. She is Daenerys Targaryen, Queen of the Andals, Breaker of Chains, Mother of Dragons, Khaleesi of the Great Grass Sea. Everything in sight belongs to her.

Just kidding! She is Emilia Clarke, sitting high above Beverly Hills in a glass mansion rented for a magazine cover shoot. So high up that passing aircraft rattle the bones of the house and those inside it. So high up that you can see Santa Catalina Island in the distance, peeking out from behind a curtain of fog. She laughs about something the makeup artist says, and the last of the evening light bounces off of her cheekbones and shoots into the camera lens.

We are in the sky to talk about Clarke’s reign as one of the most preeminent television actresses of our time, as Daenerys on Game of Thrones. But first, I have a few questions about her abandoned career as a jazz singer.

Clarke’s default emotion is joy — her resting heart rate seems to be just below that of someone seconds after winning a medium-expensive raffle prize — but it quickly congeals into theatrical horror when I reveal that I know that she is a casual but talented singer of jazz music.

When she was 10, Clarke was an alto in a chorus that she describes as “very churchy.” Then a substitute teacher introduced her class to jazz. “I just innately understood it,” she explains. “I was always sliding up and down the notes. Every time, the [chorus] teacher would be like, ‘Quit sliding, just sing that note and then that one and that’s it. Stop trying to fuck with it.’ Then this [jazz teacher] was like, ‘Fuck with it. That’s the point.’ ” Fast-forward a couple of decades, and Clarke was singing “The Way You Look Tonight” at the American Songbook Gala in New York, honoring Richard Plepler, erstwhile CEO of HBO. Nicole Kidman was there, too, and that is the story of Emilia Clarke, a very famous singer.

Just kidding, again! That is the story of Emilia Clarke, extremely famous actress, and it is not even the beginning. Game of Thrones, the HBO fantasy epic that has captured the global zeitgeist for most of the past decade, has entered its ultimate season. Since the show premiered in 2011, Daenerys’s searing platinum blonde has been branded into the brains of every living person with cable access, so much so that she has become as recognizable an action figure as Princess Leia. Every autumn, legions of Americans don Grecian-style dresses and carry stuffed dragons to Halloween parties in homage. Kristen Wiig even appeared on The Tonight Show Starring Jimmy Fallon in a full Daenerys getup. This phenomenon exists in part because it’s a relatively easy costume to assemble, but more likely because Game of Thrones is the most popular TV show in the history of TV shows.

It’s also just one of three popular entertainment franchises Clarke has participated in. Last year: Solo: A Star Wars Story, as a paramour of Han Solo. Two years before that: the fifth Terminator movie, beside Arnold. She was also Holly Golightly in a short-lived Breakfast at Tiffany’s production on Broadway. None of those projects were particularly successful — but none of that matters, to a remarkable degree, because what matters is: The people love Daenerys.

They love a character whose series arc begins with her indentured servitude as a warlord’s concubine and ends, most recently, with her fighting for sovereignty over a league of nations and for a throne made of swords. They love how fictional languages drift from her mouth like dancing smoke, and how her searing-white mane retains a fearsome curl, even in or near battle. They love the whole dragons thing.

The people would love Emilia Clarke, too, if only they knew who she was. During the first few seasons of Game of Thrones, Clarke was able to fool the general public into believing she was very regular civilian Emilia Clarke, because Daenerys was blonde, and Clarke was not. Now, she says, recognition happens more frequently. Particularly Stateside.

For reasons I cannot fathom, Americans feel more entitled to command the attention of celebrities. “People are like, ‘UH-melia CLORK!’ ” she says, in perfect American. In London, people are prone to whisper about her as she passes by. “ ‘Was that Emilia Clarke?’ ”

“I move like a shark when I’m in public,” she says. “Head down. I think I’ve got quite bad posture because of it, because I’m determined to lead a normal life. So I just move too quickly for anyone to register if it’s me or not. And I don’t walk around with six security men and big sunglasses and a bizarre coat. I really try to meld in.” It gets worse when the show is being promoted, but otherwise, she says, it’s not so bad.

“I move like a shark when I’m in public. Head down…I’m determined to lead a normal life, so I just move too quickly for anyone to register if it’s me or not.”

Her best efforts aside, anonymity may be a pipe dream. The show is as decorated as a Christmas tree in a craft store. Game of Thrones has won a Peabody and 47 Emmys, the most of any television drama in history. The show marries critical praise with popular success, then it mercilessly slaughters those who have come to celebrate this union and receives even more acclaim (“The Rains of Castamere,” season 3, episode 9). The plotlines are famously convoluted. Luckily, we have an entire web’s worth of episode explainers, encyclopedias designed specifically for the Westeros universe, and a self-explanatory Funny or Die segment called Gay of Thrones, starring Jonathan van Ness.

When Mad Men first aired, television bloggers dutifully unpacked its symbolic elements, and millennials celebrated the show’s style with Mad Men–themed parties that were really just ’60s-and-one-red-wig-themed parties. Game of Thrones is basically an economy of its own. Since the show premiered, tourism to Croatia, whose coastal port Dubrovnik stands in for the fictional city of King’s Landing, has nearly doubled. Game of Thrones–themed weddings are so popular that it is almost impossible not to attend them — in 2016, Clarke accidentally walked into one that was occurring at the same hotel where she and the cast were staying during filming. (It was not a canonical wedding, and no guests were harmed.)

Game of Thrones has also earned one of the most important pop culture accolades of the century: The attention of Beyoncé Knowles. I believe it is her favorite TV show, and this is why.

Exhibit A: Jay-Z reportedly gave her a prop dragon’s egg from the set, at great personal expense. Exhibit B: At an Oscars after-party this year, Beyoncé approached Clarke (“voluntarily,” according to the actress) to introduce herself. “I watched her face go, ‘Oh, no, I shouldn’t be talking to this crazy [woman], who is essentially crying in front of me,’ ” remembers Clarke. “I think my inner monologue was, ‘Stop fucking it up,’ and I kept fucking it up.”

“I was like, ‘I just saw you in concert.’ And she was like, ‘I know.’ ” Clarke also mentions that Beyoncé complimented her work but declines to share specifics.

Why are people (more specifically, everybody) and goddesses (more specifically, Beyoncé) all obsessed with a show about some dragons and lots of dungeons?

“The show is sensationalist in a way,” Clarke explains, in an effort to describe a TV series that features twins having sex and a child’s defenestration in the very first episode. It doesn’t matter — Clarke’s conversational style is so intimate and emphatic that basic facts feel like sworn secrets. When she smiles, she does so with every single muscle in her face. “It’s the reason why people pick up gossip magazines. They want to know what happens next…. You’ve got a society that is far removed enough from ours but also circulates around power. How that corrupts people and how we want it, and how we don’t want it.”

In other words, Game of Thrones’ value proposition is creating a rich other world for people to experience a prestige, high-production version of pure, horny, violent, unbridled drama. It is, according to Clarke, pitched perfectly: “I think it caught Western society at exactly the right moment.”

“I don’t know about you,” she says, “but when I watch something, it’s escapism. I’m feeling crappy; I’m just sad, moody, depressed, upset, angry, whatever it is. I know that distraction is what makes me get better. Distraction is what really, really helps me.” She laughs and then quickly pivots to a caveat: “I’m sure that’s not what a therapist would advise.”

It is at this point that Emilia Clarke leans in very close, her breath knocking at my sideburn, and explains to me the bombastic and devastating ending to the most important TV show of the decade.

Wow — just kidding once more. But, uh, while we’re on the topic, how is this whole thing going to end?

It was not hard to root for the Breaker of Chains, until recently. Now we’re seeing the gentle unspooling of her character, and flickers of a dangerous prophecy that she will ascend the throne only to follow in her father’s footsteps and burn it all to the ground. For a while, Daenerys seemed like the Lawful Good ruler, but we have had the great pleasure of watching how power can pervert people. (Nate Jones, at Vulture, leads a thrilling discussion of this very topic.) (Also, if Daenerys were to rule the Seven Kingdoms, only to go nuts, we might at the very least have a spinoff to look forward to.)

Clarke will never say. Throughout 10 or so years in the public eye, her interviews have been peppered with the same handful of charming personal details from her career — the service jobs she worked prior to making it, dancing the funky chicken during her Game of Thrones audition — which feels a lot like walking a vast beach and finding the same series of 10 seashells.

Then, in March, some very different treasure washed ashore when The New Yorker ran the most illuminating profile of Emilia Clarke to date. It was written by Emilia Clarke.

If I am truly being honest every minute of every day I thought I was going to die.

In it, Clarke revealed that she had suffered two near-fatal brain aneurysms during the early seasons of Game of Thrones. The first hit her mid-plank during a training session, and not long after, doctors discovered a second that required them to open her skull for a risky operation. The recovery period was, to her, more painful than the aneurysms. “If I am truly being honest,” she wrote, “every minute of every day I thought I was going to die.” She also announced her charity venture, SameYou, which seeks to provide rehabilitation for young people recovering from brain injuries.

The second time we talk, it is the day before the Game of Thrones New York premiere, and Clarke is at a morning fitting, surrounded by a coronation’s worth of gowns. It’s early, and a passing cold has fried the edges of her voice. But her words still vibrate with so much joy, it’s like she doesn’t even notice. She’s just happy to be here, wherever she is.

Source

Emilia Clarke on Why Game of Thrones Is the Perfect Form of Escapism + HQ Scans was originally published on Enchanting Emilia Clarke | Est 2012

[theliterateape]

"You’ll Never See His Like Again!": Revisiting Comics Legend Stan Lee’s Best, Most Literary (and Vastly Underrated) Story, The Silver Surfer (1978)

By Jarret Keene

Stan “the Man” Lee is dead, but his creations are alive, pouncing across theaters, game screens, and t-shirts with equal parts vitality and sorrow. Today, Spider-Man and Thor and Captain America and Black Panther and so many others dominate our media landscape to a degree unthinkable 40 years ago when my father bought me The Silver Surfer graphic novel from a B. Dalton inside Tampa Bay Mall.

Back then comics (22-page floppies) were relegated to a single spinner rack in mall bookshops, a gimmick to draw kids into the store so their parents felt obliged to pick up garbage Sidney Sheldon’s thriller Bloodline. But The Silver Surfer didn’t fit in a metal rung; instead it was displayed amidst the regular literary trade paperbacks. Today it is vaguely praised on obscure blogs as being among the very first efforts to push comics into the realm of the literary epic during a brutal moment in the history of the comics industry. Staggering inflation, a crushing 1977 (and then a 1978) blizzard, and rising paper costs nearly sank DC Comics. Marvel, though, endured such challenges with Stan Lee’s relentless cheer, his grace under pressure, his courage to always try something new when everyone else cowered, caved.

In the late 1970s, the U.S. continued to fall apart. There was the ongoing energy crisis, serial killers like Ted Bundy lurked in every shadow, the Jonestown mass suicide played out like a dress rehearsal for a larger and more diabolical event, toxic waste burbled in landfills adjacent to pleasant neighborhoods, and Soviet Russia  rattled its nuclear saber. You wouldn’t know this from reading Marvel Comics, every issue offering a column called Stan’s Soapbox, wherein Lee waxed passionately, positively, and with the eloquence of a poetry-reading pitchman, about what was forthcoming from “the House of Ideas.”

Today Marvel is an idea-resistant shell of the company Lee built and oversaw, a house of ideology teeming with dour, OMG-chirping social-justice superheroes (gay mutant Iceman, lesbian Latinx warrior America Chavez, Muslim teenager Kamala Khan a.k.a. Ms. Marvel, female cancer-stricken Thor). Instead of debuting new characters, the current editorial team is content to reverse race and flip gender of, and add a dash of disability to, classic characters. In its prime, though—and starting in 1961 with the first issue of Fantastic Four — Marvel excelled at depicting authentic outcasts who felt a fierce responsibility to protect even those who hated them, feared them, wanted them dead. Lee’s characters — which he co-created with Jack Kirby, the artist who visually defined comics for an international audience — didn’t nurture wounds of identity and grievance; they waged their internal battles on a mythic scale. In the same way Oedipus confronted the ignorance of his birth, in the same way petulant Achilles struggled to overcome his narcissism, so did hapless high school reject and science nerd Peter Parker combat his own teenage doubt and ego and feelings of inadequacy.

Amazing Fantasy #15 (1962) containing the debut of Spider-Man, is arguably the single greatest and most important comics story ever written, its 11 pages defining not just the Marvel superhero but also the last half-century of U.S. comics. “With great power comes great responsibility” wasn’t merely an inspirational and moral slogan; it was also a metaphor for American exceptionalism, which could only result in senseless death (like, say, the murder of Peter’s uncle, Ben) if not applied toward just and proper ends. Parker is spoiled, his own worst enemy. He’s a purveyor of fake news, taking photos of himself in action as Spider-Man and selling them to the Daily Bugle to cover the cost of college tuition. We love Parker for his flaws, though, and for his commitment to overcoming them. We cherish his humanity even as we’re thrilled by his brawls with violent predators like Kraven the Hunter, bulky crime boss Kingpin, hideously armed Doctor Octopus.

The Silver Surfer isn’t human like Parker. The Surfer is carved from the “doomed messiah from beyond” mold a la Superman (or Beowulf or Jesus). But he isn’t adopted as a baby and given a Midwest upbringing. He is a silver-skinned alien riding a floating board, arriving on Earth to determine if it’s suitable for his planet-eating master Galactus. Lee and Kirby made a wise choice in never pinning down the exact size of this god of interstellar death, who, like the Surfer, was first introduced in the pages of Fantastic Four #48–50 (1966). That three-part story is a must-read, yes, but then, a decade later, Lee and Kirby collaborated on a 100-page retelling of the Surfer-and-Galactus saga, only this time the superheroes were removed, leaving just the god and his fallen angel. The result is a romantic, philosophical, and artistic statement that outstrips everything else Lee and Kirby collaborated on prior — which is saying a lot. It is also the last major work either of them would produce for Marvel, or for any company thereafter.

Today Marvel is an idea-resistant shell of the company Lee built and oversaw, a house of ideology teeming with dour, OMG-chirping social-justice superheroes

The Silver Surfer was published by arrangement with Fireside Books, an imprint of Simon and Schuster in New York known for publishing a famous chess book. Based on a Kirby sketch, the cover is by artist Earl Norem, known for painting the covers of men’s adventure magazines and more than a few Marvel mags (like Savage Sword of Conan). Indeed, the painted cover gives the book literary gravitas. The interior art is all prime Kirby, with eloquent inks by Joe Sinnott, colors by Glynis Wein (first wife of the late Len Wein, who created Wolverine). The Silver Surfer is a feast for a comics-lover’s eyes; my battered copy still radiates visual power. But it’s the heartbreaking story and dialogue that set this effort apart from anything else in the history of comics and in the bibliography of Lee and Kirby.

Here the protagonist must choose between living forever to serve a devourer of worlds, or else die alongside eight billion earthlings to be rejoined with the obliterated love of his life, lovely and golden Ardina. In The Silver Surfer, Lee gives us a hero who sells his soul to the devil so as to thwart a holocaust and save a populated globe. He only meets a few dozen — many of who attack him physically. But he understands their potential to grow beyond their limitations. It’s not a story in tune with the 1970s, that post-Vietnam, post-JFK, post-Watergate era during which Marvel delivered dark, humorous characters like Ghost Rider. No, this was something else entirely.

The opening splash page is the closed fist of the planet-eater: Behold! The hand of Galactus! Behold! The hand of him who is like unto a god. Behold! The clutch of harnessed power — about to be released! The tone here is elevated, serious, Lee is writing in a style that evokes the Old Testament of the King James. The second page is a splash, too; in it, the mitt of Galactus opens and from it erupts the Surfer, who “streaks through the currents of space — ever-seeking, ever-searching — for he alone is herald to mighty Galactus.” The image is the visual distillation of an artist’s self-confidence, his arrogance. After all, doesn’t every artist believe himself to be God as he  manipulates his characters, his images, to suit his imaginative fancy? It’s also a breathtaking rendering of a big bang, or a biblical birth of the universe, without a benevolent designer in control. Here the god of the universe is a destroyer.

The universe seems endless and infinitely alluring to this mysterious star-wanderer, who yearns for  his own homeworld, Zenn-La, lost to him forever for reasons Lee doesn’t initially explain, but we presume Galactus ate it.

The Surfer enters the atmosphere of “a verdant sphere” unlike any he’s seen before. Soaring high above the streets of New York, he doesn’t hide from view. He is fascinated by the fear in the eyes of people, noting “how it is always the young who are the first to accept — and to trust.” He sees a woman who reminds him of Shalla Bal, a woman the Surfer loved on his own world. Haunted by her memory, he pursues this woman through the alleyways of Manhattan while imagining a conversation with this Shalla Bal lookalike. We learn that, years ago, the Surfer sacrificed his mortal body to Galactus to save Zenn-La from destruction.

Finally, the woman abandons him to his painful recollections… and then Galactus suddenly appears in a whirlwind of crackling energy, ready to devour Earth.

He congratulates the Surfer on a job well done and articulates in excruciating detail how he plans to sate his appetite: “Here shall I drain the gently rolling seas. Here shall the bountiful land yield to me its gift of life.” It is an impending act of reverse creation, a backward Genesis. But the herald of Galactus isn’t having any of it. When the Surfer fails to convince his master that the price of eight billion souls is too high, he lashes out at Galactus with “the power cosmic,” using it seal the destroyer in a concrete cocoon. It doesn’t hold Galactus for long. Disgusted, the world-eater blasts the Surfer from the sky, cursing the herald to live amidst “the dunghills of man” for a spell in order to ponder his mistake. Then Galactus disappears.

The Surfer recovers from his fall, then disguises himself by altering his appearance to resemble a male fashion model from a billboard. He wanders the city with admiration for its denizens until muggers approach him in Central Park. The Surfer shoos them away with a pyrotechnical display, then pledges to walk around without hiding his identity; concealment did nothing for him anyway. Meanwhile, we witness Galactus gorging on a planet in another solar system. Sated, his thoughts turn toward his missing herald. What can Galactus do to make the Surfer submit? The world-eater’s counsel, a sniveling Master of Guile, advises Galactus to provide the Surfer — our alien Adam — with an Eve, someone to betray the Surfer’s heart.

And so beautiful Ardina enters the picture. She sneaks the instantly smitten Surfer beyond Earth’s atmosphere, and they share in the pleasures of the spaceways. Floating now on a patch of green ringed with bright flowers in a neighboring galaxy, our hero is tempted to give up his standoff with Galactus. In the same way Dido tempted Aeneas to give up his destiny to found Rome, so does Ardina begin to entice the Surfer to submit to her — and by extension Galactus. He refuses, says he’s willing to die to save Earth, and so Ardina leads the Surfer on a journey into human darkness. “You will perish for a worthless cause,” she warns. She shows him “brutal images, a morbid montage of heart-rending scenes filled with carnage and strife.” Domestic violence. A child killed by a hit-and-run driver. A mass execution. Bombed ruins of a once-thriving city. The Surfer is jarred but not dissuaded.

And then something interesting happens: Ardina, designed to coldly seduce the Surfer to make him betray his convictions, ends up feeling a warm love for him.

So much so that when the Surfer, driven mad from having set foot inside a suburban home where the walls seem to be closing on him:

The ceiling — almost touching my head! No room to move! No place to soar! I see no sun — no sky — no endless reaches of rolling space! Wherever I face — wherever I turn — I am surrounded by smothering objects! Shelves and books! Pictures, clocks, and lamps! Chairs and drapes and shuttered windows! But where is the sky? Where is the cold, crisp touch of rolling space? Where are the hills, the seas, the nourishing stars in endless profusion? Without them I perish! 

Interestingly, the aspect of humankind that nearly causes the Surfer to surrender his mission is man’s stultifying existence inside tract-housing boxes.

Troubled by the experience, the Surfer races to escape Earth’s atmosphere. Riding bitch, Ardina screams: “The barrier! You have forgotten the barrier!”

The Surfer falls to Earth while Ardina re-materializes before Galactus inside his giant space vehicle. She admits she has failed. She confesses her love for the Surfer. Displeased, Galactus recalibrates her cloned body for one last mission. A mission that involves shattering the Surfer’s heart.

Meanwhile, the Surfer continues to be attacked by various humans. He is shot at, shackled and hammer-smashed, then the U.S. military blasts him with an ultra-sonic cannon, which nearly kills him. Ardina consoles him for a moment, kisses him, telling the Surfer she is with him and by his side, even after death. Which is when Galactus dissolves her into dead particles using a matrix-drone.

Now Galactus asks the Surfer to again join him in scouting the universe for other edible planets. It’s the only way Earth can be saved. The command is agonizing, for what Galactus offers is a living hell. To save Earth, the Surfer must cast off death, the ultimate escape and the one chance he has at being reunited with Ardina. But as the Surfer himself says: “Never was there a choice!”

The curse of immortality at the cost of true love is a familiar idea in ancient epics. The sea nymph Calypso offered Odysseus eternal life, but he refused it in order to be with his wife Penelope. But the Surfer has no options; he can’t be selfish enough to die and thus doom the Earth. What makes him a hero is his refusal to surrender and his willingness to embrace the agony of existence, of enslavement. He must deny himself every exit for humans to live on until they hopefully change themselves for the better. They must have a chance; the Surfer and Galactus give them one. 

The Surfer returns to the gauntlet of Galactus, disappearing within the destroyer’s fist.

✶

In this story, there is no Fantastic Four. No cameo appearances by Lee and Kirby. No clever narrative captions. Just the purest narrative of a hero fighting for an ideal, for the steadfast belief in our ability to one day rise above our petty evils, our arrogance and wrath. Lee wrote so many masterpieces of comics literature, but this one is his best because it best speaks to the principle he and his characters lived by: Never succumb to nihilism and despair. Never forget that we are similar in our anxieties and weaknesses, and that our individual identities matter less than our collective aspiration to improve our world and the lives of the people who inhabit it.

It’s a moral stance that today remains obscured by Internet social-justice frothing and the political insanity of being ruled by a reality-TV star. But the embers of Lee’s views are there for anyone to ignite and carry forward. Make no mistake: the world is poorer now without Lee. As the blurb on The Silver Surfer ’s back cover announces: “You will never see his like again!” We can, however, always see Lee’s passion and his love for humanity — for life! — in the work he and Jack Kirby and Steve Ditko and others left for us to enjoy.

Lee didn’t need to die for our sins. He endures, and so will we.

Never was there a choice.

Jarret Keene is an assistant professor in residence in the English Department at UNLV, where he teaches creative writing and ancient and medieval literature. His fiction, essays and verse have appeared in literary journals such as New England Review, Carolina Quarterly, and the Southeast Review. He is the author of several books and editor of acclaimed short-fiction anthologies. He is currently working on a critical biography of comic book legend Jack Kirby.

[fuckyeahjamieandclaire]

Can you act simply by lying in one place and breathing? Sam Heughan proved the answer is a gut-wrenching yes in Outlander Season 3’s episode 1.

Outlander fans expecting the full-on screams and gun shots of battle after the last strains of the “Skye Boat Song” died away instead were met in the opening episode of Season 3 with silence. Utter, breathtaking, heart-wrenching silence. As the camera scrolled past the body parts and dead men piled up like so many rag dolls in an abandoned heap, the only sound—and a faint one at that—was that of the wind. It was so eerily quiet, in fact, that when a Redcoat soldier carelessly tossed a flag on a cart, it pierced like cannon shot, its contrast to the void was that startling.

Our journey in silence continued as the camera panned the scene. A minute or so into the episode, we heard some Redcoats in the background as they walked about the battlefield looking for the living so they could either finish them off (if they were Scottish) or get them help if they were English. The camera panned slowly until it rested on the face of Jamie Fraser where the only hint that he was, indeed, not dead, was his first ragged breath. And as Jamie’s eyes slowly fluttered open, we watched with him as he realized with full horror that he was, in fact, still alive.

Jamie takes one ragged breath…and then…slowly….reluctantly another. His eyes flutter and we join him in flashbacks as he relives the battle of Culloden—his brief encounter with Murtagh, his pleading with the Bonnie Prince, his sweet moment smelling Claire’s cloak after she’s gone through the stones and, yes, the final epic battle with his nemesis, Black Jack Randall. We are there with him each ragged breath after another.

While telling a war story in such a quiet way might seem counterintuitive, showrunner and episode writer Ron D. Moore’s ultimate choice to go inward, to focus on the small rather than the battle writ large, was brilliant. Breath is literally our life force. It is the first thing that tells everyone we are alive. Anxious parents and medical staff alike wait to hear that first full breath and wail that proclaim of, yes, this child is here! And it is the last thing we literally hear—that final rasping breath, the death rattle—until we hear no more.

By choosing to create an almost silent world, Moore brings us in to “The Battle Joined“ with a bomb far louder than any battle melee. He brings us in to the sound of devastation, and with that silence he unites the audience and Jamie. We hear what Jamie is hearing. We are—quite literally—in the nothingness. We are hearing what Jamie hopes is death. And we are there with him.

Of course, others in the cast use their breath as an acting tool in general, and in this episode, in particular. Claire stops short to watch the small bird outside her window, and in those few moments before her ability to use her breath as a focus of power is—literally—taken away from her, Claire uses her breath as a source of power and strength.

But it is Sam Heughan, who doesn’t even speak the first of only a few lines in the whole episode—“Leave me be”—until a good 15 minutes into the episode, who absolutely stars in his use of breath here. His breath hitches. He gasps. He rattles. He barely breathes. And through it all, we do it with him. Because it is the rare person who hasn’t experienced at least one moment in their lives when they breathed like that, a moment when they wished they would, perhaps, not breathe again.

It is in choosing to use breath this way that Moore brings home the other overarching message of this episode and, to some extent, Outlander in general. We may think we can control what happens but, like our breath—and our heart and our brain—our control is fleeting and superficial.

That’s because our breath, like our heart and brain, is part of the autonomous nervous system. That’s the part of our nervous system that can’t be controlled by our will. We can impact them to some extent through outer influences such as what we eat (or don’t) or even hurting ourselves with implements, but we can’t make ourselves stop breathing by holding our breath.

When you think of it, that physiology is a brilliant move by God/Mother Nature/Whatever Universal Life Force You Choose. Because most of us have had moments when we thought—sometimes correctly, sometimes not—that we couldn’t go on, that there was no point in continuing to try. They are moments when our grief or pain was so deep that anything seemed better than taking another step.

And yet we did, because we had to. Because our hearts kept beating and our next breath came after the last one, and while our body kept going, we somehow dug deep to figure out where to go next and how to get there.

Understanding that ultimate lack of control is the underlying final message in this episode. Just as Jamie and Claire tried time and time again in Season 2 to stop the tide of time, to thwart history’s course, ultimately they could—like the breath you can hold while swimming or if something hurts—only do it for a short limited time, in a narrow small way.

And so Jamie and Claire must learn how to go on. It is the journey of Voyager—that learning how to go on, to craft a life when you think you couldn’t possibly. And, thanks to Moore, we are right there walking with them, breath by desperate breath.

[technologyinfosec]

Djokovic beats Thiem in five-set epic to win eighth Australian Open

 Novak Djokovic battled through a five-set thriller with Dominic Thiem to maintain his dominance at the Australian Open Sunday, claiming a record eighth title and returning to world number one in the process. The indomitable Serb stretched his unbeaten streak this season to 13 but he had to rally from two sets to one down to beat the courageous fifth-seeded Austrian 6-4, 4-6, 2-6, 6-3, 6-4 in a nearly four-hour marathon. It was his 17th Grand Slam title, moving him within two of Rafael Nadal and three of Roger Federer on the all-time list. "Definitely my favourite court, my favourite stadium in the world and I'm blessed to hold this trophy once again," said Djokovic. Victory put him alongside his fellow legends as only the third man in history to win eight or more titles at the same Slam after Nadal (12 at the French Open) and Federer (eight at Wimbledon). It also ensured he will once again be world number one when the new rankings are released on Monday, usurping Nadal. Federer remains third with Thiem moving up a place to a career-high fourth. But it wasn't easy with the Serb looking lethargic and out for the count in sets two and three before regaining his mojo after a medical timeout to grind down the talented Thiem. Djokovic had never before won a Slam final in seven previous attempts when finding himself two sets to one down. "You and two other guys (Nadal and Federer) brought men's tennis to another level. I am happy I can compete in these times," said Thiem. "I fell short today but I hope soon I can compete with you again." The Serb, 32, was the overwhelming favourite, but the supremely fit and fast Thiem, 26, always had the weapons to trouble him, which he deployed successfully for much of the match, taming his serve and unleashing some explosive groundstrokes. It was a nerveless start from Djokovic, who comfortably held then put big pressure on the Austrian's serve, with a forehand into the net giving him an immediate break and a psychological edge after some monster rallies. Thiem, though, is as strong mentally as he is physically and he finally got on the scoreboard after another tough service game. And against the run of play, with Djokovic seemingly in control, he broke back, unleashing pinpoint groundstrokes to make the most of some loose Djokovic shots. But the world number two was unrelenting, breaking again as Thiem served to stay in the set, with the Austrian sending down his first double fault of the match at the crucial moment. Remarkably, a rare Djokovic double fault handed Thiem a break to go 2-1 up in set two with the courageous Austrian refusing to go away. The Serb was getting frustrated, looking at his coaching box and pointing at his head. He refocused and once again began attacking the Thiem serve, breaking back for 4-4, pumping his fists when the fifth seed sent a backhand wide. But two time warnings on his serve in the next game rattled Djokovic and he was broken again, with the Serb losing his cool by patting the umpire's foot at the changeover and telling the official: "Great job... you made yourself famous." With Djokovic still looking distracted, Thiem served out the set - the first the Serb had dropped in an Australian Open final since 2015. Djokovic appeared dejected and was immediately broken twice in set three as Thiem raced to a 4-0 lead, having won six games in a row with Djokovic imploding. The Serb was heard telling a trainer he was tired and after losing the set, he went for a medical timeout. He came back and the fourth set went with serve until a Thiem double fault handed the Serb two break points and he converted to regain control, serving out the set with an ace. Djokovic drew on all his experience to force another break in the deciding fifth set to take a 2-1 lead and kept his foot on the gas to claim an eighth crown from the last 13 Australian Opens. "It wasn't meant to be tonight," Djokovic told Thiem. "Tough luck. It was a tough match. But you were very close to winning it. "You know, you definitely have a lot more time in your career and I'm sure that you will get one of the Grand Slam trophies. And more. More than one." Read the full article

[ilovesamheughan]

TEST TEST TEST Can you act simply by lying in one place and breathing? Sam Heughan proved the answer is a gut-wrenching yes in Outlander Season 3’s episode 1. Outlander fans expecting the full-on screams and gun shots of battle after the last strains of the “Skye Boat Song” died away instead were met in the opening episode of Season 3 with silence. Utter, breathtaking, heart-wrenching silence. As the camera scrolled past the body parts and dead men piled up like so many rag dolls in an abandoned heap, the only sound—and a faint one at that—was that of the wind. It was so eerily quiet, in fact, that when a Redcoat soldier carelessly tossed a flag on a cart, it pierced like cannon shot, its contrast to the void was that startling. Our journey in silence continued as the camera panned the scene. A minute or so into the episode, we heard some Redcoats in the background as they walked about the battlefield looking for the living so they could either finish them off (if they were Scottish) or get them help if they were English. The camera panned slowly until it rested on the face of Jamie Fraser where the only hint that he was, indeed, not dead, was his first ragged breath. And as Jamie’s eyes slowly fluttered open, we watched with him as he realized with full horror that he was, in fact, still alive. Jamie takes one ragged breath…and then…slowly….reluctantly another. His eyes flutter and we join him in flashbacks as he relives the battle of Culloden—his brief encounter with Murtagh, his pleading with the Bonnie Prince, his sweet moment smelling Claire’s cloak after she’s gone through the stones and, yes, the final epic battle with his nemesis, Black Jack Randall. We are there with him each ragged breath after another. While telling a war story in such a quiet way might seem counterintuitive, showrunner and episode writer Ron D. Moore’s ultimate choice to go inward, to focus on the small rather than the battle writ large, was brilliant. Breath is literally our life force. It is the first thing that tells everyone we are alive. Anxious parents and medical staff alike wait to hear that first full breath and wail that proclaim of, yes, this child is here! And it is the last thing we literally hear—that final rasping breath, the death rattle—until we hear no more. By choosing to create an almost silent world, Moore brings us in to “The Battle Joined“ with a bomb far louder than any battle melee. He brings us in to the sound of devastation, and with that silence he unites the audience and Jamie. We hear what Jamie is hearing. We are—quite literally—in the nothingness. We are hearing what Jamie hopes is death. And we are there with him. Outlander, Outlander Cast, The use of breath in the battle joined, Sam Heughan Of course, others in the cast use their breath as an acting tool in general, and in this episode, in particular. Claire stops short to watch the small bird outside her window, and in those few moments before her ability to use her breath as a focus of power is—literally—taken away from her, Claire uses her breath as a source of power and strength. But it is Sam Heughan, who doesn’t even speak the first of only a few lines in the whole episode—“Leave me be”—until a good 15 minutes into the episode, who absolutely stars in his use of breath here. His breath hitches. He gasps. He rattles. He barely breathes. And through it all, we do it with him. Because it is the rare person who hasn’t experienced at least one moment in their lives when they breathed like that, a moment when they wished they would, perhaps, not breathe again. It is in choosing to use breath this way that Moore brings home the other overarching message of this episode and, to some extent, Outlander in general. We may think we can control what happens but, like our breath—and our heart and our brain—our control is fleeting and superficial. That’s because our breath, like our heart and brain, is part of the autonomous nervous system. That’s the part of our nervous system that can’t be controlled by our will. We can impact them to some extent through outer influences such as what we eat (or don’t) or even hurting ourselves with implements, but we can’t make ourselves stop breathing by holding our breath. When you think of it, that physiology is a brilliant move by God/Mother Nature/Whatever Universal Life Force You Choose. Because most of us have had moments when we thought—sometimes correctly, sometimes not—that we couldn’t go on, that there was no point in continuing to try. They are moments when our grief or pain was so deep that anything seemed better than taking another step. And yet we did, because we had to. Because our hearts kept beating and our next breath came after the last one, and while our body kept going, we somehow dug deep to figure out where to go next and how to get there. Understanding that ultimate lack of control is the underlying final message in this episode. Just as Jamie and Claire tried time and time again in Season 2 to stop the tide of time, to thwart history’s course, ultimately they could—like the breath you can hold while swimming or if something hurts—only do it for a short limited time, in a narrow small way. And so Jamie and Claire must learn how to go on. It is the journey of Voyager—that learning how to go on, to craft a life when you think you couldn’t possibly. And, thanks to Moore, we are right there walking with them, breath by desperate breath.

[andreagillmer]

East-West Trade War: Never Take a Knife to a Gunfight

Source: Michael Ballanger for Streetwise Reports   10/10/2019

Sector expert Michael Ballanger’s take on this week’s news from the financial markets informs his most recent investment decisions.

It’s a funny thing that happens when the stress of financial insolvency bubbles up to the surface. Decisions once considered “routine” (like brushing one’s teeth or walking one’s dog) suddenly have life-or-death outcomes, complete with cold sweats, sleepless nights and self-prescribed medicinal relief. Whenever I turn on the financial news stations, such as Fox, Bloomberg or CNN, I get the impression that I am watching Kabuki theatre, with exquisitely-designed puppets playing out exquisitely crafted scripts. I am immediately faced with the ageless problem of whether or not to consider the content “news,” or should I view it as simple “entertainment.”

By example, the saber-rattling of the United States of America in its anti-China rhetoric is playbill material of the highest order. You have in the red corner the aging heavyweight champion, long seated on the throne of global military and economic dominance, while in the blue corner, you have the spry young contender, hungry from decades of communist suppression and poverty with a highly motivated populace and a powerful and rapidly growing military. As much as the world may loathe it, it appears that the bell is soon to sound and the battle for global supremacy is about to begin.

The problem lies not in the war itself but in the collateral damage about to be inflicted upon the those close to the battlefield. However, at the end of the day, as the night when a youthful Rocky Marciano knocked an over-the-hill Joe Louis through the ropes, 330 million Americans trying to engage 1.433 billion Chinese is like taking a knife to a gunfight, and by that, I do not refer to an altercation of armies. I refer to an altercation of willpower.

For thousands of years, Chinese culture has taught people to think in terms of generations, while American culture has been trained in terms of days, hours and minutes. Since the end of WWII, America has fancied itself as the rightful heir to the hegemonic throne, aided and abetted by Hollywood, and its educational system that has promoted the concept that the only soldiers fighting on the side of freedom and against the Axis of Evil were the Yankees. All through the Cold War and now into the New Millennia, the Teddy Roosevelt concept of “speak softly but carry a big stick” has been replaced with “shoot first and ask questions later,” with the American forces, for the first to time invading a foreign nation—unprovoked (remember the imaginary weapons of mass destruction of the second Iraq Invasion?).

By contrast, the Chinese have opted for symbolic power, and as a result, the world is now ablaze with confrontations, literally everywhere, as the result of American-led imperialism. Only just recently has China flexed its muscle with the protests ongoing in Hong Kong, but by and large, the ramifications of two mammoth economies now in all-out conflict stands to be seen as epic, and there is very little if anything that can be done to prevent an economic winter in trade and standards of living.

The first casualties of such conflict will be currencies, where purchasing power begins to erode slowly but then completely vaporizes, as seen throughout history, in Wiemar Germany, Zimbabwe and, more recently, Venezuela. The first beneficiaries of such conflict are the ageless stores of value in gold and silver. Physical possession of one’s wealth is the cardinal rule of survival when financial Armageddon arrives; just ask any of the survivors of the nations hit with hyperinflations the importance of possession. Nowhere is the phrase “possession being nine-tenths of the law” more relevant than in chaotic societies.

The financial news and, more recently, social media have become the preferred conduits for financial propaganda by corporations, investment houses, politicians and presidents. Whatever the medium, managing both expectations and behaviors of the consuming public is used by everyone to advance either a product or a concept, and it has grown out of control to the extent that I now find it virtually impossible to differentiate between targeted messaging and actual reporting. So when I read that there is a “pending trade deal with China,” I completely discount it, because 90% of the time it is floated by either an administration official (like Larry Kudlow) or a Wall Street reporter (like Steve Liesman) in order to herd the algobots into buying stocks.

Larry Summers was the master of “behavioral economics,” and it was here that was born the acceleration of the asymmetrical wealth effect as an economic tool by which policymakers could sway consumer buying trends. From the Crash of ’87 onward, the importance of elevated stock markets morphed into an important policy tool, to the point where here, in 2019, President Trump appears obsessed with it and tweets algobot-sensitive buzzwords like “China deal” and “lower rates” in order to goose the markets. The underlying reason for all of this is to distract the masses away from the reality of the disintegrated middle class and eroded living standards, all the direct result of the errant actions of the Federal Reserve and its global central banking brethren, who collectively have brought a new level of disrespect for the integrity of purchasing power of all currencies in all nations. “If stocks are up and gold is down, things must be good, right?” Perception is nine-tenths of reality.

COT Report

Comments are found in the graphic provided below.

I scooped the chart shown below from my buddy David Chapman (enrichedinvesting.com), with whom I used to work while toiling for Union Securities from 2004–2011. David is a market historian and a card-carrying member of the Society of Technical Analysts, and feels that the markets have topped, as shown in the breakdown from a rising wedge formation from last week.

With bearish chart configurations such as this, I normally opt for a smattering of shorts and put options. As we have seen in the past, they have tended to be lucrative until that point where the screams from Wall Street and the sitting President force into action the Working Group on Capital Markets (the PPT), after which short sellers get immolated in a frenzy of government-triggered buy orders from a financial source that rarely, if ever, gets a margin call, and has deep, unlimited pockets. Market adversaries like the U.S. Treasury are not to be trifled with because they cannot and do not lose. Hence, I opt for volatility trades such as the TVIX or the UVXY, or calls on the VIX index. It is akin to betting on “weather” as opposed to choosing “sun” or “rain.”

For those of you following my Twitter feed, you know that I have called for a huge spike in volatility (VIX) since Sept. 16, and have already traded the TVIX once from the low $13s to over $16. Well, yesterday, I reloaded the gun with a full long position in the TVIX at $13.75, and was tempted to add more prior to Jerome Powell’s “This is not quantitative easing (QE)” speech, which has to be the most laughable plausible denial in history. You are buying several hundred billions of T-bills in order to force short rates lower while bragging of a 3.5% unemployment rate and a “booming” economy, and yet you refuse to call it QE? These are the times that I want to launch my Groucho Marx paperweight directly into the Jumbotron TV showing the professorial forehead of not only Powell but also the shiny cranium of CNBC economics reporter Steve “The Fed Can Do No Wrong” Leisman.

I am long a substantial TVIX position in the GGMA portfolio from yesterday, committing 50% of all cash reserves to the TVIX, representing a 19.66% allocation. That is a rather large bet for a portfolio dominated by gold, silver and miners of same. It is also a testimonial to my current state of readiness, alarm, and apprehension as to the risks inherent in the global markets. As I wrote about a few weeks ago in “Something Wicked This Way Comes,” dated Sept. 24, I cannot exactly pinpoint the precise reason for my anxieties, but I can say that trading against my gut feel has hurt me immeasurably over recent years and with today’s absurdity levied upon us by the Fed Chairman, these REPO operations are not carried out because things are rosy. They are “emergency measures,” and if you want me to wage a guess, I would say that a large Eurozone bank whose noxious derivative tentacles intertwine with Walls Street’s (and whose response to questions regarding possible insolvency is an abrupt “Nein!!”) is in big trouble. I’ll let you figure it out. . .

Tuesday’s session ended poorly, with stocks going out “hard on the lows,” but with the VIX and the precious metals well-bid. Gold miners (HUI + 2.96%) outperformed the metals, with silver (+1.43%) outperforming gold (+.45%), a letter-perfect configuration for a continuation move. Last year’s stock market blow-off started to gather steam around this time and didn’t end until Christmas Eve, after Smilin’ Stevie Mnuchin called in the PPT goons to save Wall Street from a year-end disaster never before seen in the annals of Wall Street History.

Just as past performance is no guarantee of future results, past equity market crashes accompanied by gold market advances are by no means a guaranteed repeat, but the fact remains that the global economy has slowed to a standstill, and that the singular driver that has justified the past 10-year bull market—growth—is now gone. Without it, all that remains is the music, and when the music stops, try finding a chair when all of them are owned by Fed governors.

The words of Fed chairman Powell were as chilling as I have ever heard. In forty-two years of reading and listening to the words of Paul Volcker, Alan Greenspan, Ben Bernanke, Janet Yellen, and now Jerome Powell, I have never before heard such an astonishing display of prevaricative showmanship, through which he attempted to convince us that a Fed balance sheet expansion was not in any way a return to the 2008 crisis policy actions known as QE. To be clear, all moves by central banks to “shore up liquidity” involve the simple process of manufacturing cash, a process known as “counterfeiting,” to the average law enforcement officer.

The mere mention of Fed “stimulus” in prior times has resulted in massive upswings in stocks. But today (Tuesday), unlike 2008, and unlike 2002, and unlike 1998, and unlike 1987, the markets heard the news of a return to Fed balance sheet expansion and they indeed rallied. Sadly, after things settled down, the light bulb went on and the words of “economic health” were replaced by that malaise of which I referred last month—mistrust. Realizing that Powell had the lipstick out, they sold them hard right into the final bell.

Stay long precious metals and add on dips. Sprinkle in a tad of volatility and a sprig of index puts and we may all have a very peaceful Thanksgiving and remember, something wicked. . .

Never mind.

Follow Michael Ballanger on Twitter @MiningJunkie.

Originally trained during the inflationary 1970s, Michael Ballanger is a graduate of Saint Louis University where he earned a Bachelor of Science in finance and a Bachelor of Art in marketing before completing post-graduate work at the Wharton School of Finance. With more than 30 years of experience as a junior mining and exploration specialist, as well as a solid background in corporate finance, Ballanger’s adherence to the concept of “Hard Assets” allows him to focus the practice on selecting opportunities in the global resource sector with emphasis on the precious metals exploration and development sector. Ballanger takes great pleasure in visiting mineral properties around the globe in the never-ending hunt for early-stage opportunities.

Sign up for our FREE newsletter at: www.streetwisereports.com/get-news

Disclosure: 1) Statements and opinions expressed are the opinions of Michael Ballanger and not of Streetwise Reports or its officers. Michael Ballanger is wholly responsible for the validity of the statements. Streetwise Reports was not involved in any aspect of the article preparation. Michael Ballanger was not paid by Streetwise Reports LLC for this article. Streetwise Reports was not paid by the author to publish or syndicate this article. 2) This article does not constitute investment advice. Each reader is encouraged to consult with his or her individual financial professional and any action a reader takes as a result of information presented here is his or her own responsibility. By opening this page, each reader accepts and agrees to Streetwise Reports’ terms of use and full legal disclaimer. This article is not a solicitation for investment. Streetwise Reports does not render general or specific investment advice and the information on Streetwise Reports should not be considered a recommendation to buy or sell any security. Streetwise Reports does not endorse or recommend the business, products, services or securities of any company mentioned on Streetwise Reports. 3) From time to time, Streetwise Reports LLC and its directors, officers, employees or members of their families, as well as persons interviewed for articles and interviews on the site, may have a long or short position in securities mentioned. Directors, officers, employees or members of their immediate families are prohibited from making purchases and/or sales of those securities in the open market or otherwise from the time of the interview or the decision to write an article until three business days after the publication of the interview or article. The foregoing prohibition does not apply to articles that in substance only restate previously published company releases.

Charts provided by the author.

Michael Ballanger Disclaimer: This letter makes no guarantee or warranty on the accuracy or completeness of the data provided. Nothing contained herein is intended or shall be deemed to be investment advice, implied or otherwise. This letter represents my views and replicates trades that I am making but nothing more than that. Always consult your registered advisor to assist you with your investments. I accept no liability for any loss arising from the use of the data contained on this letter. Options and junior mining stocks contain a high level of risk that may result in the loss of part or all invested capital and therefore are suitable for experienced and professional investors and traders only. One should be familiar with the risks involved in junior mining and options trading and we recommend consulting a financial adviser if you feel you do not understand the risks involved.

from The Gold Report – Streetwise Exclusive Articles Full Text https://ift.tt/2OE5zVO

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[goldcoins0]

East-West Trade War: Never Take a Knife to a Gunfight

Source: Michael Ballanger for Streetwise Reports   10/10/2019

Sector expert Michael Ballanger's take on this week's news from the financial markets informs his most recent investment decisions.

It's a funny thing that happens when the stress of financial insolvency bubbles up to the surface. Decisions once considered "routine" (like brushing one's teeth or walking one's dog) suddenly have life-or-death outcomes, complete with cold sweats, sleepless nights and self-prescribed medicinal relief. Whenever I turn on the financial news stations, such as Fox, Bloomberg or CNN, I get the impression that I am watching Kabuki theatre, with exquisitely-designed puppets playing out exquisitely crafted scripts. I am immediately faced with the ageless problem of whether or not to consider the content "news," or should I view it as simple "entertainment."

By example, the saber-rattling of the United States of America in its anti-China rhetoric is playbill material of the highest order. You have in the red corner the aging heavyweight champion, long seated on the throne of global military and economic dominance, while in the blue corner, you have the spry young contender, hungry from decades of communist suppression and poverty with a highly motivated populace and a powerful and rapidly growing military. As much as the world may loathe it, it appears that the bell is soon to sound and the battle for global supremacy is about to begin.

The problem lies not in the war itself but in the collateral damage about to be inflicted upon the those close to the battlefield. However, at the end of the day, as the night when a youthful Rocky Marciano knocked an over-the-hill Joe Louis through the ropes, 330 million Americans trying to engage 1.433 billion Chinese is like taking a knife to a gunfight, and by that, I do not refer to an altercation of armies. I refer to an altercation of willpower.

For thousands of years, Chinese culture has taught people to think in terms of generations, while American culture has been trained in terms of days, hours and minutes. Since the end of WWII, America has fancied itself as the rightful heir to the hegemonic throne, aided and abetted by Hollywood, and its educational system that has promoted the concept that the only soldiers fighting on the side of freedom and against the Axis of Evil were the Yankees. All through the Cold War and now into the New Millennia, the Teddy Roosevelt concept of "speak softly but carry a big stick" has been replaced with "shoot first and ask questions later," with the American forces, for the first to time invading a foreign nation—unprovoked (remember the imaginary weapons of mass destruction of the second Iraq Invasion?).

By contrast, the Chinese have opted for symbolic power, and as a result, the world is now ablaze with confrontations, literally everywhere, as the result of American-led imperialism. Only just recently has China flexed its muscle with the protests ongoing in Hong Kong, but by and large, the ramifications of two mammoth economies now in all-out conflict stands to be seen as epic, and there is very little if anything that can be done to prevent an economic winter in trade and standards of living.

The first casualties of such conflict will be currencies, where purchasing power begins to erode slowly but then completely vaporizes, as seen throughout history, in Wiemar Germany, Zimbabwe and, more recently, Venezuela. The first beneficiaries of such conflict are the ageless stores of value in gold and silver. Physical possession of one's wealth is the cardinal rule of survival when financial Armageddon arrives; just ask any of the survivors of the nations hit with hyperinflations the importance of possession. Nowhere is the phrase "possession being nine-tenths of the law" more relevant than in chaotic societies.

The financial news and, more recently, social media have become the preferred conduits for financial propaganda by corporations, investment houses, politicians and presidents. Whatever the medium, managing both expectations and behaviors of the consuming public is used by everyone to advance either a product or a concept, and it has grown out of control to the extent that I now find it virtually impossible to differentiate between targeted messaging and actual reporting. So when I read that there is a "pending trade deal with China," I completely discount it, because 90% of the time it is floated by either an administration official (like Larry Kudlow) or a Wall Street reporter (like Steve Liesman) in order to herd the algobots into buying stocks.

Larry Summers was the master of "behavioral economics," and it was here that was born the acceleration of the asymmetrical wealth effect as an economic tool by which policymakers could sway consumer buying trends. From the Crash of '87 onward, the importance of elevated stock markets morphed into an important policy tool, to the point where here, in 2019, President Trump appears obsessed with it and tweets algobot-sensitive buzzwords like "China deal" and "lower rates" in order to goose the markets. The underlying reason for all of this is to distract the masses away from the reality of the disintegrated middle class and eroded living standards, all the direct result of the errant actions of the Federal Reserve and its global central banking brethren, who collectively have brought a new level of disrespect for the integrity of purchasing power of all currencies in all nations. "If stocks are up and gold is down, things must be good, right?" Perception is nine-tenths of reality.

COT Report

Comments are found in the graphic provided below.

I scooped the chart shown below from my buddy David Chapman (enrichedinvesting.com), with whom I used to work while toiling for Union Securities from 2004–2011. David is a market historian and a card-carrying member of the Society of Technical Analysts, and feels that the markets have topped, as shown in the breakdown from a rising wedge formation from last week.

With bearish chart configurations such as this, I normally opt for a smattering of shorts and put options. As we have seen in the past, they have tended to be lucrative until that point where the screams from Wall Street and the sitting President force into action the Working Group on Capital Markets (the PPT), after which short sellers get immolated in a frenzy of government-triggered buy orders from a financial source that rarely, if ever, gets a margin call, and has deep, unlimited pockets. Market adversaries like the U.S. Treasury are not to be trifled with because they cannot and do not lose. Hence, I opt for volatility trades such as the TVIX or the UVXY, or calls on the VIX index. It is akin to betting on "weather" as opposed to choosing "sun" or "rain."

For those of you following my Twitter feed, you know that I have called for a huge spike in volatility (VIX) since Sept. 16, and have already traded the TVIX once from the low $13s to over $16. Well, yesterday, I reloaded the gun with a full long position in the TVIX at $13.75, and was tempted to add more prior to Jerome Powell's "This is not quantitative easing (QE)" speech, which has to be the most laughable plausible denial in history. You are buying several hundred billions of T-bills in order to force short rates lower while bragging of a 3.5% unemployment rate and a "booming" economy, and yet you refuse to call it QE? These are the times that I want to launch my Groucho Marx paperweight directly into the Jumbotron TV showing the professorial forehead of not only Powell but also the shiny cranium of CNBC economics reporter Steve "The Fed Can Do No Wrong" Leisman.

I am long a substantial TVIX position in the GGMA portfolio from yesterday, committing 50% of all cash reserves to the TVIX, representing a 19.66% allocation. That is a rather large bet for a portfolio dominated by gold, silver and miners of same. It is also a testimonial to my current state of readiness, alarm, and apprehension as to the risks inherent in the global markets. As I wrote about a few weeks ago in "Something Wicked This Way Comes," dated Sept. 24, I cannot exactly pinpoint the precise reason for my anxieties, but I can say that trading against my gut feel has hurt me immeasurably over recent years and with today's absurdity levied upon us by the Fed Chairman, these REPO operations are not carried out because things are rosy. They are "emergency measures," and if you want me to wage a guess, I would say that a large Eurozone bank whose noxious derivative tentacles intertwine with Walls Street's (and whose response to questions regarding possible insolvency is an abrupt "Nein!!") is in big trouble. I'll let you figure it out. . .

Tuesday's session ended poorly, with stocks going out "hard on the lows," but with the VIX and the precious metals well-bid. Gold miners (HUI + 2.96%) outperformed the metals, with silver (+1.43%) outperforming gold (+.45%), a letter-perfect configuration for a continuation move. Last year's stock market blow-off started to gather steam around this time and didn't end until Christmas Eve, after Smilin' Stevie Mnuchin called in the PPT goons to save Wall Street from a year-end disaster never before seen in the annals of Wall Street History.

Just as past performance is no guarantee of future results, past equity market crashes accompanied by gold market advances are by no means a guaranteed repeat, but the fact remains that the global economy has slowed to a standstill, and that the singular driver that has justified the past 10-year bull market—growth—is now gone. Without it, all that remains is the music, and when the music stops, try finding a chair when all of them are owned by Fed governors.

The words of Fed chairman Powell were as chilling as I have ever heard. In forty-two years of reading and listening to the words of Paul Volcker, Alan Greenspan, Ben Bernanke, Janet Yellen, and now Jerome Powell, I have never before heard such an astonishing display of prevaricative showmanship, through which he attempted to convince us that a Fed balance sheet expansion was not in any way a return to the 2008 crisis policy actions known as QE. To be clear, all moves by central banks to "shore up liquidity" involve the simple process of manufacturing cash, a process known as "counterfeiting," to the average law enforcement officer.

The mere mention of Fed "stimulus" in prior times has resulted in massive upswings in stocks. But today (Tuesday), unlike 2008, and unlike 2002, and unlike 1998, and unlike 1987, the markets heard the news of a return to Fed balance sheet expansion and they indeed rallied. Sadly, after things settled down, the light bulb went on and the words of "economic health" were replaced by that malaise of which I referred last month—mistrust. Realizing that Powell had the lipstick out, they sold them hard right into the final bell.

Stay long precious metals and add on dips. Sprinkle in a tad of volatility and a sprig of index puts and we may all have a very peaceful Thanksgiving and remember, something wicked. . .

Never mind.

Follow Michael Ballanger on Twitter @MiningJunkie.

Originally trained during the inflationary 1970s, Michael Ballanger is a graduate of Saint Louis University where he earned a Bachelor of Science in finance and a Bachelor of Art in marketing before completing post-graduate work at the Wharton School of Finance. With more than 30 years of experience as a junior mining and exploration specialist, as well as a solid background in corporate finance, Ballanger's adherence to the concept of "Hard Assets" allows him to focus the practice on selecting opportunities in the global resource sector with emphasis on the precious metals exploration and development sector. Ballanger takes great pleasure in visiting mineral properties around the globe in the never-ending hunt for early-stage opportunities.

Sign up for our FREE newsletter at: www.streetwisereports.com/get-news

Disclosure: 1) Statements and opinions expressed are the opinions of Michael Ballanger and not of Streetwise Reports or its officers. Michael Ballanger is wholly responsible for the validity of the statements. Streetwise Reports was not involved in any aspect of the article preparation. Michael Ballanger was not paid by Streetwise Reports LLC for this article. Streetwise Reports was not paid by the author to publish or syndicate this article. 2) This article does not constitute investment advice. Each reader is encouraged to consult with his or her individual financial professional and any action a reader takes as a result of information presented here is his or her own responsibility. By opening this page, each reader accepts and agrees to Streetwise Reports' terms of use and full legal disclaimer. This article is not a solicitation for investment. Streetwise Reports does not render general or specific investment advice and the information on Streetwise Reports should not be considered a recommendation to buy or sell any security. Streetwise Reports does not endorse or recommend the business, products, services or securities of any company mentioned on Streetwise Reports. 3) From time to time, Streetwise Reports LLC and its directors, officers, employees or members of their families, as well as persons interviewed for articles and interviews on the site, may have a long or short position in securities mentioned. Directors, officers, employees or members of their immediate families are prohibited from making purchases and/or sales of those securities in the open market or otherwise from the time of the interview or the decision to write an article until three business days after the publication of the interview or article. The foregoing prohibition does not apply to articles that in substance only restate previously published company releases.

Charts provided by the author.

Michael Ballanger Disclaimer: This letter makes no guarantee or warranty on the accuracy or completeness of the data provided. Nothing contained herein is intended or shall be deemed to be investment advice, implied or otherwise. This letter represents my views and replicates trades that I am making but nothing more than that. Always consult your registered advisor to assist you with your investments. I accept no liability for any loss arising from the use of the data contained on this letter. Options and junior mining stocks contain a high level of risk that may result in the loss of part or all invested capital and therefore are suitable for experienced and professional investors and traders only. One should be familiar with the risks involved in junior mining and options trading and we recommend consulting a financial adviser if you feel you do not understand the risks involved.

from https://www.streetwisereports.com/article/2019/10/10/east-west-trade-war-never-take-a-knife-to-a-gunfight.html

[stunudo]

That Got Away: A Criminal Minds Fan-fiction Part 9

Inspired by: Katy Perry’s “The One That Got Away”

Foo Fighters “Monkey Wrench”

Featuring: Spencer x Reader   Rating: Teen    Setting: Season 4

(I know this pic is from season 5, but come on!) A/N: What does it mean when you make yourself cry while writing? Angst. Let’s see if the team can make up for the crappy hotel security... xoxo Stu

I do not own any of the lyrics, characters or images.

Part 1   Part 7    Part 8

Emily saw the envelope sitting neglected on the desk. The unsubs had the BAU rolling around this hotel like a tangled ball of yarn betwixt the claws of a pack of sadistic kittens. She grabbed a pair of gloves from a uniformed cop at the desk, knowing in her gut it was exactly like the one found at Reid’s hotel room that morning. She opened the gently pronged seal, a single sheet of printer paper with typical Times New Roman Font stared back.

Regarding: A Trade

When: At your earliest convenience

Who: Dr. Reid for Agent Jareau

Where: To Be Determined

How: Please have Dr. Reid pick up the security desk phone and dial #999 to receive further instructions

Don't wanna be your monkey wrench One more indecent accident I'd rather leave than suffer this I'll never be your monkey wrench

You felt like you were trapped in a bad after school special about abstinence. How could your dad; your sweet, goofy, dork of a dad be this controlling?! You were an adult. You had lived on your own for an entire year of college. Why was it so bad to finally have a boyfriend? Even in your memories you could hear the whine of your voice in your thoughts. You had never felt so alone and angry before. What could you do with all these emotions?

You blasted Dave Grohl through the sound system and threw your stuff around your bedroom.

“JJ, can you see an exit? Can you get out of there before she catches up to you?” Hotch did not want to risk heroics, he wanted JJ back with the team.

“Yeah, Hotch, there seems to be a door at the end of the other hall. If I make it through, I will work on getting above ground.” JJ had controlled her breathing, yet she was still determined to move on to the next step of escaping. “If I don’t come back to the phone, take it as a good sign.”

“JJ, be careful.” Hotch stayed on the line, until he heard the other phone rest into the cradle.

Spencer was agitated, “Hotch, did she see Y/N? Were there any other doors she could have tried?!”

Hotch looked at Reid with his serious, yet blank face. “You can ask her when we get her back. Right now, we know Dr. Y/L/N is not in any real danger. Also, one of the unsubs have been taken down with ease.”

“And one of them is walking amongst us.” Emily Prentiss had arrived with the next clue from the suspects. “We have another note. This time it is an invitation for Reid.”

Every member of the local and BAU team present exchanged glances as Spencer rushed toward Agent Prentiss. She held up the page for him to read without touching it. His eyes ran over the note, it was impossibly short. He read it three times. “Hotch, make sure Garcia is on the trace.”

Spencer walked calmly back over to the security desk and picked up the phone.

Morgan and Rossi were in the conference room staring at the wall. There were three “known” unsubs: Kurt Hansen, Unsub Mail Carrier (female) and Unsub Prison Guard (older female). The available pictures and generic descriptions were on sheets with details of the profiles below each part of the team. This group was organized, willing to take high risk victims and had resources to pull this off.

They were pointing to the one keeping watch of JJ and Y/N as the leader, this was personal for her. They were looking into ties with both Dr. Y/L/Ns to build a suspect list. Y/N was injured while JJ was not, was this about her from the beginning? Had the father’s murder occurred because the original target, Y/N was not yet in Pasadena?

Kurt Hansen was muscle and accessibility. He probably didn’t know much about the other members of the team, but he liked their bankroll. How did Y/N end up choosing a room at this hotel? Did they know that the BAU would be staying here as well? How far did their research go?

The mail carrier unsub was fearless. She made no attempt to hide her features besides knowing where security cameras were. She helped develop the games that Reid and Y/N were battling. She was intelligent, probably a sociopath, and also had a personal vendetta against Y/N.

The room behind your wall had a tussle. You hoped JJ was alright, Auntie Miriam could have a mean streak about her. You tried to get her attention after you heard her door, followed by a yelp. Yet again you were greeted with silence. You began reciting Nonnus’ ‘Dionysiaca’ because right now you could really use a god of wine.

Bring me the fennel, rattle the cymbals, ye Muses! put in my hand the wand of Dionysos whom I sing: but bring me a partner for your dance in the neighbouring island of Paros, Proteus of many turns, that he may appear in all his diversity of shapes, since I twang my harp to a diversity of songs. For if, as a serpent, he should glide along his winding trail, I will sing my god’s achievement--

It was not your favorite epic poem, but it was flowery and the dank cell you were in needed such fantastic color. You returned to sitting on the cold floor, your lack of underwear a constant reminder of how far you had fallen over the course of this short, yet arduous day. You smiled against the desperation, you had spent the night with ‘ton chevalier’ and those memories were worth reliving.

Too soon reality returned. After some time, you began to accept that you had gotten your father killed by being a terrible niece. Aunt Miriam needed something from you and apparently Spencer also. What you two could offer her, after years apart was the largest puzzle piece. You hoped Spencer was safe, wherever he was. That his team would protect him, as they tried to protect you. After all, he didn’t deserve to be hurt by your family again.

All this time to make amends What do you do when all your enemies are friends Now and then I'll try to bend Under pressure Wind up snapping in the end

This was Spencer’s third pass down Dr. Y/L/N’s office in an hour. The young doctor knew the older man was studying him, he just couldn’t have foreseen their conversation.

“Spencer, why don’t you come in for a sec?” Dr. Y/L/N’s wide face beckoned through his casually open office door. Spencer set his last box of materials on the floor near the door. He plopped down on one of the same uncomfortable brown laminate chairs that were found throughout the building. He waited, his breathing still labored from his repeat trips to his next research hub and he didn’t know what Dr. Y/L/N wanted.

From his spot, Spencer could see a framed photograph of Y/N. She was probably eight or nine, in the background was the Colosseum. Her front teeth elephantine to her features. Spencer wondered if that was before or after Dr. Y/L/N’s wife had passed. For someone so fortunate to travel the world and absorb such varied cultures and history, Y/N had been through many hardships. Spencer smiled, knowing just how the world hadn’t truly seen Y/N Y/L/N yet.

“Spencer,” Graham sighed, “I have been watching you fall in love with my Y/N/N for a year now. And I am sorry for that.”

Spencer’s brown eyes bulged in embarrassment, he cleared his throat. “Sir? While I have known Y/N for one year, two months, 6 days and eighteen hours, I would not say my feelings,” his voice cracking, “were as that involving the complex chemical and hormonal mixture that is romantic love until most recently.”

“Spencer, when you are an old man, such as I am,” Dr. Y/L/N continued. “You will witness young love quite clearly as you can never have it like that again. It is fleeting and priceless.” His large form rose to sit on the edge of his fine desk, taking a casual aside in this formal setting. “I have turned a blind eye these past few weeks, because she is, you both are so special to me. But I can no longer ignore the potential ramifications from such summer flings.”

Spencer’s mind soared while his stomach dropped to the floor. The worst was the shame he felt, it gave him a searing jolt; silencing his usually generous words. His mouth opened and closed before he could articulate, “Sir, I, um we have not done anything that could endanger your daughter. I, mean, sir I wouldn’t hurt her.”

“Even so, I have made arrangements with my sister. Y/N will be spending the rest of her summer with her Aunt in San Francisco. She is leaving tomorrow morning. You are welcome to say goodbye, if you would like.”

Spencer stood. Like an animal released from a pen, he could no longer sit in one place. He picked up his research box and dropped it, twice, before looking back at his mentor. Then all he saw was the man that was oddly breaking his heart. “I will, I will call Y/N and set up a time, sir. Thank you, I must, <cough> go now and finish up in my new department, sir.”

JJ made it to the doorway at the end of the narrow hall from the captor’s base. The wide push release at waist height engaged, allowing her passage. She found another short hallway, it’s floor descending. It was lined in cinder blocks and ended in a ladder like a service entrance. She turned, trying to retrace her steps, but there was no handle on the exterior of the door she had used.

JJ squared her shoulders and began to climb up the cold iron rungs. The buzzing lights of the basement were lost as she ascended into warmer air. The sounds of machinery and voices urged the agent onward. People were near, people are her specialty, she can work with people. Her exhausted, undernourished mind kept thoughts at a minimum. Suddenly she couldn’t climb anymore, her hands and head bumped into a heavy stone hatch.

After ensuring Garcia was on the line and tracing the call, Spencer pushed the code through. The answering rings were clipped, more mechanical than he expected. On the fourth chirp, she answered, rather breathy. “Dr. Reid I presume.”

“Why did you give up on the prose?” Spencer started, “Was it for efficiency sake or couldn’t you find your muse? Perhaps that little errand girl you have roaming the lobby didn’t meet your deadline and you had to improvise.”

“No matter, Dr. Reid.” The older woman appeared to be talking, a notable accent the more she spoke. “As you now have Agent Jareau, how would you like to proceed?”

Spencer looked to Hotch, JJ wasn’t here. What did this woman want after losing her trading jewel? Hotch shook his head at Reid, knowing it wouldn’t convince him anyway. “Miriam, Miriam Y/L/N?” Spencer held his hand over the mouthpiece, and stage whispered, “The unsub is Y/N’s aunt!”

Hotch was floored, “Reid, are you sure?” Spencer nodded, writing on a pad beside the phone: ‘same accent as Graham’ in his stylized scribbles.

The team regrouped, Emily called Morgan to continue with the profile. Garcia flew through her research getting any information that could take this brother-killer down. Hotch continued to watch Reid and Y/N’s monitor. Someone had entered the room with her, but Hotch wouldn’t draw Spencer’s eye away from the phone.

Part 10

@sparkle-dinosaur, @dontshootmespence @reiding-and-writing @speedreiding @reid-my-fortune @sapphire1727 @holagubler @cherry-loves-fanfic @lookingforgalifrey @miss-gleek-freak-geek @criminal-minds-fanfiction @reidbyers @sortaathief 

[rdclsuperfoods]

There’s a famous Gandhi aphorism about how movements progress: “First they ignore you, then they laugh at you, then they fight you, then you win.” That was actually written by the Workshop on Nonviolence Institute as a summary of Gandhi’s philosophy, but regardless, it’s remarkable how often it accurately describes the evolution of causes, from legal cannabis to gay marriage. I’ve been thinking about that quote since I wrote my first piece about plant-based meat (or alt meat, as I like to call it) for Outside in 2014. Back then, we were firmly in the “laugh at you” stage. Beyond Meat, the first of the Silicon Valley startups to use advanced technology to produce extremely meat-like burgers, had been ignored for its first few years, but in 2014, it released its Beast Burger, which was treated by the press and public as a slightly off-putting curiosity. What was this stuff? Would anyone actually eat it? Ewwww.

That product wasn’t very good—I compared it to Salisbury steak—and when Ethan Brown, Beyond Meat’s founder, announced his intention to end livestock production, you could almost hear the National Cattlemen’s Beef Association laughing in the background.

But I didn’t laugh. I knew it would keep getting better and beef wouldn’t. And I thought the bar was pretty low. Sure, steak is great, but ground beef makes up 60 percent of beef sales, and most of it is more Salisbury than salutary, a greasy vehicle for the yummy stuff: ketchup, mushrooms, pickles, bacon, sriracha mayo. I knew I wouldn’t object if my central puck came from a plant, as long as it chewed right and tasted right. I suspected others might feel the same.

In the following years, Beyond Meat was joined by Impossible Foods, a more sophisticated startup with even more venture capital. Its Impossible Burger was way better than Salisbury steak. All the cool cats started serving it, from David Chang in New York to Traci Des Jardins in San Francisco. My conviction grew.

Part of the appeal of the new burgers is their smaller environmental footprint. Beef is the most wasteful food on the planet. Cows are not optimized to make meat; they’re optimized to be cows. It takes 36,000 calories of feed to produce 1,000 calories of beef. In the process, it uses more than 430 gallons of water and 1,500 square feet of land, and it generates nearly ten kilograms of greenhouse-gas emissions. In comparison, an Impossible Burger uses 87 percent less water, 96 percent less land, and produces 89 percent fewer greenhouse-gas emissions. Beyond Meat’s footprint is similarly svelte.

Yes, a good argument can be made that small-farm, grass-fed beef production (in places that can grow abundant grass) has a very different ethical and environmental landscape, but unfortunately, that’s just not a significant factor. America gets 97 percent of its beef from feedlots. And feedlots are irredeemable.

By 2018, sales of both the Beyond Burger and the Impossible Burger were surging, and the companies began to ink deals with restaurant chains. Beyond Meat got Carl’s Jr. and A&W (as well as supermarket chains like Food Lion and Safeway), while Impossible got White Castle.

I tracked down a White Castle shortly after the Impossible Slider arrived in the spring of 2018. I’d never been to a White Castle, so I ordered an Impossible Slider and a regular slider. The Impossible was...fine. About what you’d expect. White Castle steams all its meat, which is hard to get past, but with plenty of cheese, it went down easy. 

The regular slider, on the other hand, was horrific. I peeled back the pasty bun and stared at the fetid shingle inside. It was appallingly thin and grimy. It made the Impossible Slider look lush and juicy. The bar for fast-food burgers is even lower than I thought. Nobody will miss these shitty little brown things when they’re gone. 

Perhaps this explains why the chains are latching on to plant-based burgers as if they were life rings. White Castle initially tested its Impossible Slider in just a few locations in New York, New Jersey, and Chicago in April 2018. It was such a hit that the company quickly expanded the program to all 380 outlets. “People are coming back for it again and again,” White Castle’s vice president, Jamie Richardson, said with a touch of astonishment.

They’re coming back at Del Taco, too, which launched a Beyond Meat taco in April. Within two months, it had sold two million, one of the most successful product launches in its history, so it decided to add Beyond Meat burritos as well.

And then there’s Burger King. The second-largest fast-food chain in the world rattled big beef’s cage by testing an Impossible Whopper in St. Louis in April. Resulting foot traffic was so strong that Burger King decided to serve the Impossible Whopper in all 7,200 restaurants, marking the moment when alt meat stopped being alt. 

That was enough to get the meat industry to snap to attention. “About a year and a half ago, this wasn’t on my radar whatsoever,” said Mark Dopp, head of regulatory affairs for the North American Meat Association, to The New York Times. “All of a sudden, this is getting closer.” 

The strategy, predictably yet pathetically, was to engage in an ontological battle over the term meat itself. Big beef successfully lobbied for a labeling law in Missouri banning any products from identifying themselves as meat unless they are “derived from harvested production livestock or poultry.” (But this is wrong; the word simply meant sustenance for the first thousand years of its existence.) Similar labeling laws have passed or are pending in a dozen more states, most of them big ranching ones.

Obviously, none of this has stemmed the rise of alt meat. But it did make me think again of Gandhi (a staunch vegetarian, FYI). They ignored, they laughed, and now they were fighting. 

This stuff, I thought, just might win.

This year is shaping up to be the inflection point when this becomes obvious to everybody else. Beyond Meat’s products are in 15,000 grocery stores in the U.S., and its sales have more than doubled each year. On May 2, it held its IPO, offering stock at $25, which turned out to be a wild underestimation of what investors thought the company was worth. It immediately leaped to $46 and closed the day at $65.75. That one-day pop of 163 percent was one of the best in decades, putting to shame such 2019 IPOs as Lyft (21 percent) and Pinterest (25 percent), to say nothing of Uber (negative 3 percent). In the following days, it kept ripping, climbing above $150, where it has stayed. The market currently estimates Beyond Meat’s worth at close to $10 billion.

Not to be outdone, that same month, Impossible Foods raised an additional $300 million dollars from private investors (for a running total of $740 million and a valuation of $2 billion) and announced it would be joining Beyond Meat in America’s grocery stores later this year. These companies are no longer little mammals scurrying around the feet of the big-beef dinosaurs. And they are gearing up for an epic head-to-head battle.

Both Beyond Meat and Impossible Foods recently released new, improved versions of their meat. For the past week, I’ve subsisted on little else. It feels great. Both have the same amount of protein as ground beef (about 20 grams per quarter-pound serving) and less fat. Being plant-based, they also provide a healthy shot of fiber. Both get their unctuousness from coconut oil. 

But the core of each formula is very different. Beyond uses pea protein, while Impossible uses soy. Beyond gets its bloody color from beet juice; Impossible uses heme—the same molecule that makes our blood red—to achieve its meaty color and flavor. This is its killer app. Beef gets its beefiness from heme. When you cook heme, it produces the distinctive savory, metallic flavor of meat. Since heme is normally found in blood, no veggie concoction has ever used it. Soy plants do make microscopic amounts of it, but not enough to ever use. Impossible Foods’ breakthrough was to genetically engineer yeast to produce soy heme in a tank, like beer. This GMO process is a deal breaker for some people, but it makes all the difference. The Impossible Burger is incredible, the Beyond Burger merely passable. 

The Beyond Burger comes as two premade four-ounce patties (packaged in a plastic tray wrapped in more plastic—strike one). They don’t quite pass as hamburgers. They’re too wet and too pink. They almost resemble finely ground salmon burgers. They cook to a satisfying toothiness on either a grill or a griddle, but there’s an inexplicable cellulose quality to the texture. (This is even more pronounced in the Beyond Sausage.) The flavor is also slightly off. There’s a hint of fake smoke and an earthiness I’m guessing comes from the beet juice. (My wife would argue that it’s more than slightly off; she has to leave the room when the Beyond Burger is cooking. But she also hates beets.) It’s not an unpleasant experience, just don’t expect the burgergasm you get from a quarter pound of USDA prime.

Impossible Foods, on the other hand, has delivered burgergasm after burgergasm. It’s shine-up-the-Nobel-Prize good. Not only does it taste like ground beef, it looks and acts like it, too. It’s truly plug and play. 

That wasn’t true for the previous version. When I first wrote about Impossible Foods three years ago, I had to beg the company to send me one patty. It was hesitant. Back then, the burger was fussy. It didn’t work well on a grill, so you had to pan-fry it just right. The company made me do a Skype tutorial first, and when the micropatty arrived in a refrigerated box, with a special bun and special sauce, it was accompanied by pages of printed instructions. The burger was good, certainly the most meat-like plant patty up to that point, but it still tasted like a lite product—a little cleaner, a little less decadent, a little bit like filler.

This time, when I asked the company to send me a burger, a five-pound block of meat—clearly what it normally ships to food-service companies—arrived on my doorstep. No instructions, no hand-holding. It looked identical to ground beef, so that’s how I treated it. And that’s how it performed. I made sliders, kebabs, nachos, chili, Bolognese sauce, even a little tartare (note: the company frowns hard on this).

If I’m being honest, I find that I slightly prefer it to real beef. It’s rich and juicy, more savory, but still somehow cleaner and less cloying. Now when I go back to regular beef, I notice a whiff of the charnel house in it, something musty and gray that I don’t like and don’t need.

In the coming years, expect a lot of other omnivores to have similar epiphanies. Impossible Foods has performed more than 26,000 blind taste tests on its burger, which is on track to surpass ground beef in those tests in the near future. What happens then? Impossible has been laser focused on creating the perfect simulacrum of ground beef. But why? The cow never had a lock on gastronomic perfection. It was just the best we could do given the limitations of the natural material. Firelight was fine until electricity came along. Then things got really interesting.

Look for something similar to happen with alt meat. For now, it’s necessary to make people comfortable with the familiar, the way Steve Jobs loaded the early iPhones with faux felt and wood grain. But once people stop expecting burgers to refer to a hunk of flesh, the brakes on deliciousness will be released.

This will be generational. All change is. Most Baby Boomers are going to stick with their beef, right up to the point where their dentures can’t take it anymore. But Gen Z will find the stuff as embarrassing as Def Leppard and dad jeans. 

As this shift accelerates, the beef industry will lose its last advantage—price. Most offerings made with Beyond Meat and Impossible Foods are about a buck a burger more expensive. But it’s inherently cheaper to make a burger directly out of plants than it is to feed those plants to an animal first. Beef is currently cheaper because of scale. Big food companies can negotiate tremendously reduced prices for feed, and gigantic factories and supply chains are much more efficient to run.

But the playing field is leveling fast. Last week, Dunkin’ announced a new Beyond Sausage breakfast sandwich that will be just 14 cents more than the meat version. But more than anything Beyond Meat or Impossible Foods has accomplished, the true death knell for the cattlemen is how the mainstream food industry has embraced alt meat. Whole Foods just announced it will start selling burgers from the UK-based startup the Meatless Farm in all of its stores. Nestlé is launching its Awesome Burger this fall. Tyson Foods, America’s largest meat producer, just debuted its own plant-based nuggets, with more products to come. Tyson CEO Noel White said he expects Tyson “to be a market leader in alternative protein, which is experiencing double-digit growth and could someday be a billion-dollar business for our company.”

If that quote isn’t enough to send chills down the spine of any meat producer, try this one from Perdue Farms chairman Jim Perdue: “Our vision is to be the most trusted name in premium protein. It doesn’t say premium meat protein, just premium protein. That’s where consumers are going.”

And that’s where these companies will go. Beef is a headache. It comes with a lot of baggage to worry about: antibiotic resistance, E. coli outbreaks, animal welfare, climate change. It’s the kind of icky biological variable that corporate America would love to leave behind—and as soon as beef becomes less profitable, it will. 

Recent projections suggest that 60 percent of the meat eaten in 2040 will be alt, a figure I think may actually be too conservative. An estimated 95 percent of the people buying alt burgers are meat-eaters. This is not about making vegetarians happy. It’s not even about climate change. This is a battle for America’s flame-broiled soul. Meat is about to break free from its animal past. As traditional meat companies embrace alt meat with the fervor of the just converted, making it cheap and ubiquitious, it’s unclear if Beyond Meat or Impossible Foods can survive the feeding frenzy (though Impossible’s patents on its core IP may help), but at least they’ll be able to comfort themselves with a modern take on Gandhi’s wisdom:

First they ignore you. Then they laugh at you. Then they sue you. Then they try to buy you. Then they copy you. Then they steal your shelf space. Then they put you out of business. Then you’ve won.

via Outside Magazine: Nutrition