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protect-him · 3 years ago

Note

prompt: "shy kiss" for fenders?

A bit late, and this got a bit long, but I had ideas and I had a lovely time writing them. I hope you enjoy!

For @dadrunkwriting

Twelve, thirteen, fourteen.

The elevator stopped on floor fifteen to let off one of its three passengers.

“Uh, how high are we going?” Anders asked, as the elevator doors slid shut and they began to climb again.

“Not much further,” Fenris said, putting a hand up to push back the loose hair that hung over the side of Anders’ face. His expression was clinical as he examined the bloody scrape on Anders’ temple.

“It’s fine,” Anders assured him, once again. He let Fenris hold his face without further protest, only pulling away reluctantly when Fenris’ warm fingers slipped away.

The elevator stopped on floor twenty-three, the top floor.

“Where are we going, the roof?” Anders joked mildly, following Fenris out of the elevator and trying not to stare at the luxurious carpet that padded the foyer. Three doors led off of the landing, each numbered.

“Fuck, this is a penthouse, isn’t it?” Anders muttered. “And my boots are muddy.”

“It’s no matter,” Fenris said, turning the key in the lock and pushing open the door.

Anders trailed after him, bending to pull off his boots just inside, despite Fenris’ insistence that he needn’t bother.

The entryway was dimly lit by a small light that Fenris had flicked on, but from what Anders could see, everything in the spacious apartment was luxurious and elegant, if somewhat sparse. Fenris stood watching him, lit by the overhead light and framed by a wall of floor to ceiling windows looking over the blinking city.

Anders straightened, eyes widening as he walked towards the windows to look out. The room containing them was a large bedroom with a plush king-sized bed. The floor was smooth wood, and Anders’ feet drifted onto a plush rug, where he stopped and stood staring out the window.

“I am fond of the view,” Fenris murmured, coming to stand beside him.

“I’ve never seen Kirkwall like this,” Anders said. From behind the glass, the city was only a distant hum.

Fenris turned and vanished from Anders’ periphery. A light flicked on and Anders finally tore his eyes away to look. The light came from a doorway that led into a blindingly white bathroom. A large mirror on the opposite wall reflected Fenris, bending to open a drawer.

Knowing that he needed to treat the scrape on his temple and his split knuckles, Anders left the window and joined Fenris.

“Find anything?” He asked.

“There are some first aid items here,” Fenris said, pulling out a small bottle of antibiotic cream and a box of bandages.

“I can take care of it,” Anders said.

“That won’t be necessary,” Fenris said. He pulled Anders towards the porcelain toilet and sat him down on the lid. He pushed aside the wet hair to look at the injury. He silently dabbed antibiotic cream onto a cotton ball and smoothed it across Anders’ temple. “There,” he pressed the bandage to the wound. Anders picked up the cotton ball and rubbed it across his bloody knuckles.

“There is a second bedroom,” Fenris offered. “It would be best if you spent the night. It is too late for you to walk home.”

“Ah-alright,” Anders said.

“I apologize that it is a small space,” Fenris said, glancing towards the ground. “It was formerly my room.”

Anders kept his expression neutral, but his mind started racing. He could only imagine what Fenris had been like when he lived here with his abusive step-father.

“If you prefer, you can sleep in the master bedroom,” Fenris offered.

“Oh, no, the other will be great!” Anders said, smiling. “I appreciate the offer.”

“If you insist,” Fenris said, always obliging. He disappeared into the bedroom as Anders leaned in to look in the mirror, tugging at the bandage on his head. It had hurt, but it was more than worth it taking a punch when the cause was standing up to someone trying to insult Fenris. And Anders had given back just as good, as his split knuckles were proof. He grinned in the mirror, damp hair hanging around his face. More than worth it.

“I found some things that may fit you,” Fenris said, placing a couple neatly folded clothing articles on the counter top. “So you can change out of your wet clothes.”

“Thanks.”

Fenris withdrew, closing the door so Anders could change. The warm sweats and loose tee shirt fit better than Anders had expected—most likely they had belonged to someone other than Fenris. He opened the door and yawned, his eyes once again drawn to the large windows.

“I feel guilty to rob you of the view,” Fenris said apologetically. He had changed as well, into plaid bottoms and a black tee.

“I’ll sleep better without the sun coming in on me when I wake up,” Anders said, waving his hand.

“If you say so,” Fenris said, moving to show Anders the door leading into the spare bedroom. The room was hardly larger than the bathroom had been, a long bed with a worn grey cover crammed against one wall. Fenris flicked on a lamp that sat on the shelf that was a part of the headboard above the bed.

“If you are uncomfortable here, please let me know,” he said, eyeing Anders’ height nervously, trying to measure him against the length of the bed.

“Don’t worry,” Anders said. “I’ll sleep like a baby.” He sat down on the bed and smoothed the sheet.

“I shall simply be in the next room, then,” Fenris said. “Good night, Anders.”

Anders looked up and caught Fenris’ gaze. Anders, he called me Anders. Fenris’ teeth caught at his lip, but he held Anders’ gaze deliberately.

“Good night, Fenris,” Anders said. And the elf turned out the light and slipped into the darkness of the master bedroom.

Anders turned to examine his accommodations. It was a barren room, the furnishings minimal and significantly less fine than those in the rest of the penthouse apartment. The headboard was odd, it seemed thick, as if there was a cavity in it, but when Anders felt the paneling, it didn’t seem to move. A moment of magic, and he found a spell sealing it, which was old and easily broken. He hesitated. What if there was something inside this space that he shouldn’t see?

Anders’ curiosity got the best of him. The panel slid to the side to reveal a small open space. It was nearly empty, there was only a small plush animal, a thick and stubby pencil, and an old, worn notebook. Anders touched the plush. It was smooth, the fabric worn thin in several places. He didn’t want to pry, but Anders had to peek inside the notebook. Just the first page, to see if he could confirm who it belonged to.

The first page was smudged in places, and adorned with small childish drawings. The subject matter appeared to be birds. And scattered across the page, in shaky handwriting, was the capital letter ‘L,’ repeated over and over. It made little sense to Anders, so he replaced the notebook and closed the cabinet, turning out the light, and soon falling asleep.

He slept peacefully, and woke confused. He was in a small room, curled up on a narrow but comfortable bed. His jaw ached, and Anders remembered the fight, and Fenris walking him to his place, and everything else. He gingerly touched a finger to the bandage on his head. All of that had happened. He had as good as said that he liked Fenris, and perhaps even beyond friendship, which was itself only a tentative thing between them. A wonder that Fenris hadn’t rejected the declaration outright, probably finding it too ridiculous.

Anders wasn’t allowed much time to think. Soon, he could smell the fragrance of food cooking. Following his nose, he found Fenris in the apartment’s kitchen. Despite being a bit small, the kitchen felt much larger. There was a moment when they regarded each other, unsure where they stood today.

“Sleep well?” Fenris finally asked.

“Mm,” Anders hummed, coming to stand next to the elf and look at what he was making. Eggs, with cheese and bits of meat. “Smells good,” he said.

Now it was Fenris’ turn to hum.

“I hope you like it,” he said.

“Fenris…” Fenris looked at him, thoughtful.

“I know this is a bit sudden and ridiculous,” Anders said, “but would you want to start seeing each other?”

Fenris didn’t look disgusted, nor throw him out immediately, so Anders counted his question as successful. He didn’t expect Fenris’ response, which came much quicker than Anders would have supposed.

“I think I should like that,” Fenris’ voice was hardly above a whisper, and his ears flushed a sweet, soft pink.

“Wait, really?”

“I suppose you had not noticed any of the hints I tried to drop,” Fenris said, smiling ruefully.

“I’m afraid not,” Anders said.

“Then I shall have to speak more plainly,” Fenris said. He was suddenly facing Anders, tugging him down, closer to those wide, green eyes.

Fenris paused for a moment to give Anders agency to decide whether to stay or to pull away. Anders stayed, and leaned in. Fenris met him, soft lips only brushing his gently, like a feather, before Fenris pulled back again. The rosy blush had rapidly spread from his ears across his cheeks. He looked quickly back at the food, scraping at the eggs in the pan.

“Fenris?”

Fenris hummed, but didn’t dare look at Anders.

“That was really sweet. Perhaps we should try it again sometime?” The smile that lit up Fenris’ face, though it was small, made Anders’ heart do an unexpected flip. With the view of the city behind him, and Fenris blushing in front of him, Anders could hardly remember any morning nearly so wondrous as this one.

#fenders #dadwc fills #dadwc tag #fanfiction #protecc writes #my writing

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stranger-who-writes-fiction · 3 years ago

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Back at it again with my self-indulgent comic posts. This time! It’s Supergirl: Woman of Tomorrow #3, perhaps the most tonally-distinct entry yet, with shades of The Twilight Zone.

Spoilers!

So, as mentioned, this issue is the most deliberate in terms of both its pacing and its tone, IMO.

What is that tone, you ask?

To quote Alex Danvers, from “Midvale”: Hello, darkness.

THE STORY:

Kara and Ruthye are still looking for Krem Clues in the alien town of Maypole.

(Which is actually just Small Town, USA, complete with vintage 50s aesthetics.)

But the locals are clearly hiding something! So Kara and Ruthye continue to investigate, and they eventually discover what it was that the residents of Maypole were so keen to keep hidden.

Genocide, basically.

As I said, this issue struck me as very Twilight Zone; a genre story involving the build-up to a dark twist, all set against the backdrop of an idyllic small town. (Think, like, “The Monsters are Due on Maple Street” but instead of focusing on the Red Scare, it’s classism and racism.)

The wealthier blue aliens kicked all of the purple aliens out of town, and when space pirates showed up to pillage and plunder, the blue aliens made a deal with them: the lives of the purple aliens in exchange for their safety.

Which is where the episodic story connects to the larger mission; it was Krem who suggested the trade, and then joined up with the Brigands (space pirates) when he was freed by the blue aliens.

The issue ends with no tidy resolution to the terrible things Kara and Ruthye discovered, but they do have a lead on where to find Krem, now, as well as Barbond’s Brigands.

KARA-CTERIZATION:

Ironically, it’s here, in the darkest chapter yet, that we get the closest to what might be considered ‘classic’ Kara.

Which I think comes down to that aforementioned deliberate pace--this issue is a little slower, a little quieter. It gives the characters some room to breathe.

That’s not to say Crusty Kara is gone. Oh no. She is still very much Crusty. XD

But anyways. A list! Of Kara moments I loved!

I mentioned a few of these in a prior post when the preview pages came out: I like the moment where Kara blows down the guy’s house of cards, and I like that the action is echoed later in the issue when she grabs the mayor’s desk and tosses it aside. A nice visual representation of the escalation of Kara being, like. Done with these creeps. (Creeps is an understatement but you get the idea.)

Another one from the preview pages: Kara explains to Ruthye that her super hearing won’t necessarily help her detect a lie, especially if she’s dealing with an alien species she’s not familiar with.

It not only reveals her level of competence and understanding of her super powers, it also shows that, you know. She’s a thinker. She’s smart.

Amazing! Showing, rather than telling us, that Kara is smart! Without mentioning the science guild at all wow hey wow.

(Sorry, pointed criticism of the SG show fandom.)

Anyways.

I dig the PJs!

And Kara catching the bullet! Not only are the poses and character acting great, it’s also a neat bit of panel composition:

We start with Ruthye’s POV, and then move to the wide shot of the room. The panel where Kara actually catches the bullet is down and to the side of the wide shot panel--we move our eyes the way her body/arm would have to move to intercept the bullet. Physicality in static, 2D images!

Also, like. It’s a very tense moment, life-or-death, but. Ruthye’s wide-eyed surprise at the bullet in Kara’s hand? Kind of adorable.

I was pretty much prepared for the page of Kara shielding Ruthye from the gunfire to be the highlight--it was one of the first pages King shared and I was like, ‘yeah, YEAH.’ But, shockingly? The TRUE highlight of the issue?

Where do I BEGIN?!?!

EVERYTHING. About this moment. Is lovely.

From Kara holding Ruthye above the bench to explaining the concept of a piggyback ride, to telling her:

“I’m going to hold my hands here, and these hands can turn coal into diamonds, so they’re not going to let go. I’m going to keep you safe.”

HNNNNNNNNNNNG.

Ruthye’s narration--about how Kara had avoided flying as she was concerned it would freak Ruthye out--just adds a whole additional layer of YES, GOOD, YES, and her line on that splash page is great: “You see, all that time, she was worried about me.”

HNNNNNNNNNNNG. AGAIN.

To say nothing of the STELLAR ARTWORK.

And SPEAKING of that stellar artwork, Evely and Lopes continue to knock it out of the park. Each issue is distinct and beautifully crafted, a true joy to look at.

Before I jump into more of the art, a few final notes of character stuff in general.

Ruthye is the one most affected by the experience in Maypole, as she can’t comprehend how a society of people that look so nice and gentle and peaceful could have been party to such a horrible act.

One of the big criticisms of the book thus far is that Supergirl is not the main character, and I guess I can agree with that observation. Typically, in Western media, the main character is the one who goes through the most change in the story.

And, yeah. That’s Ruthye.

As I was reading the end, where Ruthye sits on the curb and Kara hugs her, I was imagining how the scene would’ve played, had King stuck with the original idea for the series: Kara as the one learning to be tough/experiencing all of this for the first time, and while I think that could certainly work...

I continue to appreciate that King literally flipped the script; that Kara, especially in this issue, is like, ‘I’ve seen this, I know this,’ as opposed to being the one going through a loss of innocence.

*Marge Simpson voice* I just think it’s neat!

Because Kara’s been a teen in DC comics for so long--ever since she was reintroduced to the main DCU continuity, actually--so this is all brand new territory, here. Having an older Kara who’s SEEN SOME STUFF.

(Alsoooooo, since Bendis made the destruction of Krypton not just inaction and climate disaster, but rather, genocide, and the subtext of a Kryptonian diaspora text, the waitress’ derogatory comment regarding the the destruction of Kryton, as well as Kara picking up the bad vibes the entire time, suggests not just a broad commentary on discrimination in all its forms, but specifically allegorical anti-Semitism. The purple aliens being forced out of their homes and into substandard living conditions, then the blue aliens--their neighbors and once-fellow residents--essentially allowing the space pirates to kill them, making them literal scapegoats, Kara discovering the remains of the purple aliens, and Ruthye’s horror at the ‘banality of evil’...yes. A case could be made, I think.)

(Which would probably require a post unto itself and a lot more in-depth discussion, nuance, and cited sources.)

(Should mention that King has brought up that both he and Orlando--the other Supergirl writer he talked to--are Jewish, and for him personally, that shaped his views on Kara’s origin story.)

I guess my point is that this issue is perhaps not as out-of-left-field as some might think, and just because there isn’t as obvious an arc for Kara, doesn’t mean there isn’t some sharp character work at play.

(I could be WAY OFF, of course, and I’m not suggesting it’s a clear 1:1 comparison. I’d actually really love to hear King talk about this issue in particular.)

Anyways.

Here’s the final page, which I think works, because as I mentioned before, there is no easy answer/quick wrap-up to the story of Maypole:

THE ART:

I mean. How many times can I just shout ‘ART! AAAARRRRRRRRRRRTTTT!’ before it gets old?

I dunno, but I guess we’re gonna FIND OUT.

There are some panels in this issue that I just. Like ‘em! From a purely artistic standpoint! Because they’re so good!

Like, I just really love the way Kara is drawn in that top panel. Her troubled, confused expression, the colors of the fading light, the HAIR.

Evely draws the best hair. I know I’ve said this before. I don’t care. I will continue to say it, because it continues to be true.

The issue I find myself running up against when I make these posts is that I really don’t want to post whole pages, as that’s generally frowned upon (re: pirating etc.) but with something like this, you just can’t appreciate it in panel-by-panel snippets.

(Guided View on digital reading platforms is a BANE and a POX I say!)

Anyways.

LOVE the implied movement of the cape settling as Kara speeds in and stops.

And, obviously, Kara flicking the bullet away is just. A+.

And the EYES, man. LOPES’ COLORS ON THE EYES???!?! BEAUTIFUL.

Also, should note the lettering! The more rounded letters for the ‘WOOSH’ of Kara’s speed (and, earlier, the super breath) work nicely, and contrast with the angular, violent BLAMS of the gunshots.

And, I gotta say, the editor is doing a really great job of not cluttering up the artwork with all the caption boxes. Which is no small task.

(I assume the editor is placing them, as editors usually handle word balloon/caption box placement, but I suppose it could be Evely? Sometimes the artist handles it. Either way, whoever’s taking care of all the text, EXCELLENT WORK! BRAVO!)

Okay I think that’s everything.

Ah, nope, wait.

MISC.

Just a funny observation, more than anything else: Superman: Red and Blue dropped this week, and King had a story in there, “The Special” (which was very good, btw.) Both Lois and the waitress swear a lot so I’m beginning to think that this is just how King writes dialogue for any adult character who isn’t Clark. XD

This is absolutely a personal preference but when Kara was like, “And my name IS Supergirl,” I was like nooooo. I know King is trying to simplify all of the conflicting origin stories and lore but I LIKE KARA DANVERS, SIR. XD

It’s almost assuredly a cash-grab/an attempt for DC to get all the money it can out of a book they don’t have much confidence in, but I like the cardstock covers! Very classy, much Strange Adventures.

(OH my gosh, can you imagine that issue 1 cover with spot gloss???? Basically the only way you could possibly improve on it.)

Okay NOW I’m done. For real. XD NEXT TIME: Kara and Ruthye go after Krem and the Brigands!

#supergirl: woman of tomorrow #long post #dc comics #supergirl: woman of tomorrow spoilers #kara zor el #comic thoughts #comic opinions #just occurred to me I should be crediting the creative team in these things #I think thus far I've included every title page?#still #will try to be better about that going forward

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sammysdewysensitiveeyes · 4 years ago

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Things Duggan could do/could have done with Pyro in Marauders:

This list is partially me being bitter, but it’s also just kind of a creative exercise, thinking about the development potential that Pyro has.

1. Redemption arc - This seems obvious.�� Pyro is already hanging with the good guys, but is he actually undergoing a redemption arc? Is he actually changing his views or becoming a better person? We don’t really know because we barely see anything from his perspective, and it’s usually shallow comic relief when we do. The groundwork is there to give Pyro a redemption arc. He was already regretting his actions and questioning the Brotherhood’s methods when he had the Legacy Virus, leading up to him saving Senator Kelly. Why not follow up on that? Does he still feel the same way, or is he disillusioned because Kelly was killed right after he saved him? Are the Marauders (all of whom are better people than Pyro) rubbing off on him a bit? Maybe he’s starting to enjoy helping others or learning to trust humans? (Or not?) In today’s issue, Iceman was confronted by a Reaver that he had previously maimed, which was interesting, but that’s another storyline that I think would also fit Pyro. Pyro has surely been maiming some people - maybe being confronted with the results of that would help him reconsider his actions.

2. Legacy Virus stuff - Pyro hasn’t said a damn thing about the way he died, and I understand him not wanting to talk about it. But again, that sparked a semi-redemption arc for Pyro back before he died. And now he’s on a ship that is taking medicine to humans that need it, and just built a hospital in Madripoor. Maybe his experience being sick has given him a greater sense of empathy, and a desire to help sick people. If Masque can find meaning using his powers to help humans, you’d think there would be space for Pyro to say something serious about his Legacy experiences while they are dedicating a new hospital. Even just a throwaway line. Hell, Storm was dying of some kind of nano-virus for part of Marauders (although it was never mentioned in the book at all), maybe he could have sympathized with her over that? Maybe having Yellowjacket inside him - another case in which his body has been invaded by something microscopic that can kill him - triggered some Legacy feelings? We could have explored that, instead we got a “funny” scene of Magneto pulling Yellowjacket out of Pyro, and Pyro wanting to kill him.

3. Team bonding - Pyro has been accepted on the team surprisingly quickly. Faster than I would expect, really. And of course, he’s small-potatoes evil compared to even some people on the Council, but I’d still expect a little bit of friction between him and his team-mates, given that he used to try to kill them. Even without that history, he’s still the odd man out on a team that already knows each other, and are friends, or at least former team-mates. We had that kind of friction with Emma and Storm, why would we not get that friction between Pyro (the former terrorist criminal) and the others? I would have expected at least a little bit of distrust, followed eventually by some kind of bonding issue where Pyro is more accepted by the team, and in turn accepts his place with them. Who does he even consider a friend when he refers to them as “his friends”? He seems to like hanging out with Bishop and Iceman, but we’ve mostly gotten that through wordless background panels and a couple of “funny” scenes. Do any of them even like him or consider him a “friend,” or do they just tolerate his presence?

4. Writer - One of the things I find most interesting about Pyro is that he had a whole-ass career before joining the Brotherhood. He traveled around Southeast Asia, he was a journalist in Indonesia and Vietnam, he wrote romance novels. And most writers don’t explore that at all, but you’d think it would come up when the Marauder is traveling around the ocean. Maybe he speaks another language that would be helpful. Maybe his investigative skills as a journalist come in handy. Maybe he takes them to an old haunt or meets up with an old contact he knew in Vietnam. Maybe he spends his spare time writing smutty historical pirate-themed romance. I would have enjoyed that much more than the goofy “dream sequence” that Emma planted in his head, at least that would have felt like authentic character development rather than something being pushed upon him from the outside. Most comics writers don’t really get into Pyro’s civilian career, but as a regular on a book, I’d expect it to come up at least once, even as a thowaway line.

5. Brotherhood and past history - Pyro has had absolutely no contact (that we know of) with his old Brotherhood pals. He doesn’t even mention them. Why is that? Why isn’t he hanging around the bar with Blob when the Marauder’s at Krakoa? Why isn’t he texting Avalanche? Has he become estranged from them after saving Kelly (which would be an interesting plot point if Duggan developed it), or is he just hanging out with them off panel? You’d think there would be some mention of his past history at some point. Even in today’s issue, when he, Iceman and Bishop got attacked by Reavers. Pyro has a history with Reavers! He fought them on Muir Island as part of Freedom Force, and the team lost both Stonewall (which happened right in front of Pyro, and he seemed broken up about it) and Destiny (which completely destroyed Mystique). The Reavers in this issue were not the same ones, they were a new breed, but you’d think Pyro might have something to say about encountering Reavers again.

6. The gay thing - This is more my own personal preference, but Pyro WAS deliberately queer-coded in his earliest appearances, and John Byrne intended for him to be gay. They couldn’t openly write him that way back in the day, but nowadays I think no one would bat an eye if Pyro, a fairly minor villain, was somewhere on the LGBT scale. He wasn’t always queer-coded, but he had an ambiguous relationship with Avalanche, his sexuality was never firmly established (he was never in an open romantic relationship anyone), and he died a lingering, painful death from the virus that was intended to be an AIDS metaphor. It would be quite interesting to see Pyro as a closeted gay (or bisexual) man resurrected in a world where different sexual orientations are far more accepted, and slowly opening up about it to Bobby and Christian (or even Shinobi). Not to mention, it would give Bobby and Christian more to do, and Christian could talk about his own traumatic experiences without it being all swept under the rug.

7. Doubts about Krakoa - When the team first met Pyro, he was trying to steal a boat and run off, because he’d realized that his resurrection was mostly just a lab experiment to test the process. Now he seems to be all-in, and dedicated to the Marauders’ mission. What changed? Does he harbor any doubts about the Quiet Council, or is he a true believer now? Does he EVER talk to Mystique, to whom he used to be extremely loyal? Pyro can be written as dumb at times, but more frequently he comes across as one of the more intelligent and thoughtful Brotherhood members. Maybe he’s decided that everything on Krakoa is so new and confusing, he’s just gonna turn his brain off and enjoy his new life? That would also be fine, if it was actually treated as character development.

8. Divided loyalties - If I’d expect anyone to betray the team, it would be Pyro. And that doesn’t necessarily mean I want him to do that, but I’m surprised it hasn’t come up. You’d think Shinobi or Sebastian Shaw would approach him to act as a mole in exchange for lots and lots of money. Hell, I half-expected him to be spying for Mystique when he first showed up. And again, it could still happen, but there’s been no lead up or suggestion of that at all. I would honestly find it disappointing if Pyro suddenly turned on the team or was revealed to be a spy, because he hasn’t bonded with them well enough for it to be meaningful at all.

The thing is, any of these ideas could be explored, and still keep Pyro as the comic-relief party animal that Duggan is currently writing. He wouldn’t even have to have significantly more focus (although some focus would be nice). This could be accomplished through small scenes, little asides, throwaway lines. Duggan wastes so much page time setting up “moments” and atmosphere (Kitty and Emma riding horses up to Sebastian’s castle comes to mind). He spent a whole issue beating up Sebastian Shaw without any other significant plot advancement (then crams all his plot into the issues that feature other characters). He spent a few pages on a goofy fantasy dream sequence that told us nothing new about Pyro, and again, turned out to a falsely manufactured dream that Emma planted in his mind. We could have used those pages to show Pyro writing something, or show a different side of him through Yellowjacket’s spying, and it STILL could have been comic-relief. If Duggan actually wanted to explore Pyro in a more serious way, there’s both the space and potential for it. He just.....doesn’t.

Anyway, this is all wishful thinking of what could be. I’ll just have to write fanfic or something.

#pyro #st. john allerdyce #like I just want to rewrite this whole series #give sebastian more dignity and weight as a villain #properly develop bobby and christian's relationship #give bishop his due as a captain of krakoa #and give pyro some proper development

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spookyspaghettisundae · 4 years ago

Text

Run on for a Long Time

Jericho had lost sight of his friends. The rushing of blood in his ears eclipsed the scratching sounds, caused by claws scraping along floors and walls. Coming from abominable things that crawled through the corridors of the derelict hospital, in search of them.

Catching his breath, he stared down the length of one such hallway he had gotten lost in. The scratching and scraping and skittering were far away enough. For now.

One of the long fluorescent tubes kept flickering while all others remained dead, drowning the corridor in darkness and flooding it with a cold hard light. Flickering in and out, in an irregular rhythm, robbing his eyes of the ability to adapt.

He blinked and his vision blurred. That made some of the dried splatters on the wall almost appear like something else, like something that was not blood.

Gunsmoke still stung his nostrils, rising from the muzzle of the revolver in his hand. He dared to tear his gaze away from the other end of the corridor and check the chambers of his gun. Every single one of them was empty.

The rushing in his ears continued, his wheezing breaths competed with it and made it hard for him to hear if any creature’s sounds were nearing. Or to hear if any of his friends were sneaking around nearby.

Something scratched against the linoleum floors. Metal screeching followed, like a metal bar being wrenched apart, or twisted and bent.

Without looking where he went, Jericho instinctively ducked through the nearest door into whatever room awaited him nearby.

The light behind him projected a soothing warmth just by virtue of its soft orange color. It dispelled the wintry cold flooding the corridors outside the room. But Jericho also sensed a presence here. Eyes—a gaze—burning into the back of his head.

He still heard the scraping sounds from outside, so before even bothering to look around, he closed the door behind him with care, gripping it between one hand and the fingers of the other still holding his gun, letting the door’s lock emit nothing beyond a soft click once it latched into place within its frame.

This place did not belong. Jericho could tell as much without even turning around to fully take it in. The rustic and homey appearance of the wooden-paneled walls, sturdy bookshelves lining the walls which he already saw from the corner of his eyes, and a lush green potted plant.

The rest of the hospital looked like a slaughterhouse left to rot for a decade. By comparison, this place looked like it was in another world entirely.

And he still felt like someone was staring at him, standing right behind him.

He slowly turned and raised his gun. Whoever it was would not know there were no more bullets left inside of it.

A single burst of sharp breath escaped his lungs as he found nobody there. Paranoia had gotten the best of him.

Yet the room still did not belong. Immaculate, untouched. Some antique-looking chairs with fine leather upholstery and brass tacks. A marble bust of some Greek philosopher stared past him, adding to the atmosphere of sophistication that permeated this place.

One single other door leading out of the room. Footsteps approaching it.

Jericho trained his weapon on that next door, ready for anything.

The door opened and a man poked his head through. Sharp, angular features, short curly hair that had turned salt and pepper over the years. A piercing gaze, like what Jericho had expected to see staring at him upon turning around. And a well-fitted suit that clung to a sturdy and muscular frame, like that of a person who constantly worked out.

This stranger’s eyes went wide, staring right into the barrel of the revolver in Jericho’s hand for several seconds. If he felt fear now, he was hiding it well. He peeled his gaze off the weapon and locked eyes with Jericho while fully opening the door.

With a sweeping gesture of his arm, he presented a larger room beyond that door, a lavishly decorated office filled with more antique furniture. The small adornments like statues, taxidermized deer heads, antique books on more shelves, and water-colored paintings all screamed of a strange sense of opulence.

“Mister Day?” the man asked Jericho. “Please. Would you do me a favor and put the gun away?”

Jericho swallowed and registered how the rushing of blood in his ears had quieted itself somewhat. His heart had decided to take it down a notch, too. Descending from frantically thundering drum solo to a softly thumping background beat.

Confused by how he was being welcomed in here and how none of this fit together with the nightmare he had just hidden himself from, he shoved the weapon into the back of his belt. Once he blinked, he uttered a string of foul-mouthed profanities as he tugged it back out—in response to the searing pain of heated metal stinging his right butt cheek.

The man stepped fully into the waiting room and flashed him a feeble smile, communicating a sense of sympathy towards Jericho’s plight. He held out an open palm to Jericho while also giving him enough space to enter the office.

“Allow me to hold onto that for you until our session is over,” said the man.

Jericho swallowed again and placed the pistol into that open palm. The stranger took it and nodded to him, the air about him heavy with expectation.

Not having forgotten the clawed monstrosities prowling through the abandoned hospital’s hallways, where he had lost track of his two friends during their panicked escape, Jericho never felt more confused.

Jericho bit his lip, shook his head, and muttered under his breath, “Fuck it, I guess.”

He walked into the large office. Surveying the desk and chairs and the small couch and their respective placements finally made the needle drop. This office was a therapy room.

The man closed the door behind them and placed Jericho’s revolver on the desk, then he gestured to one of the chairs. That chair looked newer and more modern than the ones in the waiting room, but also more comfortable.

Jericho hesitated and stood in the middle of the room. Right now, he preferred the idea of standing, just in case he needed to make a run for it.

Because something was wrong. Not only with this place, but with this man. This therapist?

“Who are you?” he asked, his skepticism elevating each syllable to a higher pitch and instantly annoying himself at the sound of it.

“Wolff,” replied the therapist. “Doctor Simon Wolff. We have been working together for a while now, Mister Day. It is especially important that you do your best to remember that.”

Doctor Wolff straightened his jacket’s collar, slipped a small journal from the desk’s tabletop, and paired it with an expensive-looking pen. Taking the objects, he sat down on one of the chairs across from the other that he had gestured towards before, where he expected Jericho to sit.

The geometrical placement of the furniture was so perfect that it unsettled Jericho. He stayed standing and earned another small smile from Doctor Wolff, this one warmer than the last.

Windows to the outside world reflected everything in this room like darkened mirrors. The dead of night swallowed everything outside of them, save for clues of pine trees standing in a thick, snowy mist beyond them.

“Shall we begin?” asked Doctor Wolff, opening his journal and twisting his pen.

He crossed his legs, rested the journal on his lap, and tapped it twice with his pen, the smile never fading from his face.

Jericho mentally reeled. Doubt started eating away at the frayed fringes fluttering around in the darkest recesses of his mind. Was this real and the hospital before, those creatures—was that all unreal? Delusions?

“Do you know who you are?” asked Doctor Wolff.

It took Jericho another moment of internal deliberation, another instance of him swallowing emptily before he replied.

“Yeah. I’m Jericho Day. Private investigator of Fuller & Day.”

Wolff nodded and wrote a short note in his journal.

“Anything else?”

“I, uh, served in the military for almost four years. Uh, am 33 years old, uh,” Jericho stammered his way along, pooling his identity into the format of some lame fact sheet. It helped him get his mind off the horrible hospital behind him.

The more he rattled it down, though, the more the temptation to tell the truth grew. He added, “Two friends from high school hired me to help them, uh, well, check out a letter from our dead friend. It was, uh, sent posthumously.”

The regular ticking of a grandfather clock tocked away in the background, filling every empty beat and every awkward pause of his. The mechanical clicks thudded louder with each strike. After taking down more notes in his journal, the pages rustled as Doctor Wolff flipped through them, at one point back and forth before settling on a specific spot.

“The letter was authentic, the writing indeed Harry’s, but running the fingerprints yielded no match. So you traveled to your home town with your childhood friends, Daniel Smith and Joel Kline,” Doctor Wolff read out loud, in a monotone punctuated by the grandfather clock’s ticking. He clearly removed all melody from it to not offend Jericho, to not make it sound like he was mocking him with the brief summary.

The accuracy still stunned Jericho. He stopped fiddling with the black marble statue of a buffalo on a stand nearby and stared at the doctor.

How in the hell did he know? Jericho sheared every thought over Occam’s Razor and concluded that he must have told him all of this. The doctor obviously knew. But how come he himself did not remember telling him? The doctor acted as if he had been here with him several times before. Jericho wondered if he was losing his mind.

The hospital out there—was it even real? The creatures that infested this town in the absence of people? Had he been seeing a therapist and telling him about all of this? Was all of that out there the hallucination, or was this in here the illusion?

The gun on the desk suggested: both were real. Somehow.

Right?

The therapist’s gaze softly trailed from the book on his lap back to meet Jericho’s eyes again.

“Please stop me if I have gathered anything wrong from our previous conversations, Mister Day.”

Doctor Wolff cleared his throat and continued.

“You keep running into,” he paused, arching a brow. “Monsters—vaguely human-shaped, often faceless or eyeless. Some of them look like people wrapped in plastic that shamble around like zombies. One of them, you described, was a tall man with a horse’s head that attacked and injured your friend Daniel with a—with a stop sign.”

He looked up at him again and Jericho felt put on the spot. Sweat erupted from his pores, knowing how absurd it all sounded when read out loud like that. Yet the therapist allowed no pretention, no derision into his voice. His relaying of Jericho’s experiences felt earnest. Jericho felt taken seriously.

A nervous grin spread across his face, a day to the night of the doctor’s calm, statuesque, mask-like expression.

Still—it was all the truth. Nothing but the truth.

Jericho’s truth.

Right?

Jericho nodded in response. Doctor Wolff mirrored his motion. The therapist pursed his lips, flipped through the pages and kept his gaze locked onto Jericho.

“Good. There is more, but I see that you remember all the experiences you shared with me, even if you do not remember any of our sessions together. That is—somewhat, at least—to be expected.”

The clock continued to tick and tock away, unnerving Jericho further.

“I have been following your progress for a while, Mister Day,” Wolff said. The pause that followed left a lot of wide-open space for pondering. A lot of time for dread to take root in Jericho’s heart, even if the ticking and tocking indicated mere seconds to be wasting away.

He shot a glance at the gun. Even with its chambers empty of ammunition, just looking at the weapon’s cold steel lent him a sense of safety. Jericho wanted it back in his hand.

Some part of him wanted to be back out there. Looking for his friends. Running from those monsters.

Away from whatever this strange place was.

“Though I do not think you are ready, yet.”

Wolff clapped the notebook shut and folded his hands, resting them on top of the little black book, with the pen peeking out from between his fingers like a cigarette.

“Ready for what?” asked Jericho. Each word sharper than the last. “Who the hell are you, anyway? Who are you—really?”

Wolff savored the seconds as they passed upon letting that question sink in. An eerie and knowing smile crept across his face until it froze in place there.

“I have many names, Mister Day. Some call me Judas Iscariot. Some have dubbed me the First Man, others the Harbinger of the End Times. But for you, I’m simply Doctor Wolff.”

Jericho squinted at him.

“‘Kay. I’ll be leaving now while you wax poetic about, uh,” he paused. He waved a hand in a figure eight motion in Wolff’s general direction. “Whoever the fuck you are.”

Wolff still smiled at him. Tilted his head.

“Soon, you will be done with what you came to Evergreen for,” the therapist said. Shook his head. “But until then, the dusk will refuse to end. The sun will never rise again until you commit.”

Jericho had enough. He paced towards the desk and took his pistol. The steel had cooled down again. He wedged it into his belt behind his back.

“Do you realize how long you have been wandering your hometown? Jericho?”

Jericho decided not to indulge him.

Although he did not turn to see it, the rustling of fabric told him that Wolff took a theatrical glance at the watch wrapped around his own wrist.

“Twenty years. You have been trapped in a soulless place, unable to leave for all the mountains of snow that swallow the streets leading out of town, unable to see beyond its borders for all the fog that strangles your vision. You and your friends have lost all sense of time.”

Jericho clutched the brass knob of the door, but he did not twist it yet. Hesitated to leave.

Wolff spoke with such authority. His voice exuded such clean resolve.

It all sounded true. Like nothing but the truth. An impossibility, but now that he thought about it, his memory was obviously not what it used to be. His mind must have been Swiss cheese, or something. Deep down, Jericho knew, that all of this was real.

“Ten years ago, while you still aimlessly stumbled around in this little pocket of personal purgatory, you weren’t even a private detective. You were a petty thief—a grifter—who had burnt down every last relationship in his life before returning to this town. Are you aware of what you are running from?”

Jericho opened the door, returning to the waiting room he had entered from.

“The exit is through the other door, Mister Day,” Wolff informed him in his strangely melodious monotone. “I would kindly ask you to follow the proper path.”

“Fuck off,” Jericho muttered while stepping back into the waiting room and heading towards the final door.

Wolff had nothing left to say. Perhaps Jericho’s rude retorts had finally rendered the sickeningly polite therapist speechless.

Opening the door, the single fluorescent tube in the hospital’s hallway flickered again, alternating between flashes of pitch-black darkness and a harsh, cold light. Cold air poured through the doorway, biting his skin and reminding him of the winter outside, the winter that had taken hold of the abandoned hospital’s bowels.

“Perhaps, next time, you will not even be Jericho Day anymore. Perhaps you will be Danielle. Or Jerry. Perhaps, next time, you will be ready to move on. Ready to finally grow some balls,” Wolff’s voice echoed behind him, the tone rising in pitch to underline his sudden taunt.

Jericho slammed the door shut. Then the words fully sank in, poured fuel into the dimming fire of his fury. He ripped the door open to tell this Doctor Wolff to go fuck himself.

But the waiting room and the office had vanished.

Instead, he only found empty rooms beyond that door. Windows to the outside had been fogged up with years’ worth of grime, boarded up from the exterior. Trash from squatters and disaffected youths littered the corners and the place smelled of urine. Graffiti and lewd comments had been scrawled onto the defaced walls.

With nowhere else to release his anger, Jericho slammed the door shut again.

Scratching sounds erupted in response, traveling to him from the end of the corridor.

A pallid head with neither nostril nor eyes reared around the corner. Its toothless mouth opened, and black slime oozed out from its lower jaw, dripping to the filthy floors. Slender fingers with the flaccidity of undercooked sausages, covered in polyps, flopped around the corner, tipped by long, sharp, black claws. Those talons dug into the surface of the wall, scratching the paint from it, sending more unnerving sounds his ways.

Though it had no eyes, he felt seen by the creature.

Jericho ran.

He would be running for a long, long time.

—Submitted by Wratts

9 notes · View notes

kylorengarbagedump · 5 years ago

Text

Little Bird: Chapter 25 (NSFW)

Read on AO3. Part 24 here. Part 26 here.

Summary: All right, well, I guess no one's gonna go swimming in that pool, anymore.

Words: 6600

Warnings: cw--a kylorengarbagedump special: tons of graphic violence and gratuitous bloodplay

Characters: Kylo Ren x Handmaid!Reader

A/N: HI, HELLO, what the fuck am I doing! I'd like to give thanks to @faestae and John Wick for this chapter. Without them, I'd be completely fucked. For some reason, I keep writing shit that demonstrates how little I know about writing anything other than sex. Please let me know what you thought! I'm interested to see what people think about this bit.

I love y'all so very much! Thank you for always offering kindness and encouragement. <3

You hadn’t taken your eyes off of your Commander since entering the car, hoping that, if you stared long enough, you’d be able to identify any hint of emotion, any flicker of feeling in his inscrutable expression. But Kylo Ren sat, back against the partition, hands at his sides, a veneer of distance cast over his face. The harder you looked, the further away he seemed--like a void, emptying itself, slowly, of vulnerability.

“Do you know how long I’ve known your Commander?” said Snoke. You felt his spider-leg gaze crawling over your figure. “Since he was a boy.”

Unsure if you were supposed to respond, you dipped your head in the tiniest nod you could muster.

“And there was a period where he disagreed, you know. With the idea of Gilead. Did you know that?”

Ren was solid, unmoving, staring through the back windshield. He didn’t blink, didn’t twitch. Swallowing, you allowed yourself to peer over at Snoke. He was watching you expectantly.

“Um.” To be fair, you did know that--you just didn’t know to what degree, and for how long. “I didn’t know that, no.”

“Well, it’s true.” His focus drifted back to Ren. “He was so unsure of himself, back then. Couldn’t ever make a decision. Afraid to let himself achieve what he was truly capable of.” A dark, breathy laugh escaped him. “He was so sensitive, so scared.”

There, right below his nose, you saw it--a twinge of muscle.

“But, thankfully, he’s resolved those doubts, now.” A wicked smile twisted through his skin. “Haven’t you, Ren?”

His eyes, like slate, met Snoke’s for a millisecond. “Yes.”

“Yes.” Now Snoke turned his attention to you. “He believes, like I do, in the roles of society. In the order we can provide by enforcing them.” A glance at Ren. “Isn’t that right, boy?”

“Yes.” His back straightened.

“He agrees with me that Handmaids are one of those unfortunate necessities of society,” Snoke said. “If we had a perfect world, we wouldn’t need you at all.” He shrugged. “For now, both of you have your roles. Separate and equal.”

Not that nonsense again. It sounded just as repulsive as when it had come out of Ren’s mouth. “I think we’re both more than that.” You peered at your Commander, who observed you with guarded confusion. “More than our roles.”

Snoke’s eyes sparkled with some sick delight. “Really, now.” He looked to Ren. “We have to make sacrifices, don’t we. To ensure our vision survives to the next generation.”

He averted his gaze, nodded. “Yes, sir.”

“You’ve made many sacrifices for Gilead, Ren.”

Snoke’s hand laid on your knee, squeezing it, red fabric bunching in his skeletal grip. Your throat thickened with fear, your breath stolen. Ren’s chest filled with slow, tense air, his jaw tight. The knife in your sleeve seemed to sear you with its presence--you imagined whipping it out, swiping the button, slamming the blade right into the old man’s wrinkled neck. Instead, you sat there, watching his hand creep higher, your focus switching between his fingers and your Commander.

Do what you wish with it.

If you tried to attack him now, here, in his car, both you and Ren would end up dead. You shoved the urge into the bottom of your brain, chin trembling as the bony excuse for a hand grazed your thigh--Snoke’s eyes were trained on Ren, daring him to move.

But he did nothing.

A whirr of a winding engine cut through the silence, and Snoke removed his hand--you sagged with relief. He rolled down the window, making a quick motion with his wrist, the limo stopping for a brief moment. Then it pushed forward, past a gated entrance staffed with at least two guards armed with rifles. Fear dug its claws into your chest.

The limo coasted up a long, winding driveway, up to what you could only define as a mansion, and came to a halt. Snoke glanced at the both of you, popping the door open.

“We’ve arrived,” he said. “Come, now.”

Ren met your eyes for a brief, electric second before he exited the vehicle. Steeling your nerves, you followed, feeling significantly hampered by the rustling of your dress. As you clambered into the sun, you breathed the heavy summer air and glanced over the property.

A white stone gate with the pair of sentries encircled a ring of decorative topiaries, bushels of red flowers poking through the mulched landscape. The driveway looped like a racetrack through the yard, up to the bleached cement plaza that opened to a glittering fountain pond. The center of the fountain was dominated by a marble carving of Jesus on the cross, his head craned toward the sky, water gushing in clear, noisy rivers from his hands and crown. In front of you, the staired entrance led to a grand, columned pavilion that guided you toward the front door, a glass and iron arch with concentric rows of windows radiating out to the walls.

All of this might have been beautiful, you thought, had you not been a slave, invited with your owner under the pretense of interrogation.

That, and the two guards coming to escort you to the entrance--also armed, of course.

They bookended you in a line--Snoke, Ren, and you--through the front door, into the vaulted foyer, ivory granite floors stretching out into a wide parlor room, light streaming through the floor-to-ceiling windows. Through them, you spied the backyard, complete with a glimmering Tuscan-style pool, enclosed also by that same white stone. And more guards marching in assignment.

Silent, you kept close to your Commander’s heels as you all climbed the one of the two curved staircases, ascending past an enormous chandelier, tiers of glowing crystal casting flakes of light onto your skin. Despite its warmth, at the last step, you fell cold--there were still more riflemen at the top. The guards ushered you down an empty hall to an open door. They stood at either side of the entrance, and, blood escaping your face, you followed Ren and Snoke inside.

Cherry wood-panelled walls wrapped the oval stone floor, a circular Persian rug rolled out underneath a huge teak desk. It was accompanied by a tall Chesterfield throne upholstered in red leather, two smaller, sister chairs attending the sides. Behind the desk, built-in shelves were lined with heavy, hardbound tomes, all illuminated by two sets of double-necked glass sconces at the two ends of the room.

You stood next to Ren, hands strangling each other as Snoke closed the door and wandered around to the head of his desk. His stride was slow, deliberate, crossing the room like it was slick with molasses. Arriving at his chair, he opened one of the drawers, carding through it before pulling out a folder and plopping it on the flat surface. With precision, he plucked a few pages from it, pushing them forward.

“Do you remember signing these, Ren?”

Kylo Ren’s eyes flicked between the paper and his superior. “Yes.”

“Your very first acceptance to the order,” Snoke said, gazing at it. “The evidence of your commitment.” He turned his attention to you. “You said that you think you’re more than your roles. But I know that isn’t the case.”

You cleared your throat, spine straightening. “And I know it is.”

“You’d be wrong,” Snoke said. “Because Kylo Ren is a facade. An identity--a role. Just like yours.” He paused, waiting for Ren to react. He didn’t. “Before he was Kylo Ren, he was a lost, lonely little boy. Always winding up in fights. Parents too busy to care.”

Ren rolled his tongue along the inside of his teeth, but said nothing.

“But I saw potential in him. Didn’t I, boy?” Snoke offered him a small grin. “I could see the greatness, the cunning, the power you could have.”

“You did,” Ren muttered.

“And this is all you’ve become. Your heart hasn’t hardened. You’re soft. You could never hope to be Kylo Ren.” He sighed, and leered at him. “And I’m disappointed to see that this is the case.”

He was silent, chin raising, stare toward the floor.

“You’re still fighting it, aren’t you?” When he didn’t respond, Snoke’s entire face twisted in a frown. “Answer me, boy.”

“I’m not.”

“No?” Snoke opened the top drawer of his desk and produced a massive silver revolver, tossing it on the desk with a thunk. “Prove it,” he said. “Shoot her.”

Your heart shot between your ears, eyes darting between Snoke, Ren, the gun, Snoke, Ren, the gun, Snoke, Ren, the gun. Kylo Ren was as unreadable as ever--he considered the revolver as if Snoke had thrown down a ballpoint pen. A tiny breath escaped him.

“Everything I’ve done has been for Gilead--my commitment has never wavered--”

“Don’t lie to me, boy!” Snoke’s gaze flashed with barely-leashed rage. “I see how you respond when I touch her, I can feel your weakness for her.”

Ren’s lip twitched. “Weakness. For a Handmaid.”

“I know your mind, Ren. I know every little thought that goes through your brain. Your impulses are raw, you allow Gilead to suffer under your foolishness. This paper...” He held it up, pointing to the signature--beautiful, loopy letters that read Ben Solo. “The boy that signed it still lives. And he is weak.”

Snoke pushed off the desk, stalked over to you--before you could even think to move, his hand gnarled in your hair, fingers scraping like screws over your scalp. You whimpered, thinking to scream, to fight, to beg--but worried Snoke would shoot you himself if you did.

“Show me who you’re meant to be, Kylo Ren.” He ripped you to the floor, shoving you onto your knees near his feet. Then, at the back of your head--something hard. Cold. Another gun. “Or I’ll show you myself.”

In the back of your mind, it seemed strange--for all the scenarios you’d imagined being on your knees in front of your Commander, this had never been one of them. Terror shuddered you, but you stilled the quaking of your flesh, meeting Ren’s eyes, sticking your chin into the air. He stared into you and through you, hooking into your hidden fear, finding himself there. Your chests rose and fell with the same breath, lips parting with the same awful knowledge--there was no scenario where he could save you, no reality where your story could’ve had a different ending. For all of your emptiness, loneliness, wanton need, this was your destiny--two souls, desperate to know the other, denied for every unchangeable reason fate could offer.

Part of you knew that Ren had to kill you. Part of you hoped against hope that, somehow, he wouldn’t.

But then he moved. And he picked up the gun.

“Good,” Snoke said. “Good.”

Ren stepped toward you, face blank, and aimed the revolver until it was inches from your head. You gazed at him, thankful that you’d known relief at least once in the past few years, somehow more thankful that he’d been the one to give it to you. Heat stung your eyes. You wouldn’t cry, not now. You’d wished for death too many times at this point to begrudge its arrival.

“Good choice, my boy,” Snoke said. He jerked your scalp. “Would you like to have a prayer for your last words?”

He scoffed. “What use does a dog have for prayer?”

A hearty chuckle. “Oh, I’m nothing if not a man of God.”

“Last prayer, then.” Ren blinked. “Do what you wish with it.”

In your chest, breath hitched, your pulse flying. The switchblade. Swallowing, you glanced at the floor to Snoke’s foot beside you, then back up, meeting Ren’s eyes. A spark, a crooked crackle of light--you were seeing them, seeing him, seeing yourself, a reflection, an echo, pure resonance in the emptiness of his mind--and in that moment, you knew.

You knew him.

Clearing your throat, you began, “O, Lord Jesus…”

You pressed your palms together, bowing your head to conceal them as you used the heel of your hand to guide the blade up your sleeve.

“... pour into me the spirit of your love…”

The handle poked through the edge of fabric, the wooden scales cool and smooth. Your tongue was paper, scratching at your mouth.

“... that in the hour of my death…”

With the switchblade fully encased in your hands, your finger dipped to find the safety and flick it free. Perspiration had it slip in your grip, and you flinched for only a second, pinching it tight between your palms.

“... I may be worthy to vanquish the enemy…”

Your thumb fumbled for the safety, now, finding it behind your sweaty skin.

“... and receive the heavenly crown.”

Pushing it up, you drew a long, deep breath through your nose. Ren cocked his gun.

“Amen.”

The blade sprung free, and you drove it, a stake, straight into Snoke’s hapless foot. He screamed, his gun clattering to the floor--in that instant, Ren cocked a brow, raised the revolver, and fired. Snoke blew back, blood spattering your crown, a crimson spray cast over the desk, onto Ren’s face, and the body hit the floor behind you with a fleshy thud.

You blinked, gasping, trembling, too terrified to look behind you, too anxious to not confirm he was dead. A quick peek--a massive crater in the lifeless facade of his skull--and you swallowed, looking to Kylo Ren, without breath, without speech, without pretense. His eyes were wide and wild, his chest heaving with something like excitement--then, outside the study, the guards stirred.

“Commander Snoke?” one asked.

Ren glanced at the door. His pupils swallowed his irises, and at the corner of his lips, a smirk. He tore off his tie, tossed his suit jacket onto the floor, back and shoulders swelling like mountains underneath his shirt.

“We’re coming in, sir.”

“Get down,” he muttered as he cocked the gun, aiming it at the door. “Come in.”

You scrambled to the side of the desk and tore off your wings so you could see, curling over your knees, and the door squeaked open. The moment the guard’s head breached the entrance, Ren fired, and you jolted--blood spurted, painting the wall, the body dropped. A second guard flung the door back, rushing Ren before he could reload, but Ren threw his elbow into the man’s chin, wringing his arm around his neck and shoving him to the ground. He drove his heel into the guard’s neck before cocking the gun and blowing a hole through his face.

Heart flying in your chest, you stared at him, mouth open, almost unable to believe what you’d just seen. In the recording, you’d heard Snoke call him a warrior--you just hadn’t known until now what that meant.

“We’re moving.” Ren stalked over and snatched your wrist, but you winced.

“Hold on!” You tugged away and snagged the switchblade from Snoke’s foot, sheathing it and shoving it back up your sleeve.

“Come.” He grabbed you again, leading you over the leaking lump of the guard and into the hall.

As you breached the threshold and crossed the hall, two guards turned the corner--the ones from the top of the stairs. Kylo Ren shoved you behind him, gunshots spearing your ears, a body falling; then he slammed you against the wall, the trill of wide rifle bullets whizzing by your skull. You screamed, covered your head, and Ren reached out, wresting the barrel of the offending gun and wrenching the guard flush with his chest--he shoved the revolver up to his chin and fired, viscera erupting from the man’s eye sockets and coating you both.

You gagged, mind whirling--but Ren was crazed, rippling with the heat of exhilaration. He ditched the revolver and tucked the rifle under his arm, shrugging the body off and grabbing you again. Ren hugged you tight to his frame as he marched through the halls; panting, you gazed up at him, futilely trying to process that he had not only murdered his leader, but now apparently planned to gun down the entirety of this estate--when he all he had to do instead was kill you.

He cursed when you reached the steps. A pair of guards was posted at both sets of stairs--and, seeing you, they shouted and charged. Ren’s attention darted between them, landed on the chandelier. He shouldered you back, running forward and leaping from the banister. You squeaked, hands clapping your mouth--but he grappled the chain, feet stumbling over the metal frame as the crystal behemoth swung like a sparkling pendulum in the foyer. The guards hollered, racking their rifles--but Ren fired first.

Using the chandelier like an assassination assistant, Ren pinned the gun to his body and pulled the trigger, spitting a storm of bullets into the staircase, littering pockmarks over the walls. The guards quailed, ducked--Ren jerked the fixture’s chain, rolling his legs down, and he spun, a carousel of death, firing next at the guards climbing the other steps. These two were not so lucky--you caught hot streams of blood splash over the balustrade, and then Ren swung again, crystals clinking like chimes as the chandelier bowed in wide arcs. Face tight with frenzy, he fired, and you watched the bodies crumple like marionettes and tumble down the stairs.

Bobbing in the air, he cast his gaze around the room, back hunched, an animal starved. You grimaced, crawled forward, gripping the banister, and when he met your eyes, he shifted, making to swing.

“Stop!” came a voice from the back of the home.

From underneath the balcony, you saw two guards run forward, rifles pointed up--before you could shout, they fired into the ceiling, clouds of crystal fragments spewing into the air. Ren wobbled, dodging with surprising grace, then flung the chandelier back.

You watched him, lids wide, as he stepped, one foot, another foot, skating over the steel and lurching forward, yanking on the chain like a rope and throwing his legs into the air. His other arm, still occupied with the rifle, swung down, and as he launched himself toward the banister, he fired, sparks snapping, the chain severed. Ren connected with the railing as the chandelier exploded to the floor, crushing the two guards in a splintering spew of metal and glass. Without thinking, you scampered to him, clutching his arms, straining as you helped haul him onto the balcony. He stumbled to his feet and ripped you up by your wrist.

“Commander--”

“Quiet.”

Adrenaline coursed through him into you, absorbed like warmth through your skin. He dragged you down the steps, tossing his current gun and grabbing a new one while you fled over the ragdolled corpses covering your path. In your dress, it was difficult to maneuver, but Ren pulled you through, jaw set firm, ravenous fury dancing in waves from his body. His eyes were focused and feral, a predator, a true, live killer, consumed with a hunger you’d never before seen--not up close.

He led you toward the front door--beyond the mottled glass, you could spy a pair of guards sneaking close, decked in armor, guns raised. Cursing, he doubled back, your arm popping while he hauled you toward the other end of the home. Then two more guards, also in armor, crept across the pool deck in the same formation, heading toward wherever the back entrance was. Grumbling, Ren tore to the right, wringing you forward--you’d been thrust into a huge kitchen, replete with white quartz countertops and oak cabinetry. You had little time to admire it before he shoved you under the hood of the breakfast nook. Breathless, you pulled your knees to your chest, trying to become as small and unnoticeable as possible.

Slinging the gun over his shoulder, he grabbed two long knives from the butcher block on the counter, sidling up to the wall next to an archway that opened to what appeared like a mudroom. The first sentry peered around the corner, and Kylo Ren snarled, driving the knife through the man’s throat. He choked, gasped, writhing as he fell to the ground, rivers of blood spilling over the floor. The second guard flinched, went to raise his rifle at Ren--but the second of hesitation sealed his fate. Ren jammed his foot into the man’s chest, knocking him onto his back, and stomped his face before shifting the rifle into his hands and ending him with a pop, pop.

Flustered with fear, you made to move--and then spotted that the two guards from the front had made their way into the home, crossing into the kitchen. Before you could warn Ren, one fired, a quick burst, striking him in the side. He roared, crumpling to the floor, a bloom of bright blood staining his side--your body burst with fear, with rage, your mind making decisions without a second of uncertainty.

As the guards pushed toward Ren, you threw yourself into their path, a human speedbump; they tripped, stumbled over you, over each other, trampling you as they both collapsed to the ground. You craned your neck to see your Commander--he seethed as he stood, punching himself in his wound, each strike punctuated with a furious grunt.

Kylo Ren flipped the free knife into the air, caught it by the handle, and sneered, stabbing one of the guards through the eye--his body jerked, twitched on top of you, and Ren rolled the other man with his foot, aiming his rifle at his exposed face and riddling it with holes. You squealed as his frame jolted with the shots, trying to scramble free--but Ren caught you by the arm again, prying you to your feet. He started toward the back door, but you jerked away--he spun, hair tossed in choppy waves over his face, teeth bared, entire form trembling with the throes of bloodlust.

“The--the front,” you managed to eke out. “You’re injured, let’s get out of here.”

He growled, seizing your wrist and tugging you forward. “We’re not done yet.”

You swallowed. This was no longer about escaping. It was about revenge.

Led through the mudroom in the wake of his wrath, Ren discarded you to the side of the door and shouldered it open. Two guards stood, anticipating, at the exit, two more chasing around the pool. Your Commander wrapped one of the guards in a headlock, using him as a shield while he surged forward, facing the closest guard while shooting over his arm at the other two. They shook, barraged with bullets, toppling back until they both splashed into the pool, crimson fog weeping into the water. The guard in his grip kicked back, and he faltered--the man closest to him took this as an opportunity to lunge, and smashed into Ren, knocking him and his hostage to the ground.

Chest tightening, you made to move, but hesitated--what would you do? Shoot them? Your brain raced with the possibilities--at this point, you’d picked up a pistol, but you’d never pictured yourself as someone who could end a life. You’d also never pictured yourself as someone who would speak back to the lead Commander of Gilead, get belted over a knee, have her pussy stuffed with a gun, or feel worry for the man who owned her.

That last one caught you by surprise--you weren’t just worried, you were terrified. And not for yourself, but for him.

Kylo Ren rolled as the other guard approached, his rifle raised--he ducked behind his captive, using him like a barrier and reached down to the man’s side, stealing a handgun from his belt. The other guard went to dodge, but was blasted in the face with two shots, raining blood over the brick patio, crumpling to his knees and smacking the ground.

Caught in a struggle, Ren went to shoot his final victim through the skull--but the man had already produced a knife from the other side of his belt, and slashed up, ripping Ren across the shoulder and slicing his face. He howled in pain, and the guard took the opportunity to tear himself free, scurrying to his feet, reaching for the gun in Ren’s hand.

Something possessed you--fear, indignity, affection, something--and you dashed through the door, grappled a gun from the corpse closest to you, and cocked it. Maybe, before Gilead, you weren’t a person who could end a life. But now, you were a survivor. And you would be damned if you or your Commander would die here.

Taking the pistol in both hands, you aimed at the guard’s torso. “Hey!” you shouted for absolutely no reason. He glanced over, confused. “Fuck you!”

You pulled the trigger, ears ringing--the bullet nailed his chest, and he staggered, jaw dropped, perhaps wondering if he had really just been shot by a Handmaid. Ren, face smothered scarlet, swung to his feet, swiping the knife from the ground. He snatched the man mid-fall, hoisted him into the air and, snarling, shredded his throat with the blade. A geyser of blood gushed from his neck, bathing Ren in its fever, soaking his shirt, coating the curls of his hair. His shoulders crowded with the desperate cycle of his lungs as he loosened his grip, letting the body hit the ground, crimson bubbles seeping from the wound.

Hands quaking, you lowered your arms, dropped the gun. You couldn’t find your breath, chest fighting for air. Ren turned, eyes tracing the bodies, until finally, they landed on you. Heat hit you, strangled you, wrapped you like wire in a suffocating, powerful, need. Both of you, sprayed with blood, panting, aching--everything you had done, you’d done for the other. His transgressions faded to shadows in your mind. Against every single governmental pillar and logical instinct, you were alive because of him. And you wanted nothing more, now, than to be in his arms.

The word fled your lips, a caged dove. “Kylo…”

Kylo Ren threw down the knife, rushing you, and your feet moved too, carrying you on feathers to him, until your bodies connected, his arms coiling around you, his mouth bruising yours, the taste of iron fresh between your teeth. He was damp with blood, his skin spilled copper into your nose--but despite it all, you groaned, flooded with passion, burning in his embrace. Ren’s tongue drove into your mouth, his hand cupping the back of your head, wetting your hair as he crushed you to his frame. Thighs thrumming with desire, you kissed him back, nipping his lip, threading your fingers through his sticky waves--he moaned, crumbling to his knees, his hold taking you with him.

“You saved me,” you muttered against his lips. “You saved--”

Ren silenced you with a kiss. “Little bird...” He nibbled the line of your jaw, jerking a fistful of hair and burying his face in it, inhaling deep. “Get these clothes off.”

You shivered. “Yes, sir.”

Keeping his gaze, you gathered the hem of your dress and peeled it over your head, his eyes leaping over every bit of exposed flesh as it was revealed to him. You tossed it and your switchblade to the side, his hands grappling with your hips, sliding up your sides, smearing crimson over your skin. Whimpering, you reached toward your feet, pulling your boots off and throwing them to the side, attempting valiantly to remain kneeling while you inched your underwear down your hips and over your calves. Ren watched, trained on your naked cunt, as you finally flung it behind you.

When you went to begin the arduous task of unhooking your bra, Ren growled, your knees scraping across the pool deck as he yanked you into an impatient kiss. You whined in pain, soothed by his soft lips working yours, new blood from the wound on his face dribbling into your mouths and over your wrestling tongues. He wrested your tits from your bra, dying them red, thumbs skating delight over your stiffening nipples. Moaning, you writhed into his chest, and he gripped your face, nails scraping your scalp while he pulled you closer, groaning into you, leaning--you followed him, chasing his kiss until he was on his back, your legs straddling him, palms planted on his chest.

A soft, anxious breath escaped his throat, and he swirled his tongue over yours before biting your lip and pushing you up, hands settling on your thighs, rocking you back and forth over his thick erection. He watched you, panting in rhythm with you, and you admired him--how fucking beautiful he was, even (or especially) doused in blood--his eyes stark with need, his mouth parted in open anticipation, his muscles tensing as he gripped and squeezed you, jerking his hips into your heat. If he was in any pain at all from the gash on his face or the bullets in his side, it didn’t show--he rolled into you as if he cared for nothing other than the sight of your body over his own.

“Are you okay?” You placed your hands on his, squeezing them.

Ren frowned and swatted you off, gathering both wrists behind you in a tight vise. “Interesting question to pose while you’re already grinding onto me.”

You blushed. “I just wanted to make--”

He shoved two bloodied fingers in your mouth, depressing your tongue, cranking your jaw open. “Ask me again after I’ve fucked that little cunt raw.”

Shuddering, you clenched, and nodded.

“There we go.” He released your tongue, popping your wrists back--your tits swayed from the movement, and he hummed in satisfaction, kneading and groping at the flesh, teasing your nipples. “You’re gorgeous…”

“Oh…” Submerged in desire, you could barely process his words. He twitched underneath you, drawing another spasm from your core. “Kylo…”

He sucked in air through his teeth, digging his fingers into your breast. “You want my cock? Hm?” He reached down, brushed his thumb over your clit, and you whined. “You want me inside you, slut?”

“Fuck,” you whispered. “Fuck, yes, please.”

“Good girl…”

Ren kept his grip on your wrists, working at his pants until he’d managed to pull his long, heavy cock free. You ached at the sight of it, wanting to slide it between your folds, feel it pulse inside you, bask in its swollen heat. Ren slapped it against you and shifted his hips, pushing you higher, hand stroking his length as he guided it to your entrance. Stoked on adrenaline, on some sort of intoxicating infatuation, you were wet and wanting and warm with need--you sank onto him, crying out when he broke you open, letting him drive deep into your belly.

“God,” you hissed, “you feel so good…”

He throbbed at the base, rutting up into you and popping your wrists again. “Shh.” His free hand clutched your hip. “I’ll tell you when to speak, little bird,” he muttered. “Be quiet and take this cock.”

Ren’s strength overwhelmed you--he slammed you from below, fucking up into you, forcing gasps and squeals from your lungs. Bliss blazed through your blood as the force of his thrusts throttled you, body quaking, breasts bouncing. His face was screwed in a twist of lust and effort, lip furled, strangled growls escaping his chest--he pumped hard, fast, pinching you in his hands as his own pleasure built.

“Fuck,” he growled, “that’s right--do you like that?”

“Yes…” The words were as unfiltered as you were. “I love it…”

“Good--good girl.” His stare devoured you while you rode him. “So beautiful… so perfect…” A hand glided up your side, cupping one of your tits. “And all mine…” He grunted, punished you with a particularly hard thrust--you yelped. “Say it.”

A twinge in your heart, distant and irritating. “But I--”

He yanked your wrists, straining your shoulders, branding a bruise into your breast with his fingers. “Say it.” His pace switched, and he rammed your cunt with brutal, deep strokes, striking your cervix with white streaks of pain. “You’re mine.”

“Kylo--”

Ren seethed, throwing you off of him and onto your back, wincing when he loomed over you, and he pounded his side, hissing in pain. Your eyes widened--in seconds, he’d spiraled into mania, his face wrought with possessive fervor while his fist pummeled his wound. If he’d looked beautiful before, now it was sinful: dark hair matted in messy clumps around his crown, his brow drawn in focus, his shirt, torn from the knife, flopping over to reveal his bare chest, showered with blood. He peeled your legs wide, ankles in his fists as he lifted your ass from the ground--and, sneering, he split you, cock cleaving your cunt. In pleasure, you sobbed.

“Fuck,” he growled again. “You’re so fucking tight…” Ren started fucking into you, slipping in to the hilt, hips hitting yours with loud slaps. “You feel so good around my cock…”

Whinging, you lolled your head on the deck-- his words sent a torrent of yearning through your flesh, and your clit screeched for attention, but part of you knew that touching it yourself would deny you release altogether. So you stared at him, chin tucked to your chest, each stroke bringing new, desperate breath to your lungs as your back scratched the smooth stone underneath you.

“Nothing to stop me,” he said, “nothing to keep me from you.” He jerked you closer, and you wailed from the depth of his thrusts. “You’re going to be mine…”

“Kylo--”

“No,” he hissed. “Say it.” He propped one of your legs on his shoulder, his hand diving between your legs to rub your clit, covering it in blood--you cried out, clenching, convulsing, pleasure creeping into your vision. “Say you want to be mine.”

The earth turned beneath you. Everything, all of it had been for you, but not in the way that you had hoped. No, it had been to alter the universe to his own whims, to construct a galaxy where he could possess you, keep you, trap you in a tiny, wire cage. His little bird.

You wouldn’t accept that--not after today. You couldn’t.

“Only if--ah--you’re mine, too,” you replied. “I can’t just be yours! You--you have to be mine!”

“What have I told you?” Ren groaned, deep and low. “If that’s what you want…” He gathered some of the blood from his face onto his thumb. “Then you’ll want for nothing.” He slicked your clit while he fucked you, the fluid warm and wet and spinning you to the height of euphoria. “Say it.”

“I’m--I’m yours!” You shut your lids, awash in the elated reality of his admission. “I’m yours, Kylo!”

“Cum then,” he ordered, “cum on this fucking cock...”

You were drawn and quartered by ecstasy, spine arcing toward the sky as your core clamped his dick, limbs shuddering with the waves of your epinephrine-injected climax. Ren growled, leaning over you to hammer into your cunt, strangling his groan as he poured his cum into you, rolling his hips until he was empty--empty of rage, lust, and energy.

Swallowing, you heaved, eyes fluttering open, seeking out your Commander’s gaze. Not that his position mattered, in this hazy purgatory of existence. In this moment, the laws and regulations of Gilead didn’t apply to you and Ren. You’d defied them, destroyed them all. Together.

Something, some emotion you’d wrestled into submission so many times before slithered out of its grave--like hope, but more poignant, more powerful, not just the faith that you could survive. No, it was the dream that you could thrive, that Gilead would crumble underneath both of your feet, that--maybe--you could take a canvas and paint a future with him in it.

Locking eyes, you spied it there, too, beyond the lowered shield of his anger: a mirror of your mind. His hand fell between your breasts, his lip quivering, fingers skimming down your sensitive, starlight skin. How long you laid there, you weren’t sure, but it was after his soft cock had slipped out of you, after your breath had leveled. Sweat glazed you both.

“Why did you do it?” you asked, finally. You fumbled for his hand, laid yours over it.

Ren paused, staring at the image of your hand--so much smaller--wrapped around his, analyzing it in his mind like a puzzle. His jaw tensed, and he pulled away. A piece of your heart wilted.

“I told you,” he said, beginning to adjust himself to decency. “Gilead is flawed. My vision will perfect it.” He met your eyes. “You’ll be mine. And you’ll want for nothing.”

“But…” You narrowed your lids. “You’re mine, too, then.”

“I am.” He stood, gazing over the carnage of the yard--the bodies, the blood, the dyed-red water--all of it turning rancid in the summer heat. “Your Commander.”

There it was. The mallet of his intention, shattering your dreams to disasters. It was as if you had been thrust into the pool yourself, drenched in cold, icy admonishment. How stupid, how foolish were you to imagine that Kylo Ren could consider bringing Gilead down? How short-sighted had you been to believe, for one moment, that he would ever renounce his ownership of you? How horrible, how awful were you that the tiniest, most foolish part of you wanted to accept this--agree to his terms, as long as he’d stay, somewhere, in that canvas.

He held out his hand. “Come.”

Shaking your head, you grabbed your underwear and pulled it on. It seemed silly, getting dressed when half of your clothing would be muddied with blood. You glanced up at him, mapping the wounds in his body. He was hunched, but not hampered.

“Are you really okay?”

Ren still had his hand extended. “Yes.”

You frowned, slapped it away. His eye twitched, attention switching between you and his hand--and, to your surprise, he shoved it in his pocket. You grabbed your dress, tugged it on.

“Continue getting dressed,” he said. “I’ll contact my men and tell them--”

“Hello? Who’s out there?”

The voice, tight with fear, froze you both--Ren’s fists clenched, your heart falling somewhere into your ass. From inside the mudroom, a young woman cloaked in blue emerged, and you recognized her immediately. Snoke’s robot, er, Wife. Christine. She hadn’t spoken once at the dinner.

Between the gloves, the hat, the heeled shoes, it was obvious she was just now returning home. As she surveyed the yard, her gaze fuzzied, and she tumbled into the threshold. Neither you nor Ren made a move to help her.

“What… what happened here?”

It was a fair question. But admitting you’d both participated in a coup likely wouldn’t go over well. You weren’t sure what Ren’s plan was, but you knew the Eyes could have you both killed if they learned this had been your doing.

“Commander Snoke is dead,” Ren said. “I killed--”

“The guard,” you said, glaring at him. “He killed the guard who killed Commander Snoke. After that, the entire place went up.” Looking back at her, you gestured to Ren. “You need to call an ambulance, he’s been injured.”

Christine, appearing dizzy, pushed off of the doorframe and nodded. “I’ll… I’ll get help. Just…” She waved her hands in circles. “Don’t move.”

With that, she stumbled into the home, the click of her heels growing distant.

You sneered at Ren, pulling on your boots and stuffing the switchblade in your sleeve. “You’re welcome.”

He watched you as you stood, said nothing for a moment--a twitch of pain crossed his face. “When I’m taken to the hospital, you’ll be questioned,” he said. “Say nothing. I will handle this. And when you get home, bathe and get into bed.” His eyes raked over you. “Do you understand?”

You nodded. “Yes, Kylo. I do.”

Ren exhaled, drinking you in. “I’m going to contact my men before the ambulance arrives. They’ll have work to do here.” He reached out and cupped your face. “Be good, little bird.” He patted you on the cheek, and walked into the home.

#kylo ren smut #kylo ren x reader #kylo x reader #kylo ren imagine #kylo ren #kylo trash #little bird #handmaid au #fanfiction problems #bloodplay #tw: violence #just fulfilling all my tfa and tlj fantasies in one fell swoop

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markusblogbois · 4 years ago

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Image 1:

In this panel, it shows a boy attempting to enter a hole in the mountain that happens to be his exact measurements. Junji Ito is very good at using line work to add atmosphere to some of his panels as evidenced by how in this image the facial expressions the boy is making is emphasised by the several lines that make up the shadows of his eyes. Ito doesn’t draw out the eyes and instead uses the lines to make the shape of his eyes.This adds to the moment as it helps shows the desperation in his eyes and how he isn’t thinking clearly. Within this piece/novel Ito comments on the desperate need as a society to fit in and how it can sometimes be our downfall. He shows this by telling a story about people climbing into human shaped holes that happen to mysteriously be their exact measurements, and once they were in, they would be consumed by the darkness that laid further in the hole disfiguring them. This physical and metaphorical darkness is illustrated through Itos use of lines and cross hatching seen on the panel, the further the hole goes the thicker the hatches get eventually being a solid black. On the last panel it shows the boy entering the holland in doing so the reader can see that it's a perfect fit, a small crack can be seen between the hole and the boy. This creates a certain uneasiness as it reminds the reader of the unknown void that they are about to enter, almost showing us the tiny hope of the boy returning, decreasing as he goes further. Another strong theme that is explored in this piece is ‘compulsion’, this is evidenced throughout the novel as once a person has found the hole with their exact same measurements they are suddenly taken over by this desire to want to enter it despite knowing the danger it provides.

image 2:

In this panel the characters seen cowering from the giant heads are currently being attacked by balloons that resemble the people that they target. In this page Ito has the top half of the panel showing the heads from a distance making the reader feel that the characters are safe staying in the house but in the last panel a close up of the heads is shown, showcasing the serious threat they impose to the characters shown in previous panels. This is Ito effectively using the layout of his panels to increase the tension in the scene. In this book Junji Ito explores the fear we have as a society of being assimilated into the masses and being forgotten as individuals. The balloons also started appearing at the time a student at a school hangs herself, the balloons heads representing the villages inflated feelings towards wanting to forget the student who had committed suicide. In the last panel the crooked smiles and widened eyes can be seen clearly and given a closer look, all the eyes of the balloons drawn to be pointed at one point of the page, this gives the effect that they are staring directly at the reader, feeding more into the unsettling nature of their appearance. Junji Ito also decides to only shade using the means of lines and mark making techniques like cross hatching. This helps add to the creepiness to the already terrifying imagery as it’s simplistic line work helps emphasise certain features whilst not adding too much to the image. An example of this can be seen through the eyes of the balloons, everything on the faces are drawn with very deliberate thin lines whereas the eyes are very thick and the patterns made up by the lines are more complex. This helps create a focal point on the faces helping the reader notice that the eyes look like they are staring right at them.

image 3:

This particular panel is from one of Junji Ito’s most well known work ‘Uzumaki’. A town is cursed with the obsession with spirals, to the extent that even the residents purposefully deform themselves to create a spiral formation as seen in the picture. Junji Ito is a master in body horror, using his skill in mark making and precise inking, he is able to bring to life these images that would otherwise be too distorted to believe would be possible, to the point where you wouldn’t find it scary. What makes this panel so effective is the sheer amount of detail put into the face and body using his knowledge of inking skills. Despite being in what seems to look like a perfect spiral, you can still tell that what the reader is looking at, is a man. The horror is further emphasised in the facial expression, eyes rolled over making it clear he is no longer alive and his tongue out of his mouth, showing that his insides are clearly in the same sort of state as his body. Ito’s effective use of shading captures the suffering in the man’s face quite well, with every wrinkle and shadow looking realistic enough to identify yet distorted to give use this horrifying imagery show in the panel. In this novel Junji Ito explores heavily on the themes of inevitability, even visually he explores this with the spiral shape, no matter where you look on the shape it always leads to the middle where the spiral converges on. Just like how in the story, no matter what our characters do to avoid and stop this curse, it is inevitable for the village to fall under the influence of the spiral dooming the residents.

image 4:

This panel is picked out of Junji Ito’s Black bird, this story follows a hiker that has fallen down on a hike and broken his leg, unable to move he stayed in the forest for days. What kept him alive was this woman with extraordinary features who kept feeding the hiker with flesh that was taken from an unknown source. Later it is revealed that the flesh that was given to him belonged to himself from the future. What is perhaps the most unsettling part about this story is the woman’s design. Ito draws her with plain eyes with no pupils, this adds a lifeless feal to her face, giving the reader the idea that even though on a surface level she may resemble a human, she is in fact far from it. This is further explored by how her mouth and lips are irregularly large and puffy and how she uses her mouth to feed the hiker the flesh that sustains him just like a bird. Black clothing and darker colours in general come off as quite monotone in the pages, the bold colours add impact to certain objects making it harder to miss. This can be seen with the blood that pours from the hiker’s and woman’s mouth, this is quite effective as even though the sight is quite gruesome and disgusting visually it is hard to not want to look at it as the colours, in contrast with everything else, are quite bold. This story plays off of the fear of being completely helpless, this is clear with how the hiker, unable to move from his injury, has no choice but to succumb to being fed by the woman as it is his only way to survive starving until help finally arrives, this theme is further explored later on the story when the woman starts to attack the hiker in the future once he is able to walk again.

image 5:

This page is taken from Junji Ito’s novel ‘My dear ancestors’. This story comments on Japan’s obsession with familial pressures that society puts on themselves and how it can not only affect their children, but their spouses as well. This particular panel/page is seen when the reader flips the pages revealing this grotesque image of one of the characters Shuichi’s father laying in bed ill. Manga writers like Junji Ito utilize the page turn well and this is one of the cases where it adds more to the experience of a horror manga, this is because it forces the reader to have to voluntarily turn the page that conceals the horror that can be seen on the other side. It turns out that in shuichi’s family when the eldest die their scalp falls off and attaches onto the head of the next oldest in line within the family, creating a form of hive mind. This explains the story behind the design of this iconic example of body horror in manga. The horror that the design provides is partly due to the patterns of the scalp and how something as normal as someone’s forehead can be turned into something that looks monstrous and completely unnatural. This is done by have the thin lines on the forehead quite prominent and by having it repeat without any sort of differentiation in it’s pattern, it creates this uneasy visual which is almost hypnotising when you look more into the image. Which is in my opinion quite genius and is a example of why horror is so interesting in novels, as even though the imagery is horrible and disturbing, we can’t help but keep looking due to curiosity. This is also because the more we look the more things you can find horrifying about the image, for example if you look closer, the heads spanning out makes it look like a centipede, which is further enforced by the fact that the hair on the multiple heads look like little insect legs. The cross hatching on the walls compliment the image well as it helps give this gritty and gross atmosphere. The lines are also quite close to each other giving a more darker tone which helps to emphasise the father as there are a lot more whites present on the figure, making it harder for the reader to try to ignore the horrific imagery.

sources

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=am-q7xFs7f8&ab_channel=CJMac

https://thecomicwonk.com/index.php/2019/10/22/the-enigma-of-amigara-fault-the-horror-genius-of-junji-ito/

https://imgur.com/gallery/ceWVQzq

https://www.sfsignal.com/archives/2012/10/words-and-pictures-horrific-geometries-in-junji-itos-uzumaki-2/

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Oy1xO07Ui70&ab_channel=CJMac

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chilly-territory · 5 years ago

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K Case Files of Blue 2, chapter 4 (part 2 out of 2)

Case Files of Blue 2 by Miyazawa Tatsuki

Chapter 4 (part 2/2) (volume 2, pages 224-246)

†

The one to make contact with her target first was Awashima Seri. When she opened the door to a big hall meant for wedding ceremonies and such, on the other side of the door she found Nakamura Gouki sitting cross-legged in the middle of it, drinking sake from a bottle and making no attempt to be shy about it.

Recognizing her, the giant man said, "Oh, so it's you who came for me, eh? How about a drink?"

He turned and held his bottle up in Awashima's direction. Awashima let out a small sigh.

"I'm on the clock. But even if I weren't, I'd only drink with people I have rapport with." "So with me you don't?" Nakamura Gouki asked after barking out a short laugh. "You," Awashima replied icily, "are somewhat lacking in delicacy." "Hmm," Gouki intoned, stroking his chin. "I personally like you quite a bit though. Like your strong will so atyical for a woman. Your brute strength, too. You shattered that cage all by yourself, without any help, right? For what it's worth, it was made in such a way that even a gorilla wouldn't be able to break it. Which makes you stronger than a gorilla, ain't it ri---" "I suppose I am," Awashima interrupted in a powerful tone, making Gouki bite his tongue. Her expression tightened and she drew her saber. "Against you, I have no slightest intention to pull my punches. I'm sorry to say but there is no room for that. For that reason, if you make a bad move, you might wind up getting severely hurt. Thus, I sincerely urge you to surrender."

Awashima took her signature battle stance with one leg bent in front, the other extended behind her and the tip of her raised sword pointing downward. Gouki narrowed his eyes at her.

"Good gracious. In the end, we both can only settle this by brute force, eh." Still relaxed, he kept sipping his sake. "But before that, mind telling me just one thing?" "What is it?" Awashima kept staring down her opponent, not letting her guard down. "What kind of man is Munakata Reishi? What is he to you?" Gouki's face when he asked that was earnest and serious, and one that Awashima had never seen him make before. "C'mon."

Awashima flushed a little.

Gouki went on. "At first, I only thought of him as nothing more than a man Zen'ichi is weirdly obsessed with. But you know, as this whole story unfolded, I started finding myself taking interest in him, too. Just like with you, I sure want to share a drink and a talk with him. So..." he repeated his question again in the same very serious tone. "What kind of man is Munakata Reishi?"

"..."

Technically speaking, Awashima was under no obligation to answer that. But, being a honest and serious person that she was, she couidn't help giving the question some careful deliberation.

"Let's see," she finally spoke up. "To me, he is my king." "What I want to hear is not a shallow general description like that..." "No," Awashima cut him off flatly. Relaxing her stance, she elaborated, "To me, that person really is my king. And to me, that's everything. This is the only way I can find to describe it." She looked Gouki straight in the eye.

Hearing the weight and gravity in her tone, Gouki refrained from saying anything. Awashima suddenly smiled.

"Captain and I met before he had his awakening as a king. The plane we both happened to be on was hijacked by terrorists, and I helped Captain suppress them. It was like something straight out of movies. But some explosives we didn't know about blew, opening a big hope in the plane's airframe and sending it plummeting down. It was at that moment that he had become a king. All to save the passengers who were on that plane with him. And I witnessed it with my own eyes." Her every word was permeated with strong conviction. "For a long time, Captain searched for an answer to the question of who he was, and in that instance he'd had a realization that becoming a king was his destiny. If that's how it was, then I thought that my destiny must have been to support and help him. So I became his first clansman." "..." "Nakamura Gouki. Now, it's my turn to ask you something. Why do you support Kounomura Zen'ichi?" "Hmm." The giant scratched his bald head. "Sadly, unlike you, I don't have any special reason. It's just..." He flashed his pearly whites. "To me, Zen'ichi is a friend I have rapport with. If I must name one reason, that itself is the reason," Gouki asserted. "...I can't believe you..." Awashima breathed out a sigh. "I had my suspicions, but you really are one strange person, just like Kounomura."

"My oh my, what an honor!" Gouki's shoulders vibrated as he laughed. And then he added, "It's never boring around him." He looked like he was having fun. "...Thanks to that, I even awakened this amusing power."

Getting up slowly, he took the front double biceps pose that bodybuilders do, flexing said muscles. Following the swell of both sets of his well-developed biceps, Gouki's power spiked. In the air between the two tension hung.

"Something's been bothering me for a while. Initially, you were simply Kounmura's friend who became a strain only after Kounomura had started scheming to usurp Captain's throne, isn't that right?" "Ain't you well informed?" Gouki took a side chest pose next, putting his perctorals on display. "That's right. While participating in that grand plan of Zen'ichi's, at some point I had an awakening as a strain. And that fact itself backed up Zen'ichi's theory." "...What theory?" "That the Slate has a uniform response to a person's will. If you want power, you will get power. That is..." Gouki finished his performance with the abdominal and thigh pose. "If you want to become a king, you just might steal that seat and become one if you wish for it strong enough."

For a while, Awashima contemplated his words. Then she let out another long sigh. "You're beyond help." Quietly, she moved to take her battle stance properly again. "That's nothing more than a conceited and self-serving wild delusion. I shall correct it for you." "Oh well," Gouki grinned, "I guess that fits me just fine. Now, c'mon!" he rushed towards her. "Time to talk with our fists!"

Awashima met his dash with a battle cry.

†

About the time the fierce clash between Awashima and Gouki unfolded, Fushimi encountered Marumoto. This run-in, however, didn't escalate into anything as passionate as Awashima and Gouki's.

If anything, it was more of a game of tag where Marumoto, throwing lines like "Why do you resist opening up your heart so much?! Just become my friend! I know you're lonely!", "Eh? You don't have any social network accounts? Then how do you call out to your friends when you have a barbeque party?" and "I'm gonna chillax at a hole-in-the-wall bar with a group of good friends who chase their dreams together, wanna come too?", specially designed to get on Fushimi's nerves as much as possible, tried to run away and hide, while Fushimi did the chasing, clicking his tongue tirelessly.

Marumoto may not have possessed a sliver of fighting prowess in a direct physical confrontation, but he didn't specialize in reading minds for nothing either, excelling in seeing right through Fushimi's thought processes and hiding in his blind spots with exceptional dexterity. Changing hiding places from behind a fire fighting panel to inside a ventilation fan to beneath a sofa, he ran screaming out throwaway lines in the same vein as those mentioned above.

And each time the shutter of his camera clicked, taking yet another photo, it grated on Fushimi's nerves immensely. Fushimi swung his saber, chasing after him.

"Tch!" Tongue-clicking was only a natural response.

Fushimi had a sickening feeling that all he did lately was being dragged into these stupid games of tag. Except, both he and Marumoto knew that it was coming to an end. Through ingenious positioning, the Scepter 4 operative managed to block Marumoto's escape routes and drive him into a dead end. Of course, Marumoto knew what his opponent was trying to do, but through Fushimi's strategic maneuvering that looked random at a glance, he was running out of places to escape.

Marumoto's voice sounded strained with panic. Trying to find a way distract Fushimi, he'd resorted to alluding to Fushimi's family and the clan he was affiliated with previously, but ultimately it proved useless as, despite Fushimi's face turning bitter, his steps never faltered.

'I already was going to punch him once, guess I'll make it 2 or 3 times now,' those were about all Fushimi's thoughts on the matter. That is, for all intents and purposes, he was not rising to Marumoto's bait.

Until one particular statement from Marumoto.

"Why don't you respect your boss more? You should be more of a team player, you know!"

When he heard that screamed out at him, for the first time Fushimi paused in his steps.

"Say," surprisingly enough, Fushimi sounded thoughtful, "why do you follow someone like Kounomura?"

Silence fell.

After a short while, an answer came from a shadowy corner of the hallway.

"Well, because I respect him a lot. Kounomura-san is a great man!" "..." Fushimi sensed something in his tone. Marumoto continued, as if enraptured, "You see, until a little while ago, I was a volunteer at an orphanage that Kounomura-san operates. Kounomura-san is a very busy man, yet he finds time to remember the names of each kid and is always very kind to them. I look up to him and dream to be a person like him some day." "Then you're being tricked," Fushimi cut off bluntly. "Eh?" "Mooooron." Fushimi smirked mockingly. "Do you really believe a guy like him who's only interested in achieving his own dream would give a damn about some kids?" "Wh-what?" Reading his opponent's state of mind like an open book, Fushimi cut to the quick, "You're just being used as a handy tool. As if he'd so much as glance at you if you weren't a strain." "T-Take that back." "I'll say it as many times as it takes. You're being duped by him, dude. Poor schmuck." "Take that back, this instance! Kounomura-san is not that kind of man!"

Suddenly, Marumoto's form emerged from a shadowy nook of the hallway. In his indignation, he left his hiding place without thinking. By the time the realization of what he'd done hit him, plastering the expletive of "Crap!" all over his face, it was already too late.

Kicking off the floor, Fushimi covered the distance between them in one mighty leap and tapped the handle of his saber against the back of Marumoto's neck lightly once. The blow that could be described as gentle and almost soft didn't fail to hit the vital spot with precision.

"D-Damn it!"

Tears in his eyes, Marumoto collapsed on the spot, out cold. Fushimi sneered.

"Is it really that much fun to dream up an idol, put him on a pedestal and worship him blindly?" Then, in a dry mutter, he added, "...That's probably why I disliked you from the start."

With that, Fushimi slouched, taking his leave.

†

Awashima and Gouki clashed violently. These clashes of absurd power and speed repeated again and again. As far as raw power went, Gouki was winning by a small margin, but in speed Awashima held an overwhelming advantage. Both dispensed of tricks and tactics, fighting fair and square and only relying on their skills. Gouki wasn't holding back despite his opponent being a woman, and Awashima, in turn, put all her might into the slashes she unleashed at him.

"Nhaa!"

Lariat that Gouki launched at Awashima along with a throaty shout was blown away.

"Ha!"

After gaining splendid acceleration in midair, a backspin roundhouse kick landed on Gouki's cheek, sending his kicked-in molars in the air. He lost his clothes, Awashima lost her saber, and the battle came down to hand-to-hand combat.

"And theeeere!"

Easily gathering Awashima into his arms, Gouki threw her violently against the floor.

"Ugh!"

Twisting her body like a cat to absorb the force of the impact, she swept her leg, catching Gouki just below the knee.

"Gha!"

He hit the back of his head on the floor.

"And there!"

Still, he reached his thick arms to try and catch her, but Awashima managed to leap from the spot and avoid his hold by a hair's breadth. Then both put some distance between them, watching each other fixedly.

"Fufu." "Haha."

For some reason, they both chuckled.

Their faces were sweaty, they both were breathing hard and bruises and minor hemorrhages blossomed here and there on their bodies as a sort of decorations. Despite that, the two's fighting spirit wasn't dampened in the least. An unspoken understanding that the time to settle this once and for all was upon them was shared between them.

"If I may be so bold."

With a gesture betraying deep respect, Gouki stepped forward. Awashima came a step closer as well.

"Haaaaa!"

Gouki threw a right straight punch with all his might. Awashima's movements were free of hesitation. Resolved to the possibility of getting hard-punched in the face, she dodged to the side only at the last possible moment. Only, it was a feint.

"Gotcha!"

Gouki grinned and elbowed the crown of Awashima's head now that it was perfectly within his range, hard. The downward jab was like a blow of a giant hammer and packing enough power to be instantly lethal for a normal person.

Except in the end it was Awashima who emerged victorious in the contest of predicting the opponent's moves. The elbow attack was well within her expectations. She had confidence she could weather it and made her calculations based on that. Crossing her arms, she took that bone-shattering killing blow head-on. Unable to absorb the whole force of it, her legs trembled and a grimace of anguish crossed her features.

And yet, despite the pain, that was where her ultimate chance lay.

Gouki's expression changed, reflecting a "Oh, crap!" reaction. Awashima didn't pause. Taking one more step forward that brought her infinitely close to her opponent, she tensed bodily, gathering all her spirit and strength and putting it into a piercing blow to Gouki's solar plexus. If Gouki's attack was like a falling hammer, then Awashima's like a sharp stab of a saber.

"Ugh!"

It managed to pierce even through her opponent's thick abdominals.

"Bah!"

Gouki's eyes rolled back, and his body folded down. Awashima didn't let that momentary opening go to waste. Setting Gouki's head that, until now was too high for her to reach, on her shoulder, "And with this..." she said and lifted the body of her opponent up. His massive giant body.

"Orryaa!"

The throw she executed was so-called Brainbuster from professional wrestling. It was a power technique that you normally wouldn't see outside the ring where you lift your opponent upside down high overhead and then throw them right down.

"Ghaaaaa!"

Landing on the floor on the crown of of his head, Gouki screamed. He tried to get up but it was beyond his ability.

"Fu, fufufufu." His shoulders shook. "You really are strong," he said to Awashima who was breathing hard but stood over him as the winner, looking down at him. "It's such a pity that you're a woman."

Awashima snorted coldly. "You were pretty strong yourself. For a man, that is."

The snapback made Gouki chuckle again.

"Listen," he said when he was done, "I've got a request. You and Munakata Reishi. And me and Zen'ichi. Can we share a drink together some day?" "Well," Awashima replied as she was searching for her saber and then returning it to its place on her hip. "I don't mind giving your request some thought. But asking Captain about his wishes comes first." "I see."

Once he'd heard her reply, Gouki closed his eyes, seemingly content. "Can't wait then... Really."

And with that, he was out cold.

Awashima took a deep breath, wiped the sweat off her forehead with the back of her hand and turned away from Gouki, intending to head to the hall.

Her dashing profile was a testament to the strength of her resolve.

†

Kounomura Zen'ichi was in the wedding chapel on the top floor. Seated on the altar for taking the oath, he was swinging his legs as he talked to his wife.

"Uh-huh, uh-huh," he was saying into the PDA. "That's right. That's how it is. Yeah, I'm serious. No, I'm telling you," he persuaded in a soft voice, "I can't come back for a while longer. Yes, right. Yes. Yeeees."

Carefree as ever, he hung up the phone. Spinning around, the short man faced the other side.

"You were gracious enough to wait for me to finish, eh, Munakata-kun?" he called, grinning all the while. "You seemed to be busy with a call."

Munakata Reishi who smoothly appeared in the spot of light, too, had a smile on his lips. His frame, clad in a blue uniform complimented with a sword, was set off quite nicely by the special atmosphere of sacrality reigning this particular space. On the other hand, Kounomura Zen'ichi, not blessed with height or dignified stature and looking quite dull in an oversized jacket and tawny slacks, was out of place there.

The two's appearances couldn't have been farther apart: Munakata with his clean-cut features, well-formed and perfectly-proportioned frame and the undeniable air of refinement and elegance, and Kounomura, with a bulky body of a penguin and plain though not without a certain charm features, who couldn't be called attractive by any standard.

Nevertheless, the two men had something about them that made them similar.

In was in their gaze that observed all phenomena of the world with utmost attention, more carefully than anybody else yet for some reason remained distant and detached as if they weren't watching at all, and in their free way of life that transformed sadness far removed from the realm of normal into amusement. But what made them seem alike more than anything else was a calm smile always playing on their lips. That was what the two men so different had in common.

"I have to say it is quite strange. This is my first time meeting you face-to-face, but it does not feel like it," Munakata spoke up unhurriedly. Tilting his head to the side slightly, he continued, "The reason may be the fact that I've gone through massive amounts of information related to you in the course of this affair." "This is my first time meeting you in the flesh, too, I guess?" Kounomura spread out his hands. "But y'know, I made a poster out of one of the photos of you that I'd taken secretly and pinned it up in my room." He closed his eyes. "So if I just shut my eyes like this, I can see your image in all its minute details in my head right away. All your data are etched into my brain, y'see."

Munakata answered with a wry smile. Kounomura opened his eyes.

"I did it because I wanted to become you so bad, Munakata-kun. Because..." he was not shy about his word choices, "Blue King, I thought you were beautiful." "Please tell me just one thing," Munakata asked. "Why did you choose this particular method to dethrone such a king?" "Hm?" "Why did you choose to trick and trap my subordinates instead of going after me directly?" "Hmmm," Kounomura took some time to think this question over. "Why, to tell you the truth, I didn't put much thought into it. It's just when I wondered what it was that made one king, I thought maybe the answer was one's retainers." His face suddenly turned serious. "No matter how much one claims to be king, so long as no one recognizes and acknowledges that claim, one remains but a naked emperor, y'know. So I thought maybe the Dresden Slate would revise your status if you were to be cut off your followers. Then again, it was just one out of currently 12 strategies that I'd come up with, and from now on I'm planning on testing out the other 11. And rest assured, among them there are some that involve cornering you specifically."

Munakata chuckled. "So you're set on trying again, I take it?" "Yup." Kounomura's reply was flat as a child's. "I totally am."

Munakata heaved a sigh, still smiling. Kounomura made a serious face again.

"Munakata-kun, I think you've already realized this without me telling, but..." His voice sounded low. "The Dresden Slate. It's very dangerous." "..." Munakata said nothing to that. Pushing up his glasses with a finger, he changed the subject. "You cannot escape any more, and I trust you are aware of the fact, yes?" "..." This time it was Kounomura who kept his silence. And then he said peevishly, "I've prepared a few means of escape. But the decisive factor that got in my way and prevented me from making use of them is this awful weather." "Your friend," Munakata spoke calmly, "said one interesting thing to me. According to him, apparently, when you get down to it, all coincidences are but inevitable. So wouldn't you say your running out of moves is some sort of fate at work?" "Munakata-kun, you..." "You do realize already, don't you?" The way Munakata said it reeked of eerieness. He was slowly drawing closer.

That was the first time when a shadow of fear slid across Kounomura's face.

All of a sudden, he did an about-face, dashed to hide behind the altar where he took a detonator out of his pocket and pushed the button.

With a thunderous roar, the chapel blew up.

†

When Kounomura made it to the roof, the sky was covered with dark clouds twisting like dragons as far as the eye could see. From time to time, flashes of lightning pierced them.

The torrential downpour, cutting and violent, beat his body mercilessly, and the accompanying gale made him stagger. His face was a sticky mess of sweat and dirt. His hair, thin even under the best circumstances, stuck to his forehead, and his clothes showed tears. Having crawled into the emergency exit made beneath the altar, it took him quite some time to get out.

Kounomura turned to take a look at the rubble that only a few minutes ago was the chapel, and the expression that crossed his face then could be interpreted as despair, fear or maybe even delight.

"...I knew it, Munakata-kun, you're simply..."

There stood no other than Munakata Reishi. Around him the blue globe of a barrier was projected, and despite being in the immediate vicinity of an explosion, not even a hair was out of place on him, to say nothing of injury. Munakata was getting closer, step by step, smiling with grace and refinement all the while.

Kounomura felt fear seizing him. And as Munakata was drawing closer, indivertible in his approach, the reason for this fear dawned on the short man.

For the first time in his life, Kounomura Zen'ichi and his carefully made plans were about to fail. Here, at this very moment.

There were things forever out of his reach, and he was made to realize he could never become someone like the person in front of him no matter how he tried. Between the two men there existed a wall that could never be scaled. In that instance, both Kounomura and Munakata sensed it.

'So this is what destiny is, huh? In the end, I never even stood a chance.'

The moment he thought that, a wave of exhaustion swept over him so bone-deep that he could barely stay upright. His long past its prime body had hit its limit long time ago, and the spirit that kept it going just barely after it had broke that instance.

Kounomura was ready to collapse then and there. But just then...

"That wouldn't do, Kounomura-san."

A quick and strong yet gentle arm suddenly caught him. The wind and rain stopped. Kounomura realized he was drawn inside the barrier projected around Munakata. When he looked up, he found Munakata smiling at him from above.

"He who aspires to be king must never take a knee."

That determination was overwhelming.

Kounomura's first ever failure triggered another strong reaction, and another feeling, new to him, was born on the heels of it. On instinct alone, Kounomura groaned. And then...

"It's okay."

Freeing himself from Munakata's supporting arm, he took a knee before the other man, of his own will this time, and said reverently, "I admit my defeat. You are the true king, Munakata Reishi."

In that instance, he found a new goal for himself, a new someone who he wanted to become.

Munakata, though almost imperceptibly perplexed, kept on smiling, and Kounomura, as he looked at him, couldn't help thinking of him as 'beautiful' once again.

#k case files of blue #k project #project k #k translation

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kierongillen · 6 years ago

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Writer Notes: The Wicked + the Divine 41

Spoilers, obv.

After last issue's formalism, this one just accelerates. And, as everything in this arc, everything is a big beat. If everything is a big beat, how do you choose what to spend your space on? What beats really matter? How do you pace it? What can be a grace note and what's a scene? That's what this issue, and the rest of the arc, tends to be about.

This issue has gone down very well. I'll admit that while I absolutely gasped when I got paged in, I suspect it's going to be least favourite of the whole arc. That more says how much I enjoy the rest of the arc. Also, as a friend put it to me, I may be allergic to making people happy.

Let’s get on with this.

Jamie and Matt's cover:

There is, to some degree, a "Who hasn't had a headshot cover?" to this arc. As such, Mimir finally gets his. This is a glorious one – the pinks and blues, work really well, and the circuitboards frame it well. Obviously, Mimir plays a big role in this issue, so it is thematic. As is…

Paulina's cover

I just love Paulina's covers, as her being the regular alt-cover artist on Thunderbolt should imply. This made me want to immediately pitch a kick-ass pop D&D bard comic to someone, Xena Warrior Princess as produced by Xenomania. The names of the swords are the chef-kiss, but there's so much to love. The expression is everything.

Page 1

One page scene, with a modified nine panel grid. The one page scene is something that happens a lot this arc. I did a two-page version, but with the right seven panels, we're sorted. Yes, this is all we see of the de facto antagonists of the series this issue – when last issue was all about them, it doesn't worry me too much.

Page 2

Standard music journalist concept. That the second album tends to be worst than the first. Hard to prove, though my old friend Peter's note that "you have your whole life preparing for your first album and have a year to do your second" does seem to imply an easy explanation.

Page 3-4-5

Stealth mission! It's Metal Gear WicDiv!

We actually forgot to add the flashes to the first panel until the very last minute. Monthly Comics is a hell of a time sometimes, stress the “hell.”

I love the determination of Laura in the second panel of 3. That's great eyes.

Looking at this now, that "I can't do much now" is in a panel smaller than 1/9th of the page says a lot about the scale she's working on. The background was Matt in full trippy mode – I had a friend note that this scene is a little akin to Kohl in Rue Britannia 5 (The difference being Kohl is using nostalgia for a performance, while Laura is just doing a performance) but the moving squiggle does remind me the use of optical illusions in Phonogram 3. Bugs in the optic nerve are our friend.

Panel 3 on 4 is obviously Clayton living large and conquering. When you ask for something like "Can you sample the background and use as a speech balloon" you have no idea if it's going to work.

We could have divided the middle panel into two, but I suspect it'd have been less effective. We've seen the trick before. Now we see the same trick, but different. Mix it up. We're performers.

Hmm. I realise the Norns string of balloons is something I'm doing more often now – it's not something I've always done. I'm normally a one-panel-one-emotion, which strings of dialogue rarely allow (as, if there’s any change of emotion inside the string, the image is rendered ludicrous). In a middle shot, and a strong emotional throughline with the dialogue and I'm more okay with it.

While this whole three pages is an action sequence, it's also exposition for Laura's current state. The best exposition is demonstration, I guess.

I mean, the last panel of page 5? That's how cut to the bone we are. Problem? Solve it. Problem? Solve it. We don't need to fuck around anymore.

Page 6-7-8

And after six whole trades, the reunion between Lucifer and Laura. I suspect a different writer would have played this bigger and more melodramatic, but when the reader knows this, a splash feels overkill, especially with the taut pacing of the rest of the issue. However... there are five panels here. That's a page's worth of content, and enough to give an emotional throughline.

Sometimes when writing it's all about trying to find an honest response which is also unexpected. Like, in life, you think you'll feel sad or happy at certain times, but when you live through it, you don't. Or you don't entirely. What other stuff is happening? That's what rings true to me.

Anyway – that's where Laura's Guilt comes from. Laura at her most Dionysus.

And then Lucifer shatters all that self pity with the wink. Did you miss me? Of course, you did.

Page 7, panel 4 is one of those "a comic panel is not a moment in time" bits of magic McLeod always talks about. As in, as we read across the panel time progresses. The Mimir/Cass conversation is getting on for... 10 seconds, maybe? The teleport signatures do not take that long to appear. It's only with Laura's interruption that panel kicks into high gear.

As Multiversity noted you can easily imagine another draft of this with a bigger fight scene. And it's true – but also lying around was a version which cuts it even shorter. Do we need to really give a whole page to Cass breaking out? I felt so. Without the big beat, it feels flat. And it's good to see Cass let rip.

The slight angle on Jamie's external shot with a Norns black/white plus golden thread from Matt is really interesting. We don't often see the Norns as combatants in WicDiv, so this is a rare chance to give Cass a "Hello, I am a bad ass too, in case you've forgotten."

Page 9-10-11-12

Cripes. Going this and making notes I can't believe how tightly we're winding this and (more so) getting away from it. We did all this in four pages?

Two panels to the escape – the right image and a handful of taut captions to hold you between scenes. The first is doing a lot of work, but the second is just elegant. What do you need but the broken doors? Great stuff by Jamie here.

(Laura's captions do a lot of work here in setting up the themes, and the return of Sakhmet's memory to the story)

If you're wondering "How on earth could we get the escape be quicker, it's to take the first two panels on page 8 and move to the previous page. That makes it a five panel page, which is entirely do-able. That's a cost, but it would have bought slightly more space in this scene. As it is, I preferred to cut mid-page and end with Lucifer's first spoken lines in ages.

Once more, a big reveal in a small panel. Chrissy's note on the script was basically hearts for Luci at this point. Like, the second she cuts to the chase and tell s people what to do...

...and then the page turn, and she just goes full Lucifer. I know you lot have missed her, but I have too.

Getting back to Inanna was also easy, the sweetheart... but it all leads back to Sakhmet. That Mothering Invention was as tight as it was didn't leave much room for Laura to think about Sakhmet, or mourn at all... or, most of all, make it clear the story (and Laura) considers her loss important and real. It's an awful sad panel at the end of the page.

Inanna's voice was easy to find again. He's such a sweetheart. Tara is a little harder, just as I wrote her less, but I've been fascinated by this arc in terms of writing her as an actual character. I think one of the ironies of issue 13 was that it put Tara on a pedestal, and the pedestal is an objectifying as any other cage. Getting her back as a character is wonderful, and she gets to be as messy and flawed as everyone else.

Inanna not knowing ANY of this is hard. That's the problem with most of this arc – there is so much information flying around, and secrets some (but not all) are aware of. Who gets to respond to what and when? What to remind people of? What to let slide? Inanna not knowing about Baal is so huge it had to be hit and hit hard.

And then... the bodies.

When plotting this and trying to work out how I could get the cast – oh god, this is not a deliberate pun, but it's also clearly a pun - back on their feet, I was thinking of the Morrigan Gambit. Three heads, three bodies. Perfect. Then I remembered Mimir, and swore. I started to think about how that would be a tense, dramatic situation and how the personal politics could play out and I realised that Tara would just turn it down. I then realised that's exactly how the scene would work too.

(In a "tightness" thing, I suspect in another world, this scene would have been two pages. The "and Tara then just butts in" is the key thing, but you could get the timing a little more intricate to sell the moment more – still, even in this page, I could have extended it more, but seeing Tara's elaboration and everyone else's response to it was just key work for them all.)

In passing – Mimir's glowing in the dark in the penultimate panel just wonderful. Nice work Jamie and Matt.

Page 13

From the Sisters of Mercy's song, Marian.

Page 14-15-16-17

Here's where you talk about spending space. What's important here? You need the scale to show what Baph has been doing – and Jamie turns it into something astoundingly gothic. The use of blacks, the use of light and shade. Just the right level of suggestive. It’s one of my favourite bits of composition in the issue.

As the pantheon are getting back together, this leads to an increase in crowd scenes, which are the eternal artist killer. As such, I'm looking for solutions which only involve the absolute minimum of the cast in a scene.

Thee was an awful moment earlier in the issue when I went – wait! Do I have too many heads to carry? Then I realised I was fine. That said, finding places to put them down so we can have chat scenes was also somewhat tricky. The shelf turning up on page 15 is an example. Clealry Baph planned to (er) have a place to keep heads.

Well, I say, Baph, but it's clearly Nergal now. The road from early Nick Cave to late Nick Cave has been a long way. It's a great shot.

To go back to the space, why spend it on this? We’re reintroducing Nergal and Morrigan, and we’re also showing the scale of them in the plot, and the actions of Nergal. Where we go with the bodies is such a big beat, it needs to come from something similarly large. That’s also the reason why so much (relative in the issue) space is spent on the Morrigan/Nergal scenes. Of course, it’s also a key scene for this subplot, so demands space for that. It’s rarely just one reason. Probably a useful time for my usual “these notes are only ever a selection of thoughts.”

This is also a serious pose panel by Jamie.

The “I could bring her back.” He’s an underworld god too. If she could do it, he could. This is something which I suspect some people thought implicit in the old scene, but the final manipulation of Morrigan is unpacked at length in the nine panel grids.

Nine panel grids are a natural rhythm for this – when I was planning the later bit the triple-goddess of it made obvious sense, so it expanded to the whole scene. Also, the cropped image reduces the possibility of a Jamie crowd scene.

I always thought that, given the amount of time the various characters get on film, Ladyhawke could more accurately be called Blokeywolf. I digress.

Page 18-19-20

As said earlier, the triple-goddess to nine panel grid is one of those natural ways to give a stress to each of the elements. You’ll notice the clicks are left then right then centre. I’d originally written it as left to right, before – after Chrissy’s Editorial urging – rewrote to end with the Macha section to go last. Gentle Annie may have been the kinder part of Morrigan, but Macha was the part he mostly dated.

Then, in a moment of weirdness, Jamie actually drew it in the original order, despite never having seen that script. Morrigan has powers, as does the logical necessity of a left to right panelling order. As a nine panel grid, just moving panels around to fix it is easy. Hail grids!

Like most of the big acts of magic, it’s all about emotional sense than anything else. Hence, it is inevitable as Nergal actually does this, the bleak temple he’s constructed starts to crumble. And, in perhaps the most ludicrous bit of me in the comic, The Temple Of Love Is Falling Down. Too much is the bare minimum.

Jamie’s triple-portrait of the Morrigan is pretty startling. I have no idea if Jamie will miss drawing Badb’s hair, but I’ll miss seeing it.

Re-reading this now I’m struck by how low-key it is. That was always part of WicDiv’s magic – the finger click, and then things happening. The Morrigan transformation was usually drawn to be instantaneous – one panel Macha, the next Badb and so on. This kind of keeps to that.

And then… the reveal. That the new bodies isn’t a splash page says everything about this issue, but it still gets the punching the air moment. We had to have one of those eventually. Lucifer in a black suit is one of the things I’ve been waiting as long to see as Nergal in his. I giggled with glee at seeing this. Jamie’s worked in elements of the Morrigan into each of the gods – Lucifer’s red hair is the most obvious one, but Gentle Annie in Inanna and Macha in Mimir also have their notes. Inanna’s netting top is the main one – and note the shapes on Mimir’s armour changing to mimic Macha’s.

Yes, writing Lucifer remains fun and easy. I recommend it to everyone.

Page 21-22

In terms of seeing chat, people responding to the small details in the issue is one of the bigger joys. That Jamie got the Inanna/Nergal hug in the background of this exchange between Laura/Lucifer/Cass is absolutely wonderful. Laura and Cass have come a long way.

This is arguably a small cliffhanger – the smallest of this arc, at least. However, it sits on the weight of the rest of the run. We’re promising a solution to one of the larger mysteries in the run, and I suspect we get by on that. Note how space is used – this is a dense panel layout, but we go to a thired of a page for Laura’s “I know how to end this” (so giving it weight” and then going to three panel page for the conclusion (which adds weight to each of these beats.) Jamie takes the framing to tight on Cass for the beat as well to sell it. Note Matt with the Norn-colouring creeping in – and how it goes from the fires in the first panel to this is just a joy.

Page 23

Interstitial, and obvious reference to the Jay-Z record, but everyone is just excitedly clapping over the adding stuff to the godwheel. Sergio outdid himself here. It’s certainly an example of how you can have storytelling and even hero-shot audience-cheers beats out of things entirely unlike a traditional comics panel. After all these issue,s we get to see something added to the godwheel. Of course people cheer. That said, as I said to a friend, “Of all the things I’ve found to torture the WicDiv readership, hope is the cruelest of all.”

EDIT: Actually, I messed up here - Jamie did the tweaks. Nice work Jamie!

And that’s it. Next up – 42, wherein questions are answered. In passing – the letters we’ve been getting are amazing. I’m going to try and cram as many as I can in the issues to come, but issue 44 will be our last one with a letters page. So that’s a timelimit if you wanna try and get in. It’s [email protected].

Thanks for reading.

#WicDiv #the wicked and the divine #writer notes

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meepdrawartgood · 6 years ago

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Final Preparations

(woopsie, i might have written a short drabble, major DGR3 spoilers below)

The hangar was silent, save for the feverish scratching of Kokichi's pen against paper, and the occasional flip of the page. Kaito sat to the side, saying nothing, just watching the smaller teen frantically write his script. There was sweat beading on Kokichi's forehead, his lips pursed in a tight line and wide eyes rapidly scanning over the paper.

Kokichi was smart. The fact that even now, as the poison slowly overtook his body, he was weaving a final, near impenetrable lie, it stunned Kaito. He was never just a bratty little teen. He may have actually planned everything up until now, despite not being the mastermind. He was one of the biggest threats to the killing game, and it was that realization that convinced Kaito to help him. He may have been completely off his rocker, but his strength was in his intelligence.

Kaito was shook out of his thoughts by a small noise, and looked up to see Kokichi turning blue, writing hand twitching uselessly on the paper and other hand clawing at his throat.

Shit. He had less time than he thought.

Kaito leapt into action, quickly leaning forward and slapping a hand against the supreme leader's back, hard and fast. "Hey-Kokichi, breathe! I know it's hard to, but just try to breathe."

After a moment, Kokichi suddenly gasped and coughed hard, shoving the script into Kaito's arms so the saliva flying from his mouth wouldn't stain it. After a short coughing fit, there was mostly spit, but a single drop of blood on the ground in front of him.

Kaito winced.

Kokichi said nothing, snatching the script back and continuing to write, even as his muscles began to twitch against his will, even as his throat locked up again and again, each time loosened by a harsh pat from Kaito, even as his vision began to blur at the edges, even as he struggled to keep his eyes open.

Finally, he closed the small book, panting a bit and blinking to try and make sense of which Kaito he was supposed to look at, the left or the right one. "H-here-" He decided on one and held out the script, barely registering as it fell to the floor just to the right of him, and the astronaut picked it up.

"Kokichi. How many fingers am I holding up?"

He looked up, blinking hard and counting. "...Eight...? Haha...wh-where'd you get eight fingers, Kaito?"

The taller male cursed under his breath, standing up. "Kokichi, we gotta go, or Maki Roll is gonna be the blackened."

After a bit of a struggle to get Kokichi out of his bloodied shirt, the teen attempted to stand, but didn't get far, collapsing in a heap in the other's arms. So instead he was dragged, deliberately creating a bloody trail on the floor from the wound in his back. Kaito pulled his jacket off and laid it on the hydraulic press, then lifted Kokichi and set him in place at the control panel.

It was honestly terrifying, having to lay there with his eyes closed, listening to the press descend lower and lower, praying Kokichi would be able to stop it in time. Finally, he heard the press stop and scrambled out from under it, rushing to the supreme leader's side. He had collapsed again after pressing the force stop button, arms unable to hold him up anymore. Kaito scooped him up, hurrying to the press and sliding the other under it, on top of his jacket.

And found himself unable to move suddenly. This was it. This was Kokichi Ouma's final moments alive, and Kaito's own final moments before he would be blackened. This was really, truly it.

"...Nee..heehee..." Kokichi choked out, a weak smile on his pale face. "...Why...why you cryin' K...Kaito...?"

When had he started crying? It didn't matter, he couldn't answer anyway. It was like his voice had just shut off.

"...Kaito......?"

He looked back up. His eyes met purple, staring back. This was the real Kokichi Ouma. Not a lie. He knew that for a fact now.

"...Don't...dont f-fuck up my lines...ok?"

"...I won't."

Kokichi's short scream was thankfully drowned out by the hum of the machine and the sounds of his body being crushed.

#meep writes #danganronpa killing harmony spoilers #danganronpa killing harmony #dgr3 spoilers #kokichi ouma #kaito momota #danganronpa v3 #danganronpa #kokichi oma

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pattysamma · 5 years ago

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Downfall of the Perfect Society.

I woke up on an idle Tuesday. I had just been fired from a job that I didn't want, that I only had to provide for a family that walked out on me a week before. I'm a lucky guy. All I have to my name is a crumpled $20 bill, and all the raw sodium my $5,000 savings could buy. If I'm not going to survive this world, then I'm going to take a chunk of it with me when I go. Maybe the media will pin it on some small unknown terrorist group, who knows. All I care about, is shaking up the status quo, making noise, showing everyone that all it takes is one man with nothing to lose to take everything from anyone.

(End Exert, Paul Bert, mall security, thought probe log)

A tall dark man in a tall dark suit stands in a tall dark court room in front of a, too tall, judge, and an averagely tall jury. The tall dark man begins to bellow to the average jury.

"Here we present the standard evidence of thought crime perpetration, the log of the thought probe imbedded in the brain stem, as in all cases. I hope the jury and Their honor will pass judgment fairly and", The tall man bowed his head so that it became darker, "quickly." With that, the average jury moved at an above average pace to the private recess chamber, where a video feed broadcasted their deliberation to the courtroom. The too tall judge propped up his feet and promptly began sipping on coffee that, by his face, was disappointingly cold. Thought crimes were now a rarity, but when they happened society felt it was best to fall back on the tradition of viewing the thought probe log, and immediately executing the offender by way of dismemberment. This was also broadcasted to all schools in the local area as an example of a bad citizen. Being a good citizen is very important on Earth city. All of Earth has become one nation, under one world government, ruled by a council of 5. Paul Bert's case was not out of the ordinary in the usual sense of proceedings, but in the sense that it was the first thought crime in 27 years, and while the practices of dealing with a thought crime were very well documented, it was thought that all thought crimes had been eradicated like the polio virus. This case, while boring in its proceedings and principal and legal jargon, presented a fact that could not be ignored. An outlier had presented itself, and all outliers must be eliminated. The flaw must be found in the system that allowed this to happen, and that flaw mended.

It also turned out that the too tall judge presiding over Paul Bert's not peculiar, peculiar case had also been found to actually be too tall and was already sentenced to be dropped into the eel pits (the most holy of deaths for civil servant) just after the case had ended. In an earlier time, such as 2017, Paul Bert and the too tall judge may have conspired to escape together, but this would have been picked up by the thought probes and they would have both skipped court and been sent to an Antarctic penal camp to harvest ice, then put that ice back the way they found it.

This case was over before it started, or so the jury was saying in their on-screen private chamber. They would follow the standard protocol> However, to make this execution especially humiliating they would play old infomercial tracks at the same volume as his screams as he was slowly and methodically dismembered. This was the definition of patriotism, said the panel of selected patriots. Now the question was why, why was there an outlier? This was however a question, and asking questions was considered rude, so before action could be taken, they had to figure out how to pose the question as a statement, have the statement peer reviewed, and then post it on a mock social media page to see if any outrage was generated. This was the perfect system, at least the propagators of the system, and those that benefited from it printed the propaganda that said it was.

The execution was set, the infomercial tracks picked out, all that was left was to broadcast the execution. The only problem is that the fossil fuels had just run out. There was no longer power to broadcast the execution, and chaos descended. This is the fall of the perfect society, loud and angry that the internet can not be reached.

#sci-fi #futurism #my writing #writers #writers on tumblr #funny #fiction

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vera-invenire · 6 years ago

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VnC Liveblog - Chapter 9

.All chapter liveblogs are linked HERE.

Welcome to the flashback chapter. Fun and daises for everyone!

...what’s that? We’re gonna get terrifying tragedy and endless heartache, not fun and daises? oh.

Well. Onward?

Last time on VnC, Vanitas was having sexy bloodtimes with Jeanne while Charlatan was digging through Noé‘s head for kicks and giggles.

And everything in Noé’s head, apparently, revolves around this kid named Louis, who happens to be Domi’s older brother. It is time, ladies and gents, to meet Unnerving Boy.

Look at these precious children, they hardly look creepy at all.

Teacher seems a bit flake-y, but he’s looking pretty good for a grandpa. (are some vampires immortal? how long do they live?)

So we know Teacher bought Noé, the last Archiviste, off the black market. Somehow, I don’t think it was because he just really wanted to adopt a kid. I mean, he’s already got two right there.

Oh my gosh, Domi is shy. And look at Noé clutching at Teacher’s arm, aw. Even Louis seems like a nice kid.

I take it back, LOUIS YOU ARE STILL CREEPY. AND KIND OF A JERK.

But he also knows Something is up about his grandfather. Teacher’s interest in Noé will probably not be a good thing for Noé himself.

The chapter is subtitled ‘Friends’ but like. I think you can find better friends than this Noé, I’m just saying.

Noé being raised by humans before this point is interesting. I’m guessing we’re in Averoigne, in the vampire world. (exactly how big is the vampire world...?) (and is the assumption here that vampires always give birth to other vampires?)

Note for Noé‘s timeline, as it seems likely to become important -- he was found in the human world crying by himself during winter when he was very young. Geez, that’s a mystery in itself.

Uh, humans aren’t the ones who regularly consume the bodily fluids of other people, buddy.

woah, Noé‘s got a good arm for a little kid, good job, Noé --

The adopted grandparents knew about vampires, hm? More specifically, they knew Noé was a vampire. Was this because they knew more about the situation than little Noé was aware, or was his nature just hard to hide when he was that young?

One thing is sure -- they treated him well.

He made Noé cry. Keep glaring at him, Domi. (I feel like this is the first inkling we’re getting of who Domi will become when she’s older.) (Actually. Current!Domi is a lot more like Louis than she is like past!Domi. Starting to wonder if that’s a deliberate change on her part, along with the more masculine clothes. She dose survive the massacre her brother dies in, after all, that has to have left an impression.)

And now we find out if it’s possible to guilt Louis into acting like a decent human vampire being.

Hey, it is! There’s hope for you yet, kid.

That last panel “I thought we’d be together forever, but...” has a double meaning. Noé’s talking about his grandparents (grandpa got sick and died, grandma passed in her sleep shortly after), but the narrative is whispering that it applies to this little trio, too.

1. Was Noé completely by himself after his grandparents died?

2. ...the vampires kidnap humans and force them into labor in the vampire world?? Blood source, too, I imagine.

3. Look at that bed, that bed is amazing. I want one.

4. The vampires don’t seem to have many compunctions about selling their own kind, either.

5. The background of the purchase scene is weird. Those are awfully fancy curtains. I’m thinking gaudy, horrifying auction.

Oh my god, this precious bean hasn’t changed at all.

So this is a very cute and humanizing moment for Louis, but it’s also a very Vanitas-ish moment. Vanitas does this, the unexpected and uncontrollable laughter thing, all the time. Which means I am now going to be looking for Vanitas parallels everywhere.

A bonding montage~

Louis turns into less of a jerk -- we see him helping Noé up into his tree and helping Noé with his reading. Domi delights in dressing Noé up in feminine clothes (reminding me of that little flashback of her teaching him to dance where she was dressed in masculine threads.) They even sleep in a cuddle pile with Domi curled up against Noé and Louis acting like he’s trying to put some distance between them but he’s still there, you aren’t fooling anyone, kid. (and he’s getting hit in the head by a sleeping Noé for his pains, heh.)

There’s one more picture: Teacher comes back with presents. Domi and Noé are cheering, but Louis wanders over all cool and disinterested. But remember what Louis said at the beginning of the chapter -- “Having my grandfather take a shine to you...you poor thing.”

Louis distrusts his grandfather. He knows something we -- and Domi and Noé -- don’t.

...yeah, that fun ain’t gonna last. Also, how much you want to bet the ‘secret base’ is gonna be where all the heads start rolling. (it’s chekov’s base!)

(are they playing dress up with Teacher’s clothes?)

Hey, Louis, you see how innocent and simple that blood exchange was? Unlike whatever it was you were doing in that other flashback.

Though we are seeing this from Noé‘s POV. The incidents might look different because Noé perceived them as being different, emotionally. It would mesh with how he sees Domi as ‘just a friend’ and Louis as this mysterious, complicated, unnerving, compelling tragedy who haunts him to this day. (also it’s pretty gay, lbr.)

Domi’s crush is so cute. And pfff, Louis, you thought you were gonna get out of it that easily, especially after you made fun of Domi like that? Nah, bro.

This is the point where we remember that Louis is just a little kid, too. One who has been dealt a crap hand we don’t know about yet, and is probably acting out in small ways in reaction to that.

This would be why Domi feels more sheltered than Louis. Though I do wonder, if Domi is making monthly trips, why isn’t sister Veronica shown, too?

Firstly, what the hell, family de Sade.

Secondly...this feels like one of those Sneaky Pages. I’m assuming that hand in the left most panel is Louis’ and that the last panel is those pages catching Louis’ (almost shaken looking) eye.

Lastly -- the kids are growing up. I’d guess we’re into the pre-teen years by now.

Noé, you’re making her dance under the symbol of the vampire bogeyman, have a care, would you.

We’ve seen this flashback before, too, so we’ve just about hit all of them. Except for, you know, the Big One.

(oh, no, wait, there was a mini-flashback of Noé training with Teacher, but he was a teen in that one. When did Noé start training? Why did Noé start training?)

Louis can see right through his grandfather, has ALWAYS been able to see right through him.

I’m glad that panel in the library was resolved so quickly, though. Saves me from going nuts about details, lol.

So this is a very Kid reaction to bad family news, but like, he might be right? Louis is cynical by nature, but also very sharp. If at this point he thinks his parents had Domi to replace him then -- I think I believe him.

Grandfather just fucking smiles at him. Grandfather is a dick.

And then the teeth come out.

“You have no luck. Having my grandfather take a shine to you...you poor thing.”

Look at those tendrils of darkness reaching out for Louis. And they’re coming from Grandfather.

Grandfather is sending a very clear message: he is here as an observer. Grandfather is not going to interfere with anything Louis wants to do. He’s not going to give him any help, either. And something bad is going to happen to Louis -- he’s going to do something bad. Louis now knows for sure that his family expects him to turn into a monster and not one of them is going to try to help him.

This whole bucolic paradise is an experiment with Louis as the test rat.

And why?

Because Louis is a curse-bearer from birth, or shortly thereafter. How did that happen? Why isn’t he showing any symptoms yet? The implication seems to be that he’s a ticking time-bomb, but is he?

(and if Louis is the test rat...does that mean Domi is the control?)

Noé says that after this day, little by little, Louis started acting (*cough*more*cough*) strange.

By which he means... Louis took up wood-carving? Louis is carving a piece of wood, Noé asks what he’s doing, Louis says it’s a secret.

The way to Noé‘s heart is through gifts, got it.

We know why Louis is acting this way, but Noé has no clue. But though Domi’s presence started to cause Louis pain, Noé doesn’t say anything about Louis taking it out on Domi herself, which is a big point in his favor, imo.

Unhealthy (?) coping mechanism, check.

The one person who tried to help him.

Louis was finally going to tell Noé what’s wrong with him.

I know I drag Louis a lot, but I do like him. He’s clever and dry and is so alone because the adults that were supposed to protect him wrote him off when he was days old.

Of course he came out weird and morbid. And unlike other characters I could mention (*cough*Vincent*cough*) he hasn’t resorted to taking his pain out on stuffed animals or cats or his little sister. This kid isn’t a lost cause at all, he’s just lost.

Those brittle edges can still cut though --

Aaaaaand here we go. This is what sets it all off, what brings the happy memories to an end.

Now that Domi’s older, I wonder...does she know Louis is a curse-bearer? Did someone finally tell her?

This is the thing Louis has been living with since he found those papers in the library. You know, on top of the whole “gonna turn into a rabid monster” thing.

But Noé, he can only read this as callousness toward their friend. He doesn’t know Louis is talking about himself.

Remember in Orlok’s office, when Noé snapped at the thought that they wouldn’t be able to save Amelia? How he did a complete 180 with Vanitas, making *him* come along with *Noé* because he was going to do what it took to save Amelia, no matter what?

Yeah. That reflex (and trauma, because he didn’t save Mina, did he) was born here.

(”save me, then, if you can”)

He doesn’t get to save Louis, either.

Berserk button that will shape Noé and follow him into adulthood: officially installed.

Domi chases Noé out of the room, saying she wants to help save Mina, too. She’s the one who comes up with the only plan they have, bare as it is -- they’ll ask the other village kids for help to somehow get Mina out of the village.

Oh hey, remember the secret base? As he asks around for where Noé and Domi went (the servants don’t know), he realizes that must be where they went with Mina.

“...they didn’t --!” he says once he’s figured it out.

Louis is frightened. And then...

Louis’ curse is manifesting. (that typesetting, though...some things don’t work across languages, YP)

And Mina’s curse manifests, too.

This is a classic zombie movie scene. The survivors don’t know they’ve let in an infected until it’s too late and they start to turn, taking bites out of everyone else.

Let’s run with the infection metaphor. For people like Amelia (and Mina? hard to say), Charlatan finds them and ‘infects’ them by corrupting their true name. Infection to manifestation doesn’t seem to take much time at all, maybe a few weeks.

But for people like Louis, who are born with the curse, it needs to be triggered by desperation or desire and may lay dormant for years.

It is Charlatan in his mind, though -- see the finger-claws? But I wonder if ‘Charlatan’ isn’t a single entity per se, but a creature more like PH’s Humpty Dumpty that is spread out among multiple hosts.

This desire and the manifestation of Louis’ curse is what Grandfather was waiting for. The most heartbreaking part of all this is that the desire that finally triggered it was Louis’ desperation to protect his friends.

Mina went full zombie and took a chunk out of Fred’s throat. She lunged for Noé and Domi, but was knocked aside. And then we see this -- Louis half turned, Mina’s ripped off head in his hand.

But look at his hands. Those claws remind you of anything? Say...Vanitas’ gloves?

The difference is, these claws are very real.

And now, Louis starts to lose control.

Out of his mind, he attacks Giles and Fanny, killing them as Noé watches in horror, unable to do anything.

He tries to get through to Louis, asking if Louis is doing this because Noé didn’t listen to him earlier (Noé.) and that he was sorry and he takes the blame, all he wants is Louis is to go back to normal again.

He knows what happened to him, he doesn’t want to be like this.

Were any of the other curse-bearers half this aware and coherent?

That’s his last wish. That’s his --

Nope, I’m sorry, I’m done, this is all terrible, goodbye.

of course he can’t do it, he’s like 12 and this is his best friend, this is a fucking tragedy

This flashback is painful, how long have they known each other? Five years, more? Half their lives?

....I’m just numb at this point

what the fuck was that

I knew that Louis died at the end of this, but who was that? The bourreau meant to come for Mina?

Grandfather is a piece of shit

(part of me wants to look at that last panel and make comparisons to that one early, creepy panel of Break with Gil and how Break ended up not being a bad guy, but no, no. Grandfather is a piece of shit. HE KNEW SOMETHING LIKE THIS WAS GOING TO HAPPEN. HE WAS WAITING FOR IT.)

(I really wish I knew for sure what color that moon is. what if it’s blue? what would that mean?)

where is child services, please god, someone take these children away from this man and put them in therapy

ugh. alright. before we close, couple more things I wanted to think about.

1. Louis’ curse obviously worked much differently than the other curses we’ve seen. suppose that’s because his curse WAS different? could he have been another Blue Moon vampire, another Vanitas in the making?

(this bit is pure speculation, but I’ve been wondering if Vanitas’ gloves are an affectation he picked up from the Blue Moon Vampire, like the name, and now we’ve just seen Louis’ hands go full claw when the curse overcame him. could be a link between the two.)

2. We’ve seen how this incident has scarred Noé, but what about Domi? She was there but we haven’t really seen how -- ...oh. Oh, I forgot. It’s the clothes. Even the personality, a bit. Domi reacted to the violent death of her brother by trying to become more like him. She’s not entirely like him, she’s still Domi, but. Ugh. Ugggghhh. I already knew this, but I didn’t know it, ugh.

3. Grandfather/Teacher (I’ll go back to calling him Teacher after this chapter, I think) deliberately threw Noé and Louis together. Why, we don’t know. (part of me is thinking he’s using Noé the Archiviste as his freaking camera, but who knows.)

Here’s what we do know -- he is ALSO the one who threw Noé and Vanitas together. For some reason. (it won’t be a good reason)

4. Vanitas and Louis are distinct characters with a few striking similarities between them, but I think their biggest difference is that, underneath his manic energy, Vanitas is Tired™, while, under his morbidity, Louis is Tired of This Shit™. It’s a slight but important distinction.

5. Remember that look of wonder on Noé‘s face in chapter one when he saw that Vanitas could cure curse-bearers. Yeah. Yeah, that has a new layer to it now, doesn’t it.

And that’s it for chapter 9. Did you have fun? I did not have fun.

See you next time for chapter 10, folks.

(Chapter 10 now HERE.)

#vanitas no carte #the case study of vanitas #vanitas liveblog #vanitas #noe archiviste

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stranger-who-writes-fiction · 3 years ago

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Aaaanyways, I wanna put on my comic-art-nerd hat and talk about panel-to-panel action in that Supergirl: Woman of Tomorrow preview because yes, I have been staring at it for days, and yes, I will continue to do so until it is released next month! XD

LET’S GO:

I apologize in advance for the funky formatting, there’s an art to tumblr text posts and I...have not mastered it. XD

It’ll go image, then analysis.

Also, just to be clear: I’m not doing this so much to be like, ‘WOW THIS IS GROUNDBREAKING, STUNNING, NEVER-BEEN-DONE!’ In fact, many comics do the things I’m gonna highlight/geek out over! Rather, it’s more about, like. Appreciating the construction of the pages, panels, etc.

Okay, so! Page 1, the SPLASH PAGE

Okay, so, admittedly, I don’t have a ton to say about this opening image, largely because it is one single illustration as opposed to a series of panels. But even then! It quickly establishes that we’re not on earth--the foliage, rock formations, and GIANT WOOLY FRIEND(?) give that away. Also! Said rock formations and wooly friend’s horns frame our new character RIGHT IN THE MIDDLE OF THE PAGE, letting you know that even though she is tiny, she is important. And, I will just say, I love the dust effects on the ground. The repeated semi-circle shapes evoke the feeling of rhythmic, galloping hoof beats, even without actual movement or sound. Lovely.

And now, PAGE 2!

So, I’ve highlighted panel 3, but before I get there! Panels 1 & 2 do such a nice job of giving us an idea as to the actual, physical size of these two characters, as well as the power dynamic at play. This random dude takes up the WHOLE DANG PANEL with his bulging muscles and is framed in an up-shot; in panel 2, Ruthye is not only shown from above--we’re literally looking down at her--she is also relegated to the bottom half of the panel. Additionally, it’s a great way to show the action of her turning to pull the sword from her belt, obscuring it from both our view and his, to bring out the ‘big reveal’ in the next panel.

Speaking of! Panel 3! Our establishing shot! We’re introduced to the full interior of this tavern. We see where everything is placed--walls, furniture, and perhaps most importantly, the various patrons!

Establishing shots are so important to have in visual media because they help us, the reader/viewer, to orient all of the various components within a sequence or scene.

It’s also helpful for the artists because then they can better maintain things like screen direction and continuity.

If we don’t have a shot like this, then subsequent action can become confusing to the point of distraction.

YOU WOULD BE SURPRISED how often this is neglected or forgotten in comics! Scenes will change abruptly and it’s like, ‘wait, wait, where are we?’

ADDITIONALLY, the establishing shot not only gives us basic spatial information, it ~sets the mood~ XD Setting! Atmosphere! Genre! It’s all here.

I mentioned this in my prior post, that the art gives off some intense fantasy vibes, what with the organic shapes, rough textures, and color palette.

Folks who’ve read advanced copies have described the book as a fantasy/western; that extends even to the series title design! The designer revealed that the western look of the text is deliberate.

So A+ to the art team for NAILING IT!

Okay, on to page 3!

Not a ton of notes on this one, but that’s only because the prior page has done such a solid job of laying out the space, as well as the relationship between these two characters WITH JUST WITH THE ART. (Okay, okay, the words help too. XD) Once more, we see this big brute tower over Ruthye, panel- to-panel; he’s always ‘large and in charge’ regardless of the angle. Even in that final panel! Ruthye is the largest element because she’s closer to us, but the guy is still positioned ‘above’ her, literally talking down to Ruthye from over his shoulder.

(And HMMMM. That unassuming stranger in the back there, underneath the lanterns that seem to act as an arrow pointing right at her...could she be...important?)

(Her tiny size would seem to imply that she isn’t...AND YET...)

PAGE 4!

MMMM them FRAMES within FRAMES!

Okay, but before I get into that, I do wanna briefly mention panel size and shape.

All of these pages (save for 1 and 7, which are full-page illustrations) pretty much stick to a very traditional panel structure. Each panel is completely enclosed, and there is zero variety in terms of shape. It’s all rectangles.

BUT. The size and orientation change--take, for instance, that ‘skinny’ horizontal panel up top, the way it perfectly suits the ‘shape’ of the elements/action being shown. It’s a close on Kara’s wrist/hand, reaching out for the sword in the guy’s belt.

I mention this because often, writers don’t dictate stuff like panel layout in a script. They will give the artist the number of panels, and what needs to be included in each one, but the actual, overall organization of the page? Totally up to the artist.

So! Really knowing what you want to highlight and convey is key, because you can use the panels’ size/shape/relation to other panels to ENHANCE those images, like that sword grabbing up top!

AND! Another thing I love about that panel in particular is the way that Kara’s hand and the sword make a tiny frame for Ruthye! Who is, again, VERY TINY!

I keep mentioning the size thing because it’s a nice bit of economical visual storytelling; the child character is going to be smaller than the adult characters anyway, but by calling attention to it repeatedly, we as the viewer are constantly reminded that this kid is small! She needs help! She needs to be protected! Which is like, the whole premise of the inciting incident. XD Good stuff!

(Also more dot eyes in comics that aren’t humor comics, please.)

There’s another frame down in panel 3 as well! Evely uses this device several times throughout this sequence; it’s such a great use of the multiple swords in the scene, AND shows that she can really pack all of the characters in there without cutting any of them off/obscuring them behind various objects.

And like, NO TANGENTS, which takes some serious skillz.

ESPECIALLY when you consider all that beautiful linework. LOOK AT THEM INKS.

...In particular, look at them inks in panel 5! The shading on the booth is done in such a manner that the ‘grain’ of the ink defines the perspective. We’re looking down at Kara, from above. This is a helpful little bit of orientation, as there’s not a ton of room around Kara to have any other perspective lines to help sell the angle.

ALSO, NOTE THE POSITION OF MR. BRUTE IN PANEL 4, AND THEN KARA’S EYELINE IN PANEL 5. It will be important in...

PAGE 5!

Allow me to explain:

In panel four on page 4, we see the guy reach for his sword, his body language revealing that he’s intent on moving towards Kara.

In panel 5 on the same page, we get that lovely down shot of Kara looking right up at us, the viewer. But also, the implication is that she’s ACTUALLY looking at Tough Guy, because in the next page, we see that he’s positioned himself right above her to swing that sword down!

(My apologies for the poor attempts at drawn annotations.)

There’s no action lines cluttering up the beautiful art; Not-Conan’s hair, rather, acts as the action line/guiding ‘arc’ so that we can better follow the movement.

Kara, likewise, doesn’t have any action lines on her, but her posture and hair act as visual cues to tell us that she slides over in the booth, out of the way of the sword.

In particular, the way her right shoulder/arm draws closer to her body, and the way her left hand comes up to offset the way she’s now positioned, really sells the ‘slide’.

More beautiful indicators of movement in panel 2; the hair, the action line on the sword, the torn fabric of Kara’s shirt.

Panel 3 brings more FRAMES WITHIN FRAMES! And, actually, as I’m looking at it? I think it could be argued that we actually have a FRAME within a FRAME within a FRAME!

First frame: Panel border, natch.

Second frame: Goofus’ sword, arm, and face frame Kara.

Third frame: Kara’s arm and sword work with Goofus’ head again to frame tiny Krypto.

LAYERS.

And now, a note about colors!

I said before that I love the palette at play. The earthy tones give the entire setting an organic feel--this is not a high-tech locale! We’re dealing with natural materials here.

BUT THEN THOSE BLUES!

Not only do we get that nice split complementary thing happening with the yellow, but it also signals the blue of Kara’s costume, a little hint of which is revealed in the final page.

And, like. It’s night time. XD

(I just gotta say, love the cold blue outside the window next to Kara’s table, contrasted with the warm yellow of the interior. Even though this is a bar, there’s still that element of like. Coziness.)

Also! Even though the overall palette is heavy on the yellows, Kara’s hair is more saturated and leans towards a warmer yellow, while the rest of the yellows in the scene are cooler. Thus! We have CONTRAST! Our eyes are drawn right to her.

And I know--I KNOW--that SG comics twitter already hates King because Kara’s DRINKING and personally I want more of the story/context before I pass any judgement but I must admit, the shapes? In panel 5? With Kara drinking in the foreground?

I kinda love it.

Also mmmm-MMMM, more of them SOFT BLUES.

Okay. PAGE 6!

Now THIS PAGE is what inspired this whole endeavor.

Because, okay. If I’ve not made it clear by now: I read a lot of comics.

And I generally enjoy all of the comics I read!

But, what I’ve found lately, is that if I don’t enjoy a comic, it’s because I, as a reader, find myself confused by the art.

Confused as in, the art is hard to follow.

That can be because the color design/ink work doesn’t have enough contrast, or the composition is muddled, but most frequently?

It’s poor panel-to-panel action.

When there’s no flow/connection between what’s happening in one panel vs. another, suddenly it’s on you, as the reader, to do a lot more of the work as you go through the scene. And sometimes! We don’t even have enough visual information to DO that work!

So when I read this, I was like, ‘ah, thank you, an easy flow of action for my brain to appreciate.’ XD

AND SO. Panel 1! Same stuff we’ve been seeing! The ink work, hair, clothing details, etc. all work to show us which direction each character is moving. Kara’s arm and jacket all point to her slamming that mug in the dude’s face; dude’s sword serves as a GIANT ARROW illustrating the path of his stab.

Not much to say on panels 2 and 3 other than: FACIAL EXPRESSIONS! And also, HAIR!!!

PANEL FOOOOUR!!!!

Love. This. Panel.

Again, I really love that there are no action lines slapped on top of this gorgeous art, all of the movement is conveyed in the inks, body language, clothes, and so on.

Like. There’s a conscious decision, here, to not have Kara’s hair obscuring the dude’s torso, and that’s good! Because his belt/uhh...kilt? Skirt? Is showing us the speed and direction of his jab; if Kara’s hair were in the way, it would break up the flow.

BUT THEN HOW TO SHOW THAT KARA’S DIPPING FORWARD???

Note the ties on her cuff, and the inks on her jacket!

There’s nothing special happening with Krypto, BTW. I just circled him because he’s a Good Boy who deserves to be noticed.

Panel 5, more of the same, the inks telling us how these characters are moving through space. ALSO, the length of the lines conveys speed without needing to add something distracting/obscure the art with a ‘blur’ effect.

Final panel! I. LOVE. THIS.

Particularly the movement in Kara’s hair, just. Beautiful shape language.

But in addition! You’ve got that LOVELY line of action in Kara’s spine as she flips him over, the sword likewise curved in the direction of the throw.

And of course, the dude is crumpling in the appropriate direction, bent in the middle as he collides with the table to--quite literally--complete the circle.

Also, just. The characterization here, is PHENOMENAL.

People (read: irate fans on twitter) have expressed concern (read: complained) about Kara having a sword. Some have even gone so far as to suggest that Kara’s basically a murderer now, because she’s using a weapon.

Never mind the fact that in an episode of JLU, Supergirl used both a sword AND a gun to defend herself while in Skartaris because she had no powers.

Except we see here that Kara DOESN’T USE THE SWORD to take the guy out, she uses his own force against him. She only uses the swords in the FINAL PAGE in a type of ‘yield’ fashion.

(This particular ‘fight’ sequence reminded me of Brainy’s fighting style in the show so of course that added to my overall enjoyment.)

Like, Kara’s got no powers here, she very well could have used the sword to defend herself, and would...kinda be justified.

But she didn’t!

Like. Even drunk and therefore out of it, Kara 1.) Steps in to help that kid and 2.) doesn’t use superpowered lethal force on the guy. (I mean, she can’t use her super powers anyway, what with the red sun, but you get the idea.)

And like, the flourish there, of the arms, the way the jacket swirls around her, like a gymnast sticking the landing, GAAAAAHHHH I just love it. It’s great.

Okay, FINAL PAGE, #7:

I mean. What more can I say? EVELY AND LOPES, MAN.

Just some top notch art.

(Also get it guys, it’s a LITERAL shirt rip! XD)

(And look! There’s that tiny bit of blue!)

But anyways, if you’ve made it this far, I applaud you, and thank you for indulging my desire to just. Geek out over one of my favorite comic artists drawing one of my favorite comic characters.

And just to like, reiterate, I’m not suggesting that this comic is THE BEST EVER or that it’s going to redefine the medium, or anything. XD Everything I’ve mentioned here is...pretty basic storytelling mechanics. Watch any movie, and you’ll see all this same stuff at work.

RATHER, this whole post is more about...admiring two artists who clearly know what they’re doing.

And they’re doing it so well! :D

TL;DR: I’m so excited that the Supergirl book has Evely and Lopes, guys. So. Excited.

#stranger speaks #long post #supergirl: woman of tomorrow #art analysis #comic art analysis #edit: whoops forgot content warning tags #cw: alcohol #cw: blood

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aridara · 6 years ago

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Verifying a list of “hateful feminist quotes”. (From S to Z + groups and anonymous individuals)

Final part of my rebuttal at all those lists that are supposed to show how feminism is evil, but in practice shows how anti-feminists rely on an extremely inaccurate (and, in some parts, deliberately lying) list.

"Colored people are like human weeds and are to be exterminated."

Margaret Sanger

False.

"The most merciful thing a family can do to one of its infant members is to kill it."

Margaret Sanger, founder of planned parenthood

True, but extremely edited; not hateful. I’ve bolded the parts that anti-feminists didn't bother to include in the list:

"Thus we see that the second and third children have a very good chance to live through the first year. Children arriving later have less and less chance, until the twelfth has hardly any chance at all to live twelve months."

"This does not complete the case, however, for those who care to go farther into the subject will find that many of those who live for a year die before they reach the age of five."

"Many, perhaps, will think it idle to go farther in demonstrating the immorality of large families, but since there is still an abundance of proof at hand, it may be offered for the sake of those who find difficulty in adjusting old-fashioned ideas to the facts. The most merciful thing that the large family does to one of its infant members is to kill it. The same factors which create the terrible infant mortality rate, and which swell the death rate of children between the ages of one and five, operate even more extensively to lower the health rate of the surviving members."

(Yeah, anti-feminists cut out a LOT.)

Also: she was talking about using birth control to deal with unwanted pregnancies. Not about using infanticide to kill already-born children.

“I do want to be able to explain to a 9-year-old boy in terms he will understand why I think it’s OK for girls to wear shirts that revel in their superiority over boys.”

– Treena Shapiro

Unverifiable.

“In general, I support a girl’s right to offend any member of the opposite sex who happens to cross her path. In fact, I’d much rather see a little girl wearing a shirt that mocks boys than one that turns them on.”

– Treena Shapiro

Also unverifiable. In fact, I think it's not even hateful at all: it points out a double standard where there's a lot of men's shirts that mock women, while a lot of women's shirt are designed to look "seductive" to men - and the reverse doesn't happen.

(Small diversion: while I tried to look for this quote's source, I found this ebook. The 2-3 pages I read sound like a book version of these "List of hateful feminist quotes" lists.)

[insert literally any quote from the SCUM Manifesto]

Valerie Solanas

I won't give a different rating to each individual quote, given how these kinds of lists tend to have many, many, so fucking many quotes from Solanas. I'll only give a general rating.

Usually, in these "hateful feminist quotes" lists, all of the Solanas quotes are true and hateful, and come from the SCUM (Society for Cutting Up Men) manifesto she wrote in 1967. However, I’m doubtful that they count as “quote by a famous feminist”, considering that:

SCUM was never founded - it stopped at its manifesto;

Feminists’ opinion of SCUM at the time was divided between “What is wrong with you, Valerie?” and “This is satire in really bad taste”;

Feminists’ opinion of SCUM today is divided between “What is wrong with you, Valerie?” and “Who the hell is Valerie Solanas?”;

Absolutely nobody, feminist or not, condoned Solanas’ attack on Andy Warhol; and

Solanas's attack on Warhol wasn't motivated by her feminist beliefs.

“We are, as a sex, infinitely superior to men.”

– Elizabeth Cady Stanton

True, possibly hateful. But I want to point out something: this quote is from 1890. This is what anti-feminists believe modern feminism to be? Really? Haven’t they heard of how feminism isn’t a monolith, how there have been various discussions, schisms and revolutions during feminism's history, how there’s a lot of positions and criticism - oh, right, I forgot, feminism is evil and has always been the same since the dawn of time, duh. (# sarcasm)

“The more famous and powerful I get the more power I have to hurt men.”

- Sharon Stone; Actress

Almost 100% false. It also seems that Sharon either wasn’t a feminist during those years, or chose to not display her feminist beliefs back then. In either case, Sharon Stone cannot be considered a significantly important feminist by any stretch of the word.

"If the classroom situation is very heteropatriarchal--a large beginning class of 50 to 60 students, say, with few feminist students--I am likely to define my task as largely one of recruitment...of persuading students that women are oppressed,"

Professor Joyce Trebilcot of Washington University, as quoted in Who Stole Feminism: How Women Have Betrayed Women.

Hm, this is an interesting one.

It’s unverifiable. Yes, AGAIN. No, it doesn’t count that it’s (supposedly) in Christina Sommers’ book “Who Stole Feminism” - she still needs to source the quote. As far as I can tell, Sommers mught've just made that quote up and falsely attributed it to Trebilcot.

Not only that, but the quote looks like it has been truncated. Considering the level of this list, I’m quite suspicious every time I see some ellypsis.

By the way: Sommers? Really?

“Men are animals. Don’t you think so?”

– Ireen von Wachenfeldt, radical feminist leader in Sweden

True and hateful, apparently (given that she quoted SOOOLAAANAAASS). Here's the link to the Wikipedia page on her - you'll have to run it on Google Translate or similar, though.

On another note: of all the quotes in anti-feminists' lists of "hateful feminist quotes" that are actually hateful quotes, it's noticeable how many of those come from Solanas alone. It’s almost as if anti-feminists focus excessively on her, and use her as the base that forms their opinion of all feminists.

I wondered if the woman married to a pig had read this ... Did that mean that all over the globe, in all innocence, women were marrying beasts? ... Why are so many men really beasts? "

Jeanette Winterson "Oranges are Not the Only Fruit" 1993, pp.71 -76

Fictional. The novel is about a lesbian girl growing up in a Pentecostal community. At one point, various religious people from that same community take the main character and her girlfriend, and subject them to exorcism.

In response to a question concerning China’s policy of compulsory abortion after the first child, Molly Yard responded, “I consider the Chinese government’s policy among the most intelligent in the world”

(Gary Bauer, “Abetting Coercion in China,” The Washington Times, Oct. 10, 1989).

Unverifiable. There is no trace of the quote in the "Washington Times", but I think that I found the original source: the American Life League, an evidently anti-abortion group. You'll forgive me if I treat that source with all the respect it deserves.

...

We aren't done yet, though! Here's some more quotes from organizations or unknown individuals!

"We are taught, encouraged, moulded by and lulled into accepting a range of false notions about the family. As a source of some of our most profound experiences, it continues to be such an integral part of our emotional lives that it appears beyond criticism. Yet hiding from the truth of family life leaves women and children vulnerable."

Canadian Panel on Violence Against Women.

Unverifiable and not hateful. It sounds like they’re talking about how a lot of assumptions and myths about “proper” families have lead women to believe that abuse is a “normal” part of a relationship.

MALE: represents a variant of or deviation from the category of female. The first males were mutants...the male sex represents a degeneration and deformity of the female.

MAN: an obsolete life form... an ordinary creature who needs to be watched...a contradictory baby-man...

TESTOSTERONE POISONING: ... ‘Until now it has been though that the level of testosterone in men is normal simply because they have it. But if you consider how abnormal their behavior is, then you are led to the hypothesis that almost all men are suffering from "testosterone poisoning."

From 'A Feminist Dictionary; ed. Kramarae & Triechler, Pandora Press, 1985

Unverifiable. The book DOES exist. What does NOT exist, is scans of it. Nor are there extensive citations of it - the only ones around are the same ones anti-feminists uses, same ellipsis and all. And, frankly, whoever first wrote this list has done such a sloppy job fact-checking this list that, by this point, I don’t trust them if they said that the sky is blue.

"Women have their faults- men have only two: everything they say and everything they do."

Popular Feminist Graffiti

Goddammit. Yet ANOTHER joke from a collection of jokes. No indication whatsoever this was from a feminist.

"Men, as a group, tend to be abusive, either verbally, sexually or emotionally. There are always the exceptions, but they are few and far between (I am married to one of them). There are different levels of violence and abuse and individual men buy into this system by varying degrees. But the male power structure always remains intact."

Message on FEMISA, responding to a request for arguments that men are unnecessary for a child to grow into mature adulthood.

Oh, now you’re just grasping at straws - misattributed. This quote is not from the FEMISA staff; it's from an e-mail sent to FEMISA. Come on - I thought this was a list of hateful quotes from *relevant* feminists - not from any random anon down the street!

"Clearly you are not yet a free-thinking feminist but rather one of those women who bounce off the male-dominated, male-controlled social structures. Who cares how men feel or what they do or whether they suffer? They have had over 2000 years to dominate and made a complete hash of it. Now it is our turn. My only comment to men is, if you don't like it, bad luck - and if you get in my way I'll run you down."

Letter to the editor, signed: "Liberated Women", Boronia Herald-Sun, Melbourne, Australia - 9 February 1996

Unverifiable. Once again, the only places where this quote pops up are lists of “hateful feminist quotes”. And judging by the quality of this list, that isn’t nearly enough.

“The simple fact is that every woman must be willing to be identified as a lesbian to be fully feminist”

(National NOW Times, January, 1988).

Unverifiable (supposedly written in 1988). There’s a lot of citations for this particular quote (many from copies of this list), but no image of the original.

“We identify the agents of our oppression as men…….ALL MEN HAVE OPPRESSED WOMEN…..We do not need to change ourselves, but to change men……The most slanderous evasion of all is that women can oppress men.”

–The Redstockings Manifesto

True, but out of context. Once again, anti-feminists have deliberately cut out various parts of the original manifesto. Here's the full quote (the bolded parts are the ones anti-feminists cut out):

"III We identify the agents of our oppression as men. Male supremacy is the oldest, most basic form of domination. All other forms of exploitation and oppression (racism, capitalism, imperialism, etc.) are extensions of male supremacy: men dominate women, a few men dominate the rest. All power structures throughout history have been male-dominated and male-oriented. Men have controlled all political, economic and cultural institutions and backed up this control with physical force. They have used their power to keep women in an inferior position. All men receive economic, sexual, and psychological benefits from male supremacy. All men have oppressed women."

"IV Attempts have been made to shift the burden of responsibility from men to institutions or to women themselves. We condemn these arguments as evasions. Institutions alone do not oppress; they are merely tools of the oppressor. To blame institutions implies that men and women are equally victimized, obscures the fact that men benefit from the subordination of women, and gives men the excuse that they are forced to be oppressors. On the contrary, any man is free to renounce his superior position, provided that he is willing to be treated like a woman by other men."

"We also reject the idea that women consent to or are to blame for their own oppression. Women's submission is not the result of brain-washing, stupidity or mental illness but of continual, daily pressure from men. We do not need to change ourselves, but to change men."

"The most slanderous evasion of all is that women can oppress men. The basis for this illusion is the isolation of individual relationships from their political context and the tendency of men to see any legitimate challenge to their privileges as persecution."

So, to sum it up:

Systemic sexism is caused by men.

All men benefit from this oppressive system.

Various people have tried to shift the blame for systemic sexism on "the institutions", which wrongly implies that both men and women are equally affected by sexism, and that men have no choice but to act as oppressors.

Various people have also tried to shift the blame on women, falsely claiming that sexism exists because women deliberately "consent" to be subjected to sexism.

Various people fail to see sexism as a systemic problem; instead, they wrongly paint it as a collection of individual acts that have no relation with each other.

When an oppressive system is challenged, the privileged group does not see that as "the dismantling of an unjust system"; instead, it sees that as "unjust persecution, and an attempt to upturn equality".

This is pretty accurate, and isn't hateful.

“We regard our personal experience, and our FEELINGS about that experience, as the basis for an analysis of our common situation. We cannot rely on existing ideologies as they are all the products of male supremicist culture.”

– The Redstockings Manifesto

True, but not hateful. Oh, no, feminists dare to talk about all their personal experiences about sexism and how they feel about it; and they also dare to reject existing sexist explanations of why sexist gender roles are just "natural". How dare they.

Also, why is "feelings" in all-caps like that? Is this the usual jab that women are emotional and therefore "inferior" to the logical men? Because that jab is shit.

FMS stands for: Full of Mostly (Bull) shit; For More Sadism; Felons, Murdereres, Ssumballs; Frequent Molesters Society

From a February 1995 handout at the "Stone Angels" satanic ritual abuse conference in Thunder Bay, Ontario, Canada. The conference was supported financially by the Ontario Government

Unverifiable. And frankly too ridiculous to be true.

"All men are good for is fucking, and running over with a truck".

Statement made by A University of Maine Feminist Administrator, quoted by Richard Dinsmore, who brought a successful civil suit against the University in the amount of a $600,000.1995 settlement Richard had protested the quote; was dismissed thereafter on the grounds of harassment; and responded by bringing suit against the University..

Unverifiable. It IS true that Dinsmore sued the university due to, in his own words, “man-hating feminists”; HOWEVER, there’s no mention of the quote itself.

"Masculine sexuality involves the oppression of women, competition among men, and fear of homosexuality." "Rape is the end logic of masculine sexuality." "Male sexuality is negative."

Introductory texts for Women's Studies Courses at UCLA including: "More Power than We Want: Masculine Sexuality and Violence" by

Bruce Kokopeli and George Lakey [Cited in TNV]

Unverifiable.

And that’s it. The VAST MAJORITY of quotes are either not-hateful once we actually see the context (and paste back all the parts that anti-feminists censored behind ellypsis); or, their origin cannot be verified (and therefore we can’t be sure whether they actually came from feminists). Some quotes came from works of fiction and were spoken by fictional characters; they aren’t statements that the author personally made and supported. Of the remaining quotes that are both verified and hateful, a GIANT chunk of them is comprised entirely of Valerie Solanas - which isn’t held in much regard by modern feminists. In fact, I’m pretty sure many don’t even know about her.

#debunking antifeminism

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hiddlesfashion · 7 years ago

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For those of us not fortunate enough to see #RADAHamlet in person - VocalEyes has an audio described version of the play available. It doesn’t have audio from the actual actors but it does give a lot of information about the scenes and characters.

You can listen to the audio description here

or read the text below

Hamlet - Introduction

Welcome to this introduction to Hamlet by William Shakespeare, directed by Sir Kenneth Branagh in a co-production between the Royal Academy of Dramatic Art (RADA) and the Kenneth Branagh Theatre company.

The VocalEyes audio-described performance at the Jerwood Vanbrugh Theatre in the Royal Academy of Dramatic Art will be on Saturday September 16th. There will be a touch tour at a time to be confirmed. The introductory notes will start at

2.15 and the performance itself at 2.30. The production lasts for just under three hours, including one 15-minute interval. The live audio description will be given for VocalEyes by Veronika Hyks and Jane Brambley.

The following introduction includes information about Hamlet, descriptions of the set, characters and costumes. All VocalEyes show introductions are available as an audio mp3 file in the 'What's On' section. For access information for the Theatre, please click on the theatre name, on the ‘What’s On’ page.

In an interview with The Stage before the production opened, Kenneth Branagh said

‘I purposefully want the whole thing to be lean and clean….so the audience is invited to feel and concentrate with the characters, human to human.’

The resulting production is set in the present and drives forward swiftly, with the cast of 10 playing 17 parts with unwavering energy and focus.

Hamlet, played by Tom Hiddleston, sets the pace. He’s in his mid-thirties. His lean figure is dressed entirely in black, which highlights his pale face. His brown hair is slicked back off his brow, and his narrow chin is outlined by a small beard.

Hamlet exudes nervous energy, whether standing alert, every muscle tense, or at one point erupting into frustrated pacing. Only when alone does he seem to relax, often spotlit in dim surroundings as he shares his thoughts with us. We first meet him in black trousers with a fitted hip length jacket with a high collar, won with soft dark ankle boots.

As the story proceeds he rings the changes with a tee shirt and hoodie, both black.

His mother Queen Gertrude is played by Lolita Chakrabarti and has a regal bearing befitting her status. Tall and statuesque, she favours silky draped outfits that flatter her substantial figure. Gertrude first appears in a sleeveless dark mauve bodysuit with a scoop neck, draped top and wide trousers, with black stiletto heels. A gold brooch gleams at her left shoulder, and two broad strips of mauve material fall down from it and soften the outline of her costume, fluttering as she moves. Her black hair is worn in a neat bun at the nape of her neck, but two ringlets escape to frame her handsome face. Her lustrous dark skin sets off her earrings and the slim gold bracelets which encircle her wrists. Later she appears in a peppermint green evening dress of similar style, but with a long skirt flowing to her ankles. .

Her husband, King Claudius, played by Nicholas Farrell looks skinny and aged by comparison. His long face is florid and lined and he often has a guarded expression, his eyes observing everything while his expression stays neutral. His thinning grey hair is swept back off his face and his jaw is outlined by a narrow beard. Claudius is plainly dressed in a dark suit, white shirt, and narrow wine-coloured tie. He moves deliberately, as if very aware of his effect on others. .

His right-hand man is Polonius, a bustling counsellor given to gestures as he takes off into flights of verbiage. Slim and dapper in a blue suit, Polonius has a pale face, a shaved head and a little reddish beard in his master’s style. Polonius is played by Sean Foley – and the same actor plays the courtier Osric, stamping on in a ridiculous march, his blue suit matched by a small trilby hat, his head poked forward, his gestures flowery and extravagant as he relays a message from the King.

Polonius has two children. Laertes is the elder, and about the same age as Hamlet, but completely different in manner and appearance. He’s a bulky young man who stands out among the others for his relatively messy style – white tee-shirt, loose blue work shirt, jeans and suede shoes. Initially he’s relaxed and cheerful, like a man who doesn’t take life too seriously. Laertes has olive skin, bushy black hair and a small beard. He is played by Irfan Shamji. The same actor becomes the Player Queen when a troupe of travelling actors visit the court. He makes no attempt to wear female dress for this: instead he wears black trousers and grey hoodie, with a beanie hat adding an informal touch.

Laertes has a young sister, Ophelia. Her wide eyes and shy smile make her seem very young, no more than a schoolgirl as she hurries eagerly in with little steps. Her slight frame is clad in indigo cropped jeans, black flat slippers, and a black camisole with a lacy neck and sleeves. Her strawberry blonde hair is carefully plaited, and swings down her back in a thick rope, revealing an eager face, with flawless ivory skin. Later she appears in a neat white dress with a curiously institutional look. Ophelia is played by Kathryn Wilder.

Hamlet’s confidante and close companion is Horatia, a slender young woman who strides on boy-like, in a loose silky grey shirt over black skinny trousers and sturdy Cuban heeled boots. Her brown hair is cut with a fringe and falls in a sheet to her shoulders, framing an oval face with wide mouth and big expressive eyes. Horatia and Hamlet feed off each other’s energy as she meets him halfway in every exchange: there’s an almost electric connection between them as she raises her pale face to meet his eyes. Horatia is played by Caroline Martin.

As the story unfolds, two eager young women hover on the edge of the action. These are Rosencrantz and Guildenstern, spick and span in fashionable business wear and swift to scamper to do the King’s bidding. Guildenstern is tall with very blonde straight hair and alabaster skin, Rosencrantz petite and darker with her long brown hair in cornrows that frame her face and almost match her skin. Both sport office wear in black, white and grey – Guildenstern with a long black coat over white shirt and black trousers split to the knee, and Rosencrantz in a black and grey striped shirt over narrow dark trousers. Both favour very high heeled black shoes.

This duo also appear as soldiers, standing stiffly to attention in black shirts and belted trousers, with black baseball caps on their heads. Eleanor de Rohan, who plays Guildenstern, also appears as a priest in black robe and broad brimmed hat. Rozencrantz is played by Ayesha Antoine.

As the story unfolds, one character is hugely influential but rarely seen. This is the Ghost of Hamlet’s father, King Hamlet. First appearing in a swirling mist, he stands foursquare, appearing to fill the space – a tall imposing presence with ebony skin and white hair and narrow beard, he moves stiffly with the suggestion of a limp, his blazing eyes fixed on his son. Like his brother Claudius, King Hamlet is plainly dressed in dark suit and tie with a white shirt. He is played by Ansu Kabia.

The same actor plays the Player King, with no change of costume, but fluid and eloquent where the dead King Hamlet is stiff, and a cheery shirtsleeve Gravedigger who pops out of a grave-shaped trapdoor and then spends much of his time hidden in the grave, rapping and joking with the people above.

The story unfolds with a minimal set, its elements changed at a run by the cast and backstage crew. Initially the stage is almost bare and the auditorium dimly lit, with pools of light on the grey tip-up seats that surround the performance space in a horseshoe. An old upright piano stands alone in the middle of the light wooden floor, to be used in a brief introductory sequence.

When the lights rise, they reveal a tall back wall. The wall has two tall sash windows, one at each end, and a matching glass door in the centre, its expanse broken up into panes. The wall is duck egg blue, and the architraves are painted rich cream. Cream panelling covers the wall to hip height, and an elaborate cream cornice decorates the top. Two large framed portraits hang on the wall - one of King Hamlet, high on the left, and other, of King Claudius, at head height on the right.

A large wooden desk is placed in front of the wall, in the centre, a chair behind it. The setting is at once plush and anonymous, like a state room.

At the other end of the performance space, near the curve of the horseshoe of seats, the wooden floor is covered by a large white carpet, about 3 metres square. In the centre is the Danish Royal Crest – a golden shield with three blue lions rampant, their red tongues matched by the red infill of a golden crown above the crest. A dark grey border round the carpet sports Danish words in blood red capital letters Some are recognizably Danish, possibly mixed with English in places: KAN IKKE REBBE, DO MEN DODDEN, DERES NAVONE.

Against this background, scenes flow quickly from one to another. Exteriors are simply suggested by dappled light, and the castle battlements by swirling mist outside the windows. The addition of a white sofa and two grey chairs transform the carpeted area into a sitting room at one point. The carpet is swiftly removed or rolled out as required.

Just before the interval, the wall is lifted away, and a projected cloudy sky covers the space behind. From this point on, as the pace of the action increases, the story unfolds on a bare stage, with only one or two essential items – a cross of light on the desk creates a chapel, and a quilted throw and a scatter of blue and cream cushions turn the desk instantly into a bed.

Cast and Production credits

Hamlet is played by Tom Hiddleston

His mother Gertrude is Lolita Chakrabarti, and her husband Claudius is Nicholas Farrell

Polonius is Sean Foley who also plays Osric

Polonius’s son Laertes is played by Irfan Shamji, and his daughter Ophelia by Kathryn Wilder.

Horatia is Caroline Martin

Rosencrantz and Guildenstern are played by Ayesha Antoine and Eleanor de Rohan

The Ghost of King Hamlet is played by Ansu Kabia.

Other parts are played by members of the cast.

The fight director is Bret Yount

The sound is designed by Paul Arditti, and the lighting by Paul Pyant.

The set and costumes are designed by James Cotterill

The director is Kenneth Branagh

Further Useful Information and Contact Details

If you are bringing a guide dog, please let us know when you book or by calling the Box Office between the hours of 11am and 5pm on 020 7908 4800. You can also email [email protected].

To contact VocalEyes, call us on 020 7375 1043. You can receive a copy of the free VocalEyes Newsletter with full details on all our work by calling us or by following the links on the VocalEyes accessible website. The Newsletter is available in print, Braille, on CD or via e-mail. The website address is www.vocaleyes.co.uk.

VocalEyes is a charity funded by Arts Council England.

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