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rjalker · 1 year ago

Text

Boule de Suif, by Guy de Maupassant.

Word count: 15,000

bigotry / warnings:

Classism (from characters)

Misogyny (from characters).

Fatmisia (from characters).

Sex-worker antagonism (from characters).

Off-screen, non-described rape.

Rape apologism (from characters),

Victim blaming (from characters)

Has a lot of big paragraphs, feel free to copy and paste into a word document and break them up.

It was translated from the original French into English, and there are definitely a few words that were mistranslated, since it's not obvious she's a sex worker until they act like the word "mistress" is immediately and blatantly scandalous and not the sort of thing you'd say in polite company.

The moral is that rich people are hypocrites and suck and you should not share your food with them.

People in positions of power will only be "nice" to you when they think they're going to get something out of it for themselves, and will drop you and treat you like shit the second you're no longer useful to them.

It's a really fucking blatant criticism of misogyny, classism, and all the bigotries listed above, portraying the people who perpetuate these bigotries as horrible fucking people.

10/10. Very clear message, very descriptive and interesting, I want to strangle these people.

You can find the book this is from on Project Gutenberg:

"https://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/3090"

(Archived read-more link)

For several days in succession fragments of a defeated army had passed through the town. They were mere disorganized bands, not disciplined forces. The men wore long, dirty beards and tattered uniforms; they advanced in listless fashion, without a flag, without a leader. All seemed exhausted, worn out, incapable of thought or resolve, marching onward merely by force of habit, and dropping to the ground with fatigue the moment they halted. One saw, in particular, many enlisted men, peaceful citizens, men who lived quietly on their income, bending beneath the weight of their rifles; and little active volunteers, easily frightened but full of enthusiasm, as eager to attack as they were ready to take to flight; and amid these, a sprinkling of red-breeched soldiers, the pitiful remnant of a division cut down in a great battle; somber artillerymen, side by side with nondescript foot-soldiers; and, here and there, the gleaming helmet of a heavy-footed dragoon who had difficulty in keeping up with the quicker pace of the soldiers of the line. Legions of irregulars with high-sounding names “Avengers of Defeat,” “Citizens of the Tomb,” “Brethren in Death”—passed in their turn, looking like banditti. Their leaders, former drapers or grain merchants, or tallow or soap chandlers—warriors by force of circumstances, officers by reason of their mustachios or their money—covered with weapons, flannel and gold lace, spoke in an impressive manner, discussed plans of campaign, and behaved as though they alone bore the fortunes of dying France on their braggart shoulders; though, in truth, they frequently were afraid of their own men—scoundrels often brave beyond measure, but pillagers and debauchees.

Rumor had it that the Prussians were about to enter Rouen.

The members of the National Guard, who for the past two months had been reconnoitering with the utmost caution in the neighboring woods, occasionally shooting their own sentinels, and making ready for fight whenever a rabbit rustled in the undergrowth, had now returned to their homes. Their arms, their uniforms, all the death-dealing paraphernalia with which they had terrified all the milestones along the highroad for eight miles round, had suddenly and marvellously disappeared.

The last of the French soldiers had just crossed the Seine on their way to Pont-Audemer, through Saint-Sever and Bourg-Achard, and in their rear the vanquished general, powerless to do aught with the forlorn remnants of his army, himself dismayed at the final overthrow of a nation accustomed to victory and disastrously beaten despite its legendary bravery, walked between two orderlies.

Then a profound calm, a shuddering, silent dread, settled on the city. Many a round-paunched citizen, emasculated by years devoted to business, anxiously awaited the conquerors, trembling lest his roasting-jacks or kitchen knives should be looked upon as weapons.

Life seemed to have stopped short; the shops were shut, the streets deserted. Now and then an inhabitant, awed by the silence, glided swiftly by in the shadow of the walls. The anguish of suspense made men even desire the arrival of the enemy.

In the afternoon of the day following the departure of the French troops, a number of uhlans, coming no one knew whence, passed rapidly through the town. A little later on, a black mass descended St. Catherine's Hill, while two other invading bodies appeared respectively on the Darnetal and the Boisguillaume roads. The advance guards of the three corps arrived at precisely the same moment at the Square of the Hotel de Ville, and the German army poured through all the adjacent streets, its battalions making the pavement ring with their firm, measured tread.

Orders shouted in an unknown, guttural tongue rose to the windows of the seemingly dead, deserted houses; while behind the fast-closed shutters eager eyes peered forth at the victors-masters now of the city, its fortunes, and its lives, by “right of war.” The inhabitants, in their darkened rooms, were possessed by that terror which follows in the wake of cataclysms, of deadly upheavals of the earth, against which all human skill and strength are vain. For the same thing happens whenever the established order of things is upset, when security no longer exists, when all those rights usually protected by the law of man or of Nature are at the mercy of unreasoning, savage force. The earthquake crushing a whole nation under falling roofs; the flood let loose, and engulfing in its swirling depths the corpses of drowned peasants, along with dead oxen and beams torn from shattered houses; or the army, covered with glory, murdering those who defend themselves, making prisoners of the rest, pillaging in the name of the Sword, and giving thanks to God to the thunder of cannon—all these are appalling scourges, which destroy all belief in eternal justice, all that confidence we have been taught to feel in the protection of Heaven and the reason of man.

Small detachments of soldiers knocked at each door, and then disappeared within the houses; for the vanquished saw they would have to be civil to their conquerors.

At the end of a short time, once the first terror had subsided, calm was again restored. In many houses the Prussian officer ate at the same table with the family. He was often well-bred, and, out of politeness, expressed sympathy with France and repugnance at being compelled to take part in the war. This sentiment was received with gratitude; besides, his protection might be needful some day or other. By the exercise of tact the number of men quartered in one's house might be reduced; and why should one provoke the hostility of a person on whom one's whole welfare depended? Such conduct would savor less of bravery than of fool-hardiness. And foolhardiness is no longer a failing of the citizens of Rouen as it was in the days when their city earned renown by its heroic defenses. Last of all-final argument based on the national politeness—the folk of Rouen said to one another that it was only right to be civil in one's own house, provided there was no public exhibition of familiarity with the foreigner. Out of doors, therefore, citizen and soldier did not know each other; but in the house both chatted freely, and each evening the German remained a little longer warming himself at the hospitable hearth.

Even the town itself resumed by degrees its ordinary aspect. The French seldom walked abroad, but the streets swarmed with Prussian soldiers. Moreover, the officers of the Blue Hussars, who arrogantly dragged their instruments of death along the pavements, seemed to hold the simple townsmen in but little more contempt than did the French cavalry officers who had drunk at the same cafes the year before.

But there was something in the air, a something strange and subtle, an intolerable foreign atmosphere like a penetrating odor—the odor of invasion. It permeated dwellings and places of public resort, changed the taste of food, made one imagine one's self in far-distant lands, amid dangerous, barbaric tribes.

The conquerors exacted money, much money. The inhabitants paid what was asked; they were rich. But, the wealthier a Norman tradesman becomes, the more he suffers at having to part with anything that belongs to him, at having to see any portion of his substance pass into the hands of another.

Nevertheless, within six or seven miles of the town, along the course of the river as it flows onward to Croisset, Dieppedalle and Biessart, boat-men and fishermen often hauled to the surface of the water the body of a German, bloated in his uniform, killed by a blow from knife or club, his head crushed by a stone, or perchance pushed from some bridge into the stream below. The mud of the river-bed swallowed up these obscure acts of vengeance—savage, yet legitimate; these unrecorded deeds of bravery; these silent attacks fraught with greater danger than battles fought in broad day, and surrounded, moreover, with no halo of romance. For hatred of the foreigner ever arms a few intrepid souls, ready to die for an idea.

At last, as the invaders, though subjecting the town to the strictest discipline, had not committed any of the deeds of horror with which they had been credited while on their triumphal march, the people grew bolder, and the necessities of business again animated the breasts of the local merchants. Some of these had important commercial interests at Havre —occupied at present by the French army—and wished to attempt to reach that port by overland route to Dieppe, taking the boat from there.

Through the influence of the German officers whose acquaintance they had made, they obtained a permit to leave town from the general in command.

A large four-horse coach having, therefore, been engaged for the journey, and ten passengers having given in their names to the proprietor, they decided to start on a certain Tuesday morning before daybreak, to avoid attracting a crowd.

The ground had been frozen hard for some time-past, and about three o'clock on Monday afternoon—large black clouds from the north shed their burden of snow uninterruptedly all through that evening and night.

At half-past four in the morning the travellers met in the courtyard of the Hotel de Normandie, where they were to take their seats in the coach.

They were still half asleep, and shivering with cold under their wraps. They could see one another but indistinctly in the darkness, and the mountain of heavy winter wraps in which each was swathed made them look like a gathering of obese priests in their long cassocks. But two men recognized each other, a third accosted them, and the three began to talk. “I am bringing my wife,” said one. “So am I.” “And I, too.” The first speaker added: “We shall not return to Rouen, and if the Prussians approach Havre we will cross to England.” All three, it turned out, had made the same plans, being of similar disposition and temperament.

Still the horses were not harnessed. A small lantern carried by a stable-boy emerged now and then from one dark doorway to disappear immediately in another. The stamping of horses' hoofs, deadened by the dung and straw of the stable, was heard from time to time, and from inside the building issued a man's voice, talking to the animals and swearing at them. A faint tinkle of bells showed that the harness was being got ready; this tinkle soon developed into a continuous jingling, louder or softer according to the movements of the horse, sometimes stopping altogether, then breaking out in a sudden peal accompanied by a pawing of the ground by an iron-shod hoof.

The door suddenly closed. All noise ceased.

The frozen townsmen were silent; they remained motionless, stiff with cold.

A thick curtain of glistening white flakes fell ceaselessly to the ground; it obliterated all outlines, enveloped all objects in an icy mantle of foam; nothing was to be heard throughout the length and breadth of the silent, winter-bound city save the vague, nameless rustle of falling snow—a sensation rather than a sound—the gentle mingling of light atoms which seemed to fill all space, to cover the whole world.

The man reappeared with his lantern, leading by a rope a melancholy-looking horse, evidently being led out against his inclination. The hostler placed him beside the pole, fastened the traces, and spent some time in walking round him to make sure that the harness was all right; for he could use only one hand, the other being engaged in holding the lantern. As he was about to fetch the second horse he noticed the motionless group of travellers, already white with snow, and said to them: “Why don't you get inside the coach? You'd be under shelter, at least.”

This did not seem to have occurred to them, and they at once took his advice. The three men seated their wives at the far end of the coach, then got in themselves; lastly the other vague, snow-shrouded forms clambered to the remaining places without a word.

The floor was covered with straw, into which the feet sank. The ladies at the far end, having brought with them little copper foot-warmers heated by means of a kind of chemical fuel, proceeded to light these, and spent some time in expatiating in low tones on their advantages, saying over and over again things which they had all known for a long time.

At last, six horses instead of four having been harnessed to the diligence, on account of the heavy roads, a voice outside asked: “Is every one there?” To which a voice from the interior replied: “Yes,” and they set out.

The vehicle moved slowly, slowly, at a snail's pace; the wheels sank into the snow; the entire body of the coach creaked and groaned; the horses slipped, puffed, steamed, and the coachman's long whip cracked incessantly, flying hither and thither, coiling up, then flinging out its length like a slender serpent, as it lashed some rounded flank, which instantly grew tense as it strained in further effort.

But the day grew apace. Those light flakes which one traveller, a native of Rouen, had compared to a rain of cotton fell no longer. A murky light filtered through dark, heavy clouds, which made the country more dazzlingly white by contrast, a whiteness broken sometimes by a row of tall trees spangled with hoarfrost, or by a cottage roof hooded in snow.

Within the coach the passengers eyed one another curiously in the dim light of dawn.

Right at the back, in the best seats of all, Monsieur and Madame Loiseau, wholesale wine merchants of the Rue Grand-Pont, slumbered opposite each other. Formerly clerk to a merchant who had failed in business, Loiseau had bought his master's interest, and made a fortune for himself. He sold very bad wine at a very low price to the retail-dealers in the country, and had the reputation, among his friends and acquaintances, of being a shrewd rascal a true Norman, full of quips and wiles. So well established was his character as a cheat that, in the mouths of the citizens of Rouen, the very name of Loiseau became a byword for sharp practice.

Above and beyond this, Loiseau was noted for his practical jokes of every description—his tricks, good or ill-natured; and no one could mention his name without adding at once: “He's an extraordinary man—Loiseau.” He was undersized and potbellied, had a florid face with grayish whiskers.

His wife-tall, strong, determined, with a loud voice and decided manner —represented the spirit of order and arithmetic in the business house which Loiseau enlivened by his jovial activity.

Beside them, dignified in bearing, belonging to a superior caste, sat Monsieur Carre-Lamadon, a man of considerable importance, a king in the cotton trade, proprietor of three spinning-mills, officer of the Legion of Honor, and member of the General Council. During the whole time the Empire was in the ascendancy he remained the chief of the well-disposed Opposition, merely in order to command a higher value for his devotion when he should rally to the cause which he meanwhile opposed with “courteous weapons,” to use his own expression.

Madame Carre-Lamadon, much younger than her husband, was the consolation of all the officers of good family quartered at Rouen. Pretty, slender, graceful, she sat opposite her husband, curled up in her furs, and gazing mournfully at the sorry interior of the coach.

Her neighbors, the Comte and Comtesse Hubert de Breville, bore one of the noblest and most ancient names in Normandy. The count, a nobleman advanced in years and of aristocratic bearing, strove to enhance by every artifice of the toilet, his natural resemblance to King Henry IV, who, according to a legend of which the family were inordinately proud, had been the favored lover of a De Breville lady, and father of her child —the frail one's husband having, in recognition of this fact, been made a count and governor of a province.

A colleague of Monsieur Carre-Lamadon in the General Council, Count Hubert represented the Orleanist party in his department. The story of his marriage with the daughter of a small shipowner at Nantes had always remained more or less of a mystery. But as the countess had an air of unmistakable breeding, entertained faultlessly, and was even supposed to have been loved by a son of Louis-Philippe, the nobility vied with one another in doing her honor, and her drawing-room remained the most select in the whole countryside—the only one which retained the old spirit of gallantry, and to which access was not easy.

The fortune of the Brevilles, all in real estate, amounted, it was said, to five hundred thousand francs a year.

These six people occupied the farther end of the coach, and represented Society—with an income—the strong, established society of good people with religion and principle.

It happened by chance that all the women were seated on the same side; and the countess had, moreover, as neighbors two nuns, who spent the time in fingering their long rosaries and murmuring paternosters and aves. One of them was old, and so deeply pitted with smallpox that she looked for all the world as if she had received a charge of shot full in the face. The other, of sickly appearance, had a pretty but wasted countenance, and a narrow, consumptive chest, sapped by that devouring faith which is the making of martyrs and visionaries.

A man and woman, sitting opposite the two nuns, attracted all eyes.

The man—a well-known character—was Cornudet, the democrat, the terror of all respectable people. For the past twenty years his big red beard had been on terms of intimate acquaintance with the tankards of all the republican cafes. With the help of his comrades and brethren he had dissipated a respectable fortune left him by his father, an old-established confectioner, and he now impatiently awaited the Republic, that he might at last be rewarded with the post he had earned by his revolutionary orgies. On the fourth of September—possibly as the result of a practical joke—he was led to believe that he had been appointed prefect; but when he attempted to take up the duties of the position the clerks in charge of the office refused to recognize his authority, and he was compelled in consequence to retire. A good sort of fellow in other respects, inoffensive and obliging, he had thrown himself zealously into the work of making an organized defence of the town. He had had pits dug in the level country, young forest trees felled, and traps set on all the roads; then at the approach of the enemy, thoroughly satisfied with his preparations, he had hastily returned to the town. He thought he might now do more good at Havre, where new intrenchments would soon be necessary.

The woman, who belonged to the courtesan class, was celebrated for an embonpoint unusual for her age, which had earned for her the sobriquet of “Boule de Suif” (Tallow Ball). Short and round, fat as a pig, with puffy fingers constricted at the joints, looking like rows of short sausages; with a shiny, tightly-stretched skin and an enormous bust filling out the bodice of her dress, she was yet attractive and much sought after, owing to her fresh and pleasing appearance. Her face was like a crimson apple, a peony-bud just bursting into bloom; she had two magnificent dark eyes, fringed with thick, heavy lashes, which cast a shadow into their depths; her mouth was small, ripe, kissable, and was furnished with the tiniest of white teeth.

As soon as she was recognized the respectable matrons of the party began to whisper among themselves, and the words “hussy” and “public scandal” were uttered so loudly that Boule de Suif raised her head. She forthwith cast such a challenging, bold look at her neighbors that a sudden silence fell on the company, and all lowered their eyes, with the exception of Loiseau, who watched her with evident interest.

But conversation was soon resumed among the three ladies, whom the presence of this girl had suddenly drawn together in the bonds of friendship—one might almost say in those of intimacy. They decided that they ought to combine, as it were, in their dignity as wives in face of this shameless hussy; for legitimized love always despises its easygoing brother.

The three men, also, brought together by a certain conservative instinct awakened by the presence of Cornudet, spoke of money matters in a tone expressive of contempt for the poor. Count Hubert related the losses he had sustained at the hands of the Prussians, spoke of the cattle which had been stolen from him, the crops which had been ruined, with the easy manner of a nobleman who was also a tenfold millionaire, and whom such reverses would scarcely inconvenience for a single year. Monsieur Carre-Lamadon, a man of wide experience in the cotton industry, had taken care to send six hundred thousand francs to England as provision against the rainy day he was always anticipating. As for Loiseau, he had managed to sell to the French commissariat department all the wines he had in stock, so that the state now owed him a considerable sum, which he hoped to receive at Havre.

And all three eyed one another in friendly, well-disposed fashion. Although of varying social status, they were united in the brotherhood of money—in that vast freemasonry made up of those who possess, who can jingle gold wherever they choose to put their hands into their breeches' pockets.

The coach went along so slowly that at ten o'clock in the morning it had not covered twelve miles. Three times the men of the party got out and climbed the hills on foot. The passengers were becoming uneasy, for they had counted on lunching at Totes, and it seemed now as if they would hardly arrive there before nightfall. Every one was eagerly looking out for an inn by the roadside, when, suddenly, the coach foundered in a snowdrift, and it took two hours to extricate it.

As appetites increased, their spirits fell; no inn, no wine shop could be discovered, the approach of the Prussians and the transit of the starving French troops having frightened away all business.

The men sought food in the farmhouses beside the road, but could not find so much as a crust of bread; for the suspicious peasant invariably hid his stores for fear of being pillaged by the soldiers, who, being entirely without food, would take violent possession of everything they found.

About one o'clock Loiseau announced that he positively had a big hollow in his stomach. They had all been suffering in the same way for some time, and the increasing gnawings of hunger had put an end to all conversation.

Now and then some one yawned, another followed his example, and each in turn, according to his character, breeding and social position, yawned either quietly or noisily, placing his hand before the gaping void whence issued breath condensed into vapor.

Several times Boule de Suif stooped, as if searching for something under her petticoats. She would hesitate a moment, look at her neighbors, and then quietly sit upright again. All faces were pale and drawn. Loiseau declared he would give a thousand francs for a knuckle of ham. His wife made an involuntary and quickly checked gesture of protest. It always hurt her to hear of money being squandered, and she could not even understand jokes on such a subject.

“As a matter of fact, I don't feel well,” said the count. “Why did I not think of bringing provisions?” Each one reproached himself in similar fashion.

Cornudet, however, had a bottle of rum, which he offered to his neighbors. They all coldly refused except Loiseau, who took a sip, and returned the bottle with thanks, saying: “That's good stuff; it warms one up, and cheats the appetite.” The alcohol put him in good humor, and he proposed they should do as the sailors did in the song: eat the fattest of the passengers. This indirect allusion to Boule de Suif shocked the respectable members of the party. No one replied; only Cornudet smiled. The two good sisters had ceased to mumble their rosary, and, with hands enfolded in their wide sleeves, sat motionless, their eyes steadfastly cast down, doubtless offering up as a sacrifice to Heaven the suffering it had sent them.

At last, at three o'clock, as they were in the midst of an apparently limitless plain, with not a single village in sight, Boule de Suif stooped quickly, and drew from underneath the seat a large basket covered with a white napkin.

From this she extracted first of all a small earthenware plate and a silver drinking cup, then an enormous dish containing two whole chickens cut into joints and imbedded in jelly. The basket was seen to contain other good things: pies, fruit, dainties of all sorts-provisions, in fine, for a three days' journey, rendering their owner independent of wayside inns. The necks of four bottles protruded from among the food. She took a chicken wing, and began to eat it daintily, together with one of those rolls called in Normandy “Regence.”

All looks were directed toward her. An odor of food filled the air, causing nostrils to dilate, mouths to water, and jaws to contract painfully. The scorn of the ladies for this disreputable female grew positively ferocious; they would have liked to kill her, or throw, her and her drinking cup, her basket, and her provisions, out of the coach into the snow of the road below.

But Loiseau's gaze was fixed greedily on the dish of chicken. He said:

“Well, well, this lady had more forethought than the rest of us. Some people think of everything.”

She looked up at him.

“Would you like some, sir? It is hard to go on fasting all day.”

He bowed.

“Upon my soul, I can't refuse; I cannot hold out another minute. All is fair in war time, is it not, madame?” And, casting a glance on those around, he added:

“At times like this it is very pleasant to meet with obliging people.”

He spread a newspaper over his knees to avoid soiling his trousers, and, with a pocketknife he always carried, helped himself to a chicken leg coated with jelly, which he thereupon proceeded to devour.

Then Boule le Suif, in low, humble tones, invited the nuns to partake of her repast. They both accepted the offer unhesitatingly, and after a few stammered words of thanks began to eat quickly, without raising their eyes. Neither did Cornudet refuse his neighbor's offer, and, in combination with the nuns, a sort of table was formed by opening out the newspaper over the four pairs of knees.

Mouths kept opening and shutting, ferociously masticating and devouring the food. Loiseau, in his corner, was hard at work, and in low tones urged his wife to follow his example. She held out for a long time, but overstrained Nature gave way at last. Her husband, assuming his politest manner, asked their “charming companion” if he might be allowed to offer Madame Loiseau a small helping.

“Why, certainly, sir,” she replied, with an amiable smile, holding out the dish.

When the first bottle of claret was opened some embarrassment was caused by the fact that there was only one drinking cup, but this was passed from one to another, after being wiped. Cornudet alone, doubtless in a spirit of gallantry, raised to his own lips that part of the rim which was still moist from those of his fair neighbor.

Then, surrounded by people who were eating, and well-nigh suffocated by the odor of food, the Comte and Comtesse de Breville and Monsieur and Madame Carre-Lamadon endured that hateful form of torture which has perpetuated the name of Tantalus. All at once the manufacturer's young wife heaved a sigh which made every one turn and look at her; she was white as the snow without; her eyes closed, her head fell forward; she had fainted. Her husband, beside himself, implored the help of his neighbors. No one seemed to know what to do until the elder of the two nuns, raising the patient's head, placed Boule de Suif's drinking cup to her lips, and made her swallow a few drops of wine. The pretty invalid moved, opened her eyes, smiled, and declared in a feeble voice that she was all right again. But, to prevent a recurrence of the catastrophe, the nun made her drink a cupful of claret, adding: “It's just hunger —that's what is wrong with you.”

Then Boule de Suif, blushing and embarrassed, stammered, looking at the four passengers who were still fasting:

“'Mon Dieu', if I might offer these ladies and gentlemen——”

She stopped short, fearing a snub. But Loiseau continued:

“Hang it all, in such a case as this we are all brothers and sisters and ought to assist each other. Come, come, ladies, don't stand on ceremony, for goodness' sake! Do we even know whether we shall find a house in which to pass the night? At our present rate of going we sha'n't be at Totes till midday to-morrow.”

They hesitated, no one daring to be the first to accept. But the count settled the question. He turned toward the abashed girl, and in his most distinguished manner said:

“We accept gratefully, madame.”

As usual, it was only the first step that cost. This Rubicon once crossed, they set to work with a will. The basket was emptied. It still contained a pate de foie gras, a lark pie, a piece of smoked tongue, Crassane pears, Pont-Leveque gingerbread, fancy cakes, and a cup full of pickled gherkins and onions—Boule de Suif, like all women, being very fond of indigestible things.

They could not eat this girl's provisions without speaking to her. So they began to talk, stiffly at first; then, as she seemed by no means forward, with greater freedom. Mesdames de Breville and Carre-Lamadon, who were accomplished women of the world, were gracious and tactful. The countess especially displayed that amiable condescension characteristic of great ladies whom no contact with baser mortals can sully, and was absolutely charming. But the sturdy Madame Loiseau, who had the soul of a gendarme, continued morose, speaking little and eating much.

Conversation naturally turned on the war. Terrible stories were told about the Prussians, deeds of bravery were recounted of the French; and all these people who were fleeing themselves were ready to pay homage to the courage of their compatriots. Personal experiences soon followed, and Boule le Suif related with genuine emotion, and with that warmth of language not uncommon in women of her class and temperament, how it came about that she had left Rouen.

“I thought at first that I should be able to stay,” she said. “My house was well stocked with provisions, and it seemed better to put up with feeding a few soldiers than to banish myself goodness knows where. But when I saw these Prussians it was too much for me! My blood boiled with rage; I wept the whole day for very shame. Oh, if only I had been a man! I looked at them from my window—the fat swine, with their pointed helmets!—and my maid held my hands to keep me from throwing my furniture down on them. Then some of them were quartered on me; I flew at the throat of the first one who entered. They are just as easy to strangle as other men! And I'd have been the death of that one if I hadn't been dragged away from him by my hair. I had to hide after that. And as soon as I could get an opportunity I left the place, and here I am.”

She was warmly congratulated. She rose in the estimation of her companions, who had not been so brave; and Cornudet listened to her with the approving and benevolent smile of an apostle, the smile a priest might wear in listening to a devotee praising God; for long-bearded democrats of his type have a monopoly of patriotism, just as priests have a monopoly of religion. He held forth in turn, with dogmatic self-assurance, in the style of the proclamations daily pasted on the walls of the town, winding up with a specimen of stump oratory in which he reviled “that besotted fool of a Louis-Napoleon.”

But Boule de Suif was indignant, for she was an ardent Bonapartist. She turned as red as a cherry, and stammered in her wrath: “I'd just like to have seen you in his place—you and your sort! There would have been a nice mix-up. Oh, yes! It was you who betrayed that man. It would be impossible to live in France if we were governed by such rascals as you!”

Cornudet, unmoved by this tirade, still smiled a superior, contemptuous smile; and one felt that high words were impending, when the count interposed, and, not without difficulty, succeeded in calming the exasperated woman, saying that all sincere opinions ought to be respected. But the countess and the manufacturer's wife, imbued with the unreasoning hatred of the upper classes for the Republic, and instinct, moreover, with the affection felt by all women for the pomp and circumstance of despotic government, were drawn, in spite of themselves, toward this dignified young woman, whose opinions coincided so closely with their own.

The basket was empty. The ten people had finished its contents without difficulty amid general regret that it did not hold more. Conversation went on a little longer, though it flagged somewhat after the passengers had finished eating.

Night fell, the darkness grew deeper and deeper, and the cold made Boule de Suif shiver, in spite of her plumpness. So Madame de Breville offered her her foot-warmer, the fuel of which had been several times renewed since the morning, and she accepted the offer at once, for her feet were icy cold. Mesdames Carre-Lamadon and Loiseau gave theirs to the nuns.

The driver lighted his lanterns. They cast a bright gleam on a cloud of vapor which hovered over the sweating flanks of the horses, and on the roadside snow, which seemed to unroll as they went along in the changing light of the lamps.

All was now indistinguishable in the coach; but suddenly a movement occurred in the corner occupied by Boule de Suif and Cornudet; and Loiseau, peering into the gloom, fancied he saw the big, bearded democrat move hastily to one side, as if he had received a well-directed, though noiseless, blow in the dark.

Tiny lights glimmered ahead. It was Totes. The coach had been on the road eleven hours, which, with the three hours allotted the horses in four periods for feeding and breathing, made fourteen. It entered the town, and stopped before the Hotel du Commerce.

The coach door opened; a well-known noise made all the travellers start; it was the clanging of a scabbard, on the pavement; then a voice called out something in German.

Although the coach had come to a standstill, no one got out; it looked as if they were afraid of being murdered the moment they left their seats. Thereupon the driver appeared, holding in his hand one of his lanterns, which cast a sudden glow on the interior of the coach, lighting up the double row of startled faces, mouths agape, and eyes wide open in surprise and terror.

Beside the driver stood in the full light a German officer, a tall young man, fair and slender, tightly encased in his uniform like a woman in her corset, his flat shiny cap, tilted to one side of his head, making him look like an English hotel runner. His exaggerated mustache, long and straight and tapering to a point at either end in a single blond hair that could hardly be seen, seemed to weigh down the corners of his mouth and give a droop to his lips.

In Alsatian French he requested the travellers to alight, saying stiffly:

“Kindly get down, ladies and gentlemen.”

The two nuns were the first to obey, manifesting the docility of holy women accustomed to submission on every occasion. Next appeared the count and countess, followed by the manufacturer and his wife, after whom came Loiseau, pushing his larger and better half before him.

“Good-day, sir,” he said to the officer as he put his foot to the ground, acting on an impulse born of prudence rather than of politeness. The other, insolent like all in authority, merely stared without replying.

Boule de Suif and Cornudet, though near the door, were the last to alight, grave and dignified before the enemy. The stout girl tried to control herself and appear calm; the democrat stroked his long russet beard with a somewhat trembling hand. Both strove to maintain their dignity, knowing well that at such a time each individual is always looked upon as more or less typical of his nation; and, also, resenting the complaisant attitude of their companions, Boule de Suif tried to wear a bolder front than her neighbors, the virtuous women, while he, feeling that it was incumbent on him to set a good example, kept up the attitude of resistance which he had first assumed when he undertook to mine the high roads round Rouen.

They entered the spacious kitchen of the inn, and the German, having demanded the passports signed by the general in command, in which were mentioned the name, description and profession of each traveller, inspected them all minutely, comparing their appearance with the written particulars.

Then he said brusquely: “All right,” and turned on his heel.

They breathed freely, All were still hungry; so supper was ordered. Half an hour was required for its preparation, and while two servants were apparently engaged in getting it ready the travellers went to look at their rooms. These all opened off a long corridor, at the end of which was a glazed door with a number on it.

They were just about to take their seats at table when the innkeeper appeared in person. He was a former horse dealer—a large, asthmatic individual, always wheezing, coughing, and clearing his throat. Follenvie was his patronymic.

He called:

“Mademoiselle Elisabeth Rousset?”

Boule de Suif started, and turned round.

“That is my name.”

“Mademoiselle, the Prussian officer wishes to speak to you immediately.”

“To me?”

“Yes; if you are Mademoiselle Elisabeth Rousset.”

She hesitated, reflected a moment, and then declared roundly:

“That may be; but I'm not going.”

They moved restlessly around her; every one wondered and speculated as to the cause of this order. The count approached:

“You are wrong, madame, for your refusal may bring trouble not only on yourself but also on all your companions. It never pays to resist those in authority. Your compliance with this request cannot possibly be fraught with any danger; it has probably been made because some formality or other was forgotten.”

All added their voices to that of the count; Boule de Suif was begged, urged, lectured, and at last convinced; every one was afraid of the complications which might result from headstrong action on her part. She said finally:

“I am doing it for your sakes, remember that!”

The countess took her hand.

“And we are grateful to you.”

She left the room. All waited for her return before commencing the meal. Each was distressed that he or she had not been sent for rather than this impulsive, quick-tempered girl, and each mentally rehearsed platitudes in case of being summoned also.

But at the end of ten minutes she reappeared breathing hard, crimson with indignation.

“Oh! the scoundrel! the scoundrel!” she stammered.

All were anxious to know what had happened; but she declined to enlighten them, and when the count pressed the point, she silenced him with much dignity, saying:

“No; the matter has nothing to do with you, and I cannot speak of it.”

Then they took their places round a high soup tureen, from which issued an odor of cabbage. In spite of this coincidence, the supper was cheerful. The cider was good; the Loiseaus and the nuns drank it from motives of economy. The others ordered wine; Cornudet demanded beer. He had his own fashion of uncorking the bottle and making the beer foam, gazing at it as he inclined his glass and then raised it to a position between the lamp and his eye that he might judge of its color. When he drank, his great beard, which matched the color of his favorite beverage, seemed to tremble with affection; his eyes positively squinted in the endeavor not to lose sight of the beloved glass, and he looked for all the world as if he were fulfilling the only function for which he was born. He seemed to have established in his mind an affinity between the two great passions of his life—pale ale and revolution—and assuredly he could not taste the one without dreaming of the other.

Monsieur and Madame Follenvie dined at the end of the table. The man, wheezing like a broken-down locomotive, was too short-winded to talk when he was eating. But the wife was not silent a moment; she told how the Prussians had impressed her on their arrival, what they did, what they said; execrating them in the first place because they cost her money, and in the second because she had two sons in the army. She addressed herself principally to the countess, flattered at the opportunity of talking to a lady of quality.

Then she lowered her voice, and began to broach delicate subjects. Her husband interrupted her from time to time, saying:

“You would do well to hold your tongue, Madame Follenvie.”

But she took no notice of him, and went on:

“Yes, madame, these Germans do nothing but eat potatoes and pork, and then pork and potatoes. And don't imagine for a moment that they are clean! No, indeed! And if only you saw them drilling for hours, indeed for days, together; they all collect in a field, then they do nothing but march backward and forward, and wheel this way and that. If only they would cultivate the land, or remain at home and work on their high roads! Really, madame, these soldiers are of no earthly use! Poor people have to feed and keep them, only in order that they may learn how to kill! True, I am only an old woman with no education, but when I see them wearing themselves out marching about from morning till night, I say to myself: When there are people who make discoveries that are of use to people, why should others take so much trouble to do harm? Really, now, isn't it a terrible thing to kill people, whether they are Prussians, or English, or Poles, or French? If we revenge ourselves on any one who injures us we do wrong, and are punished for it; but when our sons are shot down like partridges, that is all right, and decorations are given to the man who kills the most. No, indeed, I shall never be able to understand it.”

Cornudet raised his voice:

“War is a barbarous proceeding when we attack a peaceful neighbor, but it is a sacred duty when undertaken in defence of one's country.”

The old woman looked down:

“Yes; it's another matter when one acts in self-defence; but would it not be better to kill all the kings, seeing that they make war just to amuse themselves?”

Cornudet's eyes kindled.

“Bravo, citizens!” he said.

Monsieur Carre-Lamadon was reflecting profoundly. Although an ardent admirer of great generals, the peasant woman's sturdy common sense made him reflect on the wealth which might accrue to a country by the employment of so many idle hands now maintained at a great expense, of so much unproductive force, if they were employed in those great industrial enterprises which it will take centuries to complete.

But Loiseau, leaving his seat, went over to the innkeeper and began chatting in a low voice. The big man chuckled, coughed, sputtered; his enormous carcass shook with merriment at the pleasantries of the other; and he ended by buying six casks of claret from Loiseau to be delivered in spring, after the departure of the Prussians.

The moment supper was over every one went to bed, worn out with fatigue.

But Loiseau, who had been making his observations on the sly, sent his wife to bed, and amused himself by placing first his ear, and then his eye, to the bedroom keyhole, in order to discover what he called “the mysteries of the corridor.”

At the end of about an hour he heard a rustling, peeped out quickly, and caught sight of Boule de Suif, looking more rotund than ever in a dressing-gown of blue cashmere trimmed with white lace. She held a candle in her hand, and directed her steps to the numbered door at the end of the corridor. But one of the side doors was partly opened, and when, at the end of a few minutes, she returned, Cornudet, in his shirt-sleeves, followed her. They spoke in low tones, then stopped short. Boule de Suif seemed to be stoutly denying him admission to her room. Unfortunately, Loiseau could not at first hear what they said; but toward the end of the conversation they raised their voices, and he caught a few words. Cornudet was loudly insistent.

“How silly you are! What does it matter to you?” he said.

She seemed indignant, and replied:

“No, my good man, there are times when one does not do that sort of thing; besides, in this place it would be shameful.”

Apparently he did not understand, and asked the reason. Then she lost her temper and her caution, and, raising her voice still higher, said:

“Why? Can't you understand why? When there are Prussians in the house! Perhaps even in the very next room!”

He was silent. The patriotic shame of this wanton, who would not suffer herself to be caressed in the neighborhood of the enemy, must have roused his dormant dignity, for after bestowing on her a simple kiss he crept softly back to his room. Loiseau, much edified, capered round the bedroom before taking his place beside his slumbering spouse.

Then silence reigned throughout the house. But soon there arose from some remote part—it might easily have been either cellar or attic—a stertorous, monotonous, regular snoring, a dull, prolonged rumbling, varied by tremors like those of a boiler under pressure of steam. Monsieur Follenvie had gone to sleep.

As they had decided on starting at eight o'clock the next morning, every one was in the kitchen at that hour; but the coach, its roof covered with snow, stood by itself in the middle of the yard, without either horses or driver. They sought the latter in the stables, coach-houses and barns —but in vain. So the men of the party resolved to scour the country for him, and sallied forth. They found themselves in the square, with the church at the farther side, and to right and left low-roofed houses where there were some Prussian soldiers. The first soldier they saw was peeling potatoes. The second, farther on, was washing out a barber's shop. Another, bearded to the eyes, was fondling a crying infant, and dandling it on his knees to quiet it; and the stout peasant women, whose men-folk were for the most part at the war, were, by means of signs, telling their obedient conquerors what work they were to do: chop wood, prepare soup, grind coffee; one of them even was doing the washing for his hostess, an infirm old grandmother.

The count, astonished at what he saw, questioned the beadle who was coming out of the presbytery. The old man answered:

“Oh, those men are not at all a bad sort; they are not Prussians, I am told; they come from somewhere farther off, I don't exactly know where. And they have all left wives and children behind them; they are not fond of war either, you may be sure! I am sure they are mourning for the men where they come from, just as we do here; and the war causes them just as much unhappiness as it does us. As a matter of fact, things are not so very bad here just now, because the soldiers do no harm, and work just as if they were in their own homes. You see, sir, poor folk always help one another; it is the great ones of this world who make war.”

Cornudet indignant at the friendly understanding established between conquerors and conquered, withdrew, preferring to shut himself up in the inn.

“They are repeopling the country,” jested Loiseau.

“They are undoing the harm they have done,” said Monsieur Carre-Lamadon gravely.

But they could not find the coach driver. At last he was discovered in the village cafe, fraternizing cordially with the officer's orderly.

“Were you not told to harness the horses at eight o'clock?” demanded the count.

“Oh, yes; but I've had different orders since.”

“What orders?”

“Not to harness at all.”

“Who gave you such orders?”

“Why, the Prussian officer.”

“But why?”

“I don't know. Go and ask him. I am forbidden to harness the horses, so I don't harness them—that's all.”

“Did he tell you so himself?”

“No, sir; the innkeeper gave me the order from him.”

“When?”

“Last evening, just as I was going to bed.”

The three men returned in a very uneasy frame of mind.

They asked for Monsieur Follenvie, but the servant replied that on account of his asthma he never got up before ten o'clock. They were strictly forbidden to rouse him earlier, except in case of fire.

They wished to see the officer, but that also was impossible, although he lodged in the inn. Monsieur Follenvie alone was authorized to interview him on civil matters. So they waited. The women returned to their rooms, and occupied themselves with trivial matters.

Cornudet settled down beside the tall kitchen fireplace, before a blazing fire. He had a small table and a jug of beer placed beside him, and he smoked his pipe—a pipe which enjoyed among democrats a consideration almost equal to his own, as though it had served its country in serving Cornudet. It was a fine meerschaum, admirably colored to a black the shade of its owner's teeth, but sweet-smelling, gracefully curved, at home in its master's hand, and completing his physiognomy. And Cornudet sat motionless, his eyes fixed now on the dancing flames, now on the froth which crowned his beer; and after each draught he passed his long, thin fingers with an air of satisfaction through his long, greasy hair, as he sucked the foam from his mustache.

Loiseau, under pretence of stretching his legs, went out to see if he could sell wine to the country dealers. The count and the manufacturer began to talk politics. They forecast the future of France. One believed in the Orleans dynasty, the other in an unknown savior—a hero who should rise up in the last extremity: a Du Guesclin, perhaps a Joan of Arc? or another Napoleon the First? Ah! if only the Prince Imperial were not so young! Cornudet, listening to them, smiled like a man who holds the keys of destiny in his hands. His pipe perfumed the whole kitchen.

As the clock struck ten, Monsieur Follenvie appeared. He was immediately surrounded and questioned, but could only repeat, three or four times in succession, and without variation, the words:

“The officer said to me, just like this: 'Monsieur Follenvie, you will forbid them to harness up the coach for those travellers to-morrow. They are not to start without an order from me. You hear? That is sufficient.'”

Then they asked to see the officer. The count sent him his card, on which Monsieur Carre-Lamadon also inscribed his name and titles. The Prussian sent word that the two men would be admitted to see him after his luncheon—that is to say, about one o'clock.

The ladies reappeared, and they all ate a little, in spite of their anxiety. Boule de Suif appeared ill and very much worried.

They were finishing their coffee when the orderly came to fetch the gentlemen.

Loiseau joined the other two; but when they tried to get Cornudet to accompany them, by way of adding greater solemnity to the occasion, he declared proudly that he would never have anything to do with the Germans, and, resuming his seat in the chimney corner, he called for another jug of beer.

The three men went upstairs, and were ushered into the best room in the inn, where the officer received them lolling at his ease in an armchair, his feet on the mantelpiece, smoking a long porcelain pipe, and enveloped in a gorgeous dressing-gown, doubtless stolen from the deserted dwelling of some citizen destitute of taste in dress. He neither rose, greeted them, nor even glanced in their direction. He afforded a fine example of that insolence of bearing which seems natural to the victorious soldier.

After the lapse of a few moments he said in his halting French:

“What do you want?”

“We wish to start on our journey,” said the count.

“No.”

“May I ask the reason of your refusal?”

“Because I don't choose.”

“I would respectfully call your attention, monsieur, to the fact that your general in command gave us a permit to proceed to Dieppe; and I do not think we have done anything to deserve this harshness at your hands.”

“I don't choose—that's all. You may go.”

They bowed, and retired.

The afternoon was wretched. They could not understand the caprice of this German, and the strangest ideas came into their heads. They all congregated in the kitchen, and talked the subject to death, imagining all kinds of unlikely things. Perhaps they were to be kept as hostages —but for what reason? or to be extradited as prisoners of war? or possibly they were to be held for ransom? They were panic-stricken at this last supposition. The richest among them were the most alarmed, seeing themselves forced to empty bags of gold into the insolent soldier's hands in order to buy back their lives. They racked their brains for plausible lies whereby they might conceal the fact that they were rich, and pass themselves off as poor—very poor. Loiseau took off his watch chain, and put it in his pocket. The approach of night increased their apprehension. The lamp was lighted, and as it wanted yet two hours to dinner Madame Loiseau proposed a game of trente et un. It would distract their thoughts. The rest agreed, and Cornudet himself joined the party, first putting out his pipe for politeness' sake.

The count shuffled the cards—dealt—and Boule de Suif had thirty-one to start with; soon the interest of the game assuaged the anxiety of the players. But Cornudet noticed that Loiseau and his wife were in league to cheat.

They were about to sit down to dinner when Monsieur Follenvie appeared, and in his grating voice announced:

“The Prussian officer sends to ask Mademoiselle Elisabeth Rousset if she has changed her mind yet.”

Boule de Suif stood still, pale as death. Then, suddenly turning crimson with anger, she gasped out:

“Kindly tell that scoundrel, that cur, that carrion of a Prussian, that I will never consent—you understand?—never, never, never!”

The fat innkeeper left the room. Then Boule de Suif was surrounded, questioned, entreated on all sides to reveal the mystery of her visit to the officer. She refused at first; but her wrath soon got the better of her.

“What does he want? He wants to make me his mistress!” she cried.

No one was shocked at the word, so great was the general indignation. Cornudet broke his jug as he banged it down on the table. A loud outcry arose against this base soldier. All were furious. They drew together in common resistance against the foe, as if some part of the sacrifice exacted of Boule de Suif had been demanded of each. The count declared, with supreme disgust, that those people behaved like ancient barbarians. The women, above all, manifested a lively and tender sympathy for Boule de Suif. The nuns, who appeared only at meals, cast down their eyes, and said nothing.

They dined, however, as soon as the first indignant outburst had subsided; but they spoke little and thought much.

The ladies went to bed early; and the men, having lighted their pipes, proposed a game of ecarte, in which Monsieur Follenvie was invited to join, the travellers hoping to question him skillfully as to the best means of vanquishing the officer's obduracy. But he thought of nothing but his cards, would listen to nothing, reply to nothing, and repeated, time after time: “Attend to the game, gentlemen! attend to the game!” So absorbed was his attention that he even forgot to expectorate. The consequence was that his chest gave forth rumbling sounds like those of an organ. His wheezing lungs struck every note of the asthmatic scale, from deep, hollow tones to a shrill, hoarse piping resembling that of a young cock trying to crow.

He refused to go to bed when his wife, overcome with sleep, came to fetch him. So she went off alone, for she was an early bird, always up with the sun; while he was addicted to late hours, ever ready to spend the night with friends. He merely said: “Put my egg-nogg by the fire,” and went on with the game. When the other men saw that nothing was to be got out of him they declared it was time to retire, and each sought his bed.

They rose fairly early the next morning, with a vague hope of being allowed to start, a greater desire than ever to do so, and a terror at having to spend another day in this wretched little inn.

Alas! the horses remained in the stable, the driver was invisible. They spent their time, for want of something better to do, in wandering round the coach.

Luncheon was a gloomy affair; and there was a general coolness toward Boule de Suif, for night, which brings counsel, had somewhat modified the judgment of her companions. In the cold light of the morning they almost bore a grudge against the girl for not having secretly sought out the Prussian, that the rest of the party might receive a joyful surprise when they awoke. What more simple?

Besides, who would have been the wiser? She might have saved appearances by telling the officer that she had taken pity on their distress. Such a step would be of so little consequence to her.

But no one as yet confessed to such thoughts.

In the afternoon, seeing that they were all bored to death, the count proposed a walk in the neighborhood of the village. Each one wrapped himself up well, and the little party set out, leaving behind only Cornudet, who preferred to sit over the fire, and the two nuns, who were in the habit of spending their day in the church or at the presbytery.

The cold, which grew more intense each day, almost froze the noses and ears of the pedestrians, their feet began to pain them so that each step was a penance, and when they reached the open country it looked so mournful and depressing in its limitless mantle of white that they all hastily retraced their steps, with bodies benumbed and hearts heavy.

The four women walked in front, and the three men followed a little in their rear.

Loiseau, who saw perfectly well how matters stood, asked suddenly “if that trollop were going to keep them waiting much longer in this Godforsaken spot.” The count, always courteous, replied that they could not exact so painful a sacrifice from any woman, and that the first move must come from herself. Monsieur Carre-Lamadon remarked that if the French, as they talked of doing, made a counter attack by way of Dieppe, their encounter with the enemy must inevitably take place at Totes. This reflection made the other two anxious.

“Supposing we escape on foot?” said Loiseau.

The count shrugged his shoulders.

“How can you think of such a thing, in this snow? And with our wives? Besides, we should be pursued at once, overtaken in ten minutes, and brought back as prisoners at the mercy of the soldiery.”

This was true enough; they were silent.

The ladies talked of dress, but a certain constraint seemed to prevail among them.

Suddenly, at the end of the street, the officer appeared. His tall, wasp-like, uniformed figure was outlined against the snow which bounded the horizon, and he walked, knees apart, with that motion peculiar to soldiers, who are always anxious not to soil their carefully polished boots.

He bowed as he passed the ladies, then glanced scornfully at the men, who had sufficient dignity not to raise their hats, though Loiseau made a movement to do so.

Boule de Suif flushed crimson to the ears, and the three married women felt unutterably humiliated at being met thus by the soldier in company with the girl whom he had treated with such scant ceremony.

Then they began to talk about him, his figure, and his face. Madame Carre-Lamadon, who had known many officers and judged them as a connoisseur, thought him not at all bad-looking; she even regretted that he was not a Frenchman, because in that case he would have made a very handsome hussar, with whom all the women would assuredly have fallen in love.

When they were once more within doors they did not know what to do with themselves. Sharp words even were exchanged apropos of the merest trifles. The silent dinner was quickly over, and each one went to bed early in the hope of sleeping, and thus killing time.

They came down next morning with tired faces and irritable tempers; the women scarcely spoke to Boule de Suif.

A church bell summoned the faithful to a baptism. Boule de Suif had a child being brought up by peasants at Yvetot. She did not see him once a year, and never thought of him; but the idea of the child who was about to be baptized induced a sudden wave of tenderness for her own, and she insisted on being present at the ceremony.

As soon as she had gone out, the rest of the company looked at one another and then drew their chairs together; for they realized that they must decide on some course of action. Loiseau had an inspiration: he proposed that they should ask the officer to detain Boule de Suif only, and to let the rest depart on their way.

Monsieur Follenvie was intrusted with this commission, but he returned to them almost immediately. The German, who knew human nature, had shown him the door. He intended to keep all the travellers until his condition had been complied with.

Whereupon Madame Loiseau's vulgar temperament broke bounds.

“We're not going to die of old age here!” she cried. “Since it's that vixen's trade to behave so with men I don't see that she has any right to refuse one more than another. I may as well tell you she took any lovers she could get at Rouen—even coachmen! Yes, indeed, madame—the coachman at the prefecture! I know it for a fact, for he buys his wine of us. And now that it is a question of getting us out of a difficulty she puts on virtuous airs, the drab! For my part, I think this officer has behaved very well. Why, there were three others of us, any one of whom he would undoubtedly have preferred. But no, he contents himself with the girl who is common property. He respects married women. Just think. He is master here. He had only to say: 'I wish it!' and he might have taken us by force, with the help of his soldiers.”

The two other women shuddered; the eyes of pretty Madame Carre-Lamadon glistened, and she grew pale, as if the officer were indeed in the act of laying violent hands on her.

The men, who had been discussing the subject among themselves, drew near. Loiseau, in a state of furious resentment, was for delivering up “that miserable woman,” bound hand and foot, into the enemy's power. But the count, descended from three generations of ambassadors, and endowed, moreover, with the lineaments of a diplomat, was in favor of more tactful measures.

“We must persuade her,” he said.

Then they laid their plans.

The women drew together; they lowered their voices, and the discussion became general, each giving his or her opinion. But the conversation was not in the least coarse. The ladies, in particular, were adepts at delicate phrases and charming subtleties of expression to describe the most improper things. A stranger would have understood none of their allusions, so guarded was the language they employed. But, seeing that the thin veneer of modesty with which every woman of the world is furnished goes but a very little way below the surface, they began rather to enjoy this unedifying episode, and at bottom were hugely delighted —feeling themselves in their element, furthering the schemes of lawless love with the gusto of a gourmand cook who prepares supper for another.

Their gaiety returned of itself, so amusing at last did the whole business seem to them. The count uttered several rather risky witticisms, but so tactfully were they said that his audience could not help smiling. Loiseau in turn made some considerably broader jokes, but no one took offence; and the thought expressed with such brutal directness by his wife was uppermost in the minds of all: “Since it's the girl's trade, why should she refuse this man more than another?” Dainty Madame Carre-Lamadon seemed to think even that in Boule de Suif's place she would be less inclined to refuse him than another.

The blockade was as carefully arranged as if they were investing a fortress. Each agreed on the role which he or she was to play, the arguments to be used, the maneuvers to be executed. They decided on the plan of campaign, the stratagems they were to employ, and the surprise attacks which were to reduce this human citadel and force it to receive the enemy within its walls.

But Cornudet remained apart from the rest, taking no share in the plot.

So absorbed was the attention of all that Boule de Suif's entrance was almost unnoticed. But the count whispered a gentle “Hush!” which made the others look up. She was there. They suddenly stopped talking, and a vague embarrassment prevented them for a few moments from addressing her. But the countess, more practiced than the others in the wiles of the drawing-room, asked her:

“Was the baptism interesting?”

The girl, still under the stress of emotion, told what she had seen and heard, described the faces, the attitudes of those present, and even the appearance of the church. She concluded with the words:

“It does one good to pray sometimes.”

Until lunch time the ladies contented themselves with being pleasant to her, so as to increase her confidence and make her amenable to their advice.

As soon as they took their seats at table the attack began. First they opened a vague conversation on the subject of self-sacrifice. Ancient examples were quoted: Judith and Holofernes; then, irrationally enough, Lucrece and Sextus; Cleopatra and the hostile generals whom she reduced to abject slavery by a surrender of her charms. Next was recounted an extraordinary story, born of the imagination of these ignorant millionaires, which told how the matrons of Rome seduced Hannibal, his lieutenants, and all his mercenaries at Capua. They held up to admiration all those women who from time to time have arrested the victorious progress of conquerors, made of their bodies a field of battle, a means of ruling, a weapon; who have vanquished by their heroic caresses hideous or detested beings, and sacrificed their chastity to vengeance and devotion.

All was said with due restraint and regard for propriety, the effect heightened now and then by an outburst of forced enthusiasm calculated to excite emulation.

A listener would have thought at last that the one role of woman on earth was a perpetual sacrifice of her person, a continual abandonment of herself to the caprices of a hostile soldiery.

The two nuns seemed to hear nothing, and to be lost in thought. Boule de Suif also was silent.

During the whole afternoon she was left to her reflections. But instead of calling her “madame” as they had done hitherto, her companions addressed her simply as “mademoiselle,” without exactly knowing why, but as if desirous of making her descend a step in the esteem she had won, and forcing her to realize her degraded position.

Just as soup was served, Monsieur Follenvie reappeared, repeating his phrase of the evening before:

“The Prussian officer sends to ask if Mademoiselle Elisabeth Rousset has changed her mind.”

Boule de Suif answered briefly:

“No, monsieur.”

But at dinner the coalition weakened. Loiseau made three unfortunate remarks. Each was cudgeling his brains for further examples of self-sacrifice, and could find none, when the countess, possibly without ulterior motive, and moved simply by a vague desire to do homage to religion, began to question the elder of the two nuns on the most striking facts in the lives of the saints. Now, it fell out that many of these had committed acts which would be crimes in our eyes, but the Church readily pardons such deeds when they are accomplished for the glory of God or the good of mankind. This was a powerful argument, and the countess made the most of it. Then, whether by reason of a tacit understanding, a thinly veiled act of complaisance such as those who wear the ecclesiastical habit excel in, or whether merely as the result of sheer stupidity—a stupidity admirably adapted to further their designs—the old nun rendered formidable aid to the conspirator. They had thought her timid; she proved herself bold, talkative, bigoted. She was not troubled by the ins and outs of casuistry; her doctrines were as iron bars; her faith knew no doubt; her conscience no scruples. She looked on Abraham's sacrifice as natural enough, for she herself would not have hesitated to kill both father and mother if she had received a divine order to that effect; and nothing, in her opinion, could displease our Lord, provided the motive were praiseworthy. The countess, putting to good use the consecrated authority of her unexpected ally, led her on to make a lengthy and edifying paraphrase of that axiom enunciated by a certain school of moralists: “The end justifies the means.”

“Then, sister,” she asked, “you think God accepts all methods, and pardons the act when the motive is pure?”

“Undoubtedly, madame. An action reprehensible in itself often derives merit from the thought which inspires it.”

And in this wise they talked on, fathoming the wishes of God, predicting His judgments, describing Him as interested in matters which assuredly concern Him but little.

All was said with the utmost care and discretion, but every word uttered by the holy woman in her nun's garb weakened the indignant resistance of the courtesan. Then the conversation drifted somewhat, and the nun began to talk of the convents of her order, of her Superior, of herself, and of her fragile little neighbor, Sister St. Nicephore. They had been sent for from Havre to nurse the hundreds of soldiers who were in hospitals, stricken with smallpox. She described these wretched invalids and their malady. And, while they themselves were detained on their way by the caprices of the Prussian officer, scores of Frenchmen might be dying, whom they would otherwise have saved! For the nursing of soldiers was the old nun's specialty; she had been in the Crimea, in Italy, in Austria; and as she told the story of her campaigns she revealed herself as one of those holy sisters of the fife and drum who seem designed by nature to follow camps, to snatch the wounded from amid the strife of battle, and to quell with a word, more effectually than any general, the rough and insubordinate troopers—a masterful woman, her seamed and pitted face itself an image of the devastations of war.

No one spoke when she had finished for fear of spoiling the excellent effect of her words.

As soon as the meal was over the travellers retired to their rooms, whence they emerged the following day at a late hour of the morning.

Luncheon passed off quietly. The seed sown the preceding evening was being given time to germinate and bring forth fruit.

In the afternoon the countess proposed a walk; then the count, as had been arranged beforehand, took Boule de Suif's arm, and walked with her at some distance behind the rest.

He began talking to her in that familiar, paternal, slightly contemptuous tone which men of his class adopt in speaking to women like her, calling her “my dear child,” and talking down to her from the height of his exalted social position and stainless reputation. He came straight to the point.

“So you prefer to leave us here, exposed like yourself to all the violence which would follow on a repulse of the Prussian troops, rather than consent to surrender yourself, as you have done so many times in your life?”

The girl did not reply.

He tried kindness, argument, sentiment. He still bore himself as count, even while adopting, when desirable, an attitude of gallantry, and making pretty—nay, even tender—speeches. He exalted the service she would render them, spoke of their gratitude; then, suddenly, using the familiar “thou”:

“And you know, my dear, he could boast then of having made a conquest of a pretty girl such as he won't often find in his own country.”

Boule de Suif did not answer, and joined the rest of the party.

As soon as they returned she went to her room, and was seen no more. The general anxiety was at its height. What would she do? If she still resisted, how awkward for them all!

The dinner hour struck; they waited for her in vain. At last Monsieur Follenvie entered, announcing that Mademoiselle Rousset was not well, and that they might sit down to table. They all pricked up their ears. The count drew near the innkeeper, and whispered:

“Is it all right?”

“Yes.”

Out of regard for propriety he said nothing to his companions, but merely nodded slightly toward them. A great sigh of relief went up from all breasts; every face was lighted up with joy.

“By Gad!” shouted Loiseau, “I'll stand champagne all round if there's any to be found in this place.” And great was Madame Loiseau's dismay when the proprietor came back with four bottles in his hands. They had all suddenly become talkative and merry; a lively joy filled all hearts. The count seemed to perceive for the first time that Madame Carre-Lamadon was charming; the manufacturer paid compliments to the countess. The conversation was animated, sprightly, witty, and, although many of the jokes were in the worst possible taste, all the company were amused by them, and none offended—indignation being dependent, like other emotions, on surroundings. And the mental atmosphere had gradually become filled with gross imaginings and unclean thoughts.

At dessert even the women indulged in discreetly worded allusions. Their glances were full of meaning; they had drunk much. The count, who even in his moments of relaxation preserved a dignified demeanor, hit on a much-appreciated comparison of the condition of things with the termination of a winter spent in the icy solitude of the North Pole and the joy of shipwrecked mariners who at last perceive a southward track opening out before their eyes.

Loiseau, fairly in his element, rose to his feet, holding aloft a glass of champagne.

“I drink to our deliverance!” he shouted.

All stood up, and greeted the toast with acclamation. Even the two good sisters yielded to the solicitations of the ladies, and consented to moisten their lips with the foaming wine, which they had never before tasted. They declared it was like effervescent lemonade, but with a pleasanter flavor.

“It is a pity,” said Loiseau, “that we have no piano; we might have had a quadrille.”

Cornudet had not spoken a word or made a movement; he seemed plunged in serious thought, and now and then tugged furiously at his great beard, as if trying to add still further to its length. At last, toward midnight, when they were about to separate, Loiseau, whose gait was far from steady, suddenly slapped him on the back, saying thickly:

“You're not jolly to-night; why are you so silent, old man?”

Cornudet threw back his head, cast one swift and scornful glance over the assemblage, and answered:

“I tell you all, you have done an infamous thing!”

He rose, reached the door, and repeating: “Infamous!” disappeared.

A chill fell on all. Loiseau himself looked foolish and disconcerted for a moment, but soon recovered his aplomb, and, writhing with laughter, exclaimed:

“Really, you are all too green for anything!”

Pressed for an explanation, he related the “mysteries of the corridor,” whereat his listeners were hugely amused. The ladies could hardly contain their delight. The count and Monsieur Carre-Lamadon laughed till they cried. They could scarcely believe their ears.

“What! you are sure? He wanted——”

“I tell you I saw it with my own eyes.”

“And she refused?”

“Because the Prussian was in the next room!”

“Surely you are mistaken?”

“I swear I'm telling you the truth.”

The count was choking with laughter. The manufacturer held his sides. Loiseau continued:

“So you may well imagine he doesn't think this evening's business at all amusing.”

And all three began to laugh again, choking, coughing, almost ill with merriment.

Then they separated. But Madame Loiseau, who was nothing if not spiteful, remarked to her husband as they were on the way to bed that “that stuck-up little minx of a Carre-Lamadon had laughed on the wrong side of her mouth all the evening.”

“You know,” she said, “when women run after uniforms it's all the same to them whether the men who wear them are French or Prussian. It's perfectly sickening!”

The next morning the snow showed dazzling white tinder a clear winter sun. The coach, ready at last, waited before the door; while a flock of white pigeons, with pink eyes spotted in the centres with black, puffed out their white feathers and walked sedately between the legs of the six horses, picking at the steaming manure.

The driver, wrapped in his sheepskin coat, was smoking a pipe on the box, and all the passengers, radiant with delight at their approaching departure, were putting up provisions for the remainder of the journey.

They were waiting only for Boule de Suif. At last she appeared.

She seemed rather shamefaced and embarrassed, and advanced with timid step toward her companions, who with one accord turned aside as if they had not seen her. The count, with much dignity, took his wife by the arm, and removed her from the unclean contact.

The girl stood still, stupefied with astonishment; then, plucking up courage, accosted the manufacturer's wife with a humble “Good-morning, madame,” to which the other replied merely with a slight and insolent nod, accompanied by a look of outraged virtue. Every one suddenly appeared extremely busy, and kept as far from Boule de Suif as if her skirts had been infected with some deadly disease. Then they hurried to the coach, followed by the despised courtesan, who, arriving last of all, silently took the place she had occupied during the first part of the journey.

The rest seemed neither to see nor to know her—all save Madame Loiseau, who, glancing contemptuously in her direction, remarked, half aloud, to her husband:

“What a mercy I am not sitting beside that creature!”

The lumbering vehicle started on its way, and the journey began afresh.

At first no one spoke. Boule de Suif dared not even raise her eyes. She felt at once indignant with her neighbors, and humiliated at having yielded to the Prussian into whose arms they had so hypocritically cast her.

But the countess, turning toward Madame Carre-Lamadon, soon broke the painful silence:

“I think you know Madame d'Etrelles?”

“Yes; she is a friend of mine.”

“Such a charming woman!”

“Delightful! Exceptionally talented, and an artist to the finger tips. She sings marvellously and draws to perfection.”

The manufacturer was chatting with the count, and amid the clatter of the window-panes a word of their conversation was now and then distinguishable: “Shares—maturity—premium—time-limit.”

Loiseau, who had abstracted from the inn the timeworn pack of cards, thick with the grease of five years' contact with half-wiped-off tables, started a game of bezique with his wife.

The good sisters, taking up simultaneously the long rosaries hanging from their waists, made the sign of the cross, and began to mutter in unison interminable prayers, their lips moving ever more and more swiftly, as if they sought which should outdistance the other in the race of orisons; from time to time they kissed a medal, and crossed themselves anew, then resumed their rapid and unintelligible murmur.

Cornudet sat still, lost in thought.

Ah the end of three hours Loiseau gathered up the cards, and remarked that he was hungry.

His wife thereupon produced a parcel tied with string, from which she extracted a piece of cold veal. This she cut into neat, thin slices, and both began to eat.

“We may as well do the same,” said the countess. The rest agreed, and she unpacked the provisions which had been prepared for herself, the count, and the Carre-Lamadons. In one of those oval dishes, the lids of which are decorated with an earthenware hare, by way of showing that a game pie lies within, was a succulent delicacy consisting of the brown flesh of the game larded with streaks of bacon and flavored with other meats chopped fine. A solid wedge of Gruyere cheese, which had been wrapped in a newspaper, bore the imprint: “Items of News,” on its rich, oily surface.

The two good sisters brought to light a hunk of sausage smelling strongly of garlic; and Cornudet, plunging both hands at once into the capacious pockets of his loose overcoat, produced from one four hard-boiled eggs and from the other a crust of bread. He removed the shells, threw them into the straw beneath his feet, and began to devour the eggs, letting morsels of the bright yellow yolk fall in his mighty beard, where they looked like stars.

Boule de Suif, in the haste and confusion of her departure, had not thought of anything, and, stifling with rage, she watched all these people placidly eating. At first, ill-suppressed wrath shook her whole person, and she opened her lips to shriek the truth at them, to overwhelm them with a volley of insults; but she could not utter a word, so choked was she with indignation.

No one looked at her, no one thought of her. She felt herself swallowed up in the scorn of these virtuous creatures, who had first sacrificed, then rejected her as a thing useless and unclean. Then she remembered her big basket full of the good things they had so greedily devoured: the two chickens coated in jelly, the pies, the pears, the four bottles of claret; and her fury broke forth like a cord that is overstrained, and she was on the verge of tears. She made terrible efforts at self-control, drew herself up, swallowed the sobs which choked her; but the tears rose nevertheless, shone at the brink of her eyelids, and soon two heavy drops coursed slowly down her cheeks. Others followed more quickly, like water filtering from a rock, and fell, one after another, on her rounded bosom. She sat upright, with a fixed expression, her face pale and rigid, hoping desperately that no one saw her give way.

But the countess noticed that she was weeping, and with a sign drew her husband's attention to the fact. He shrugged his shoulders, as if to say: “Well, what of it? It's not my fault.” Madame Loiseau chuckled triumphantly, and murmured:

“She's weeping for shame.”

The two nuns had betaken themselves once more to their prayers, first wrapping the remainder of their sausage in paper:

Then Cornudet, who was digesting his eggs, stretched his long legs under the opposite seat, threw himself back, folded his arms, smiled like a man who had just thought of a good joke, and began to whistle the Marseillaise.

The faces of his neighbors clouded; the popular air evidently did not find favor with them; they grew nervous and irritable, and seemed ready to howl as a dog does at the sound of a barrel-organ. Cornudet saw the discomfort he was creating, and whistled the louder; sometimes he even hummed the words: Amour sacre de la patrie, Conduis, soutiens, nos bras vengeurs, Liberte, liberte cherie, Combats avec tes defenseurs!

The coach progressed more swiftly, the snow being harder now; and all the way to Dieppe, during the long, dreary hours of the journey, first in the gathering dusk, then in the thick darkness, raising his voice above the rumbling of the vehicle, Cornudet continued with fierce obstinacy his vengeful and monotonous whistling, forcing his weary and exasperated-hearers to follow the song from end to end, to recall every word of every line, as each was repeated over and over again with untiring persistency.

And Boule de Suif still wept, and sometimes a sob she could not restrain was heard in the darkness between two verses of the song.

#Boule De Suif #Elisabeth Rousett #Short stories #Public domain stories #public domain characters #Guy de Maupassant #Rjalker reads The Complete Original Short Stories of Guy de Maupassant

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yanderememes · 3 years ago

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Hello, so can I request yan jojo villains with artist s/o who paints? I already imagining dio said “draw me like one of your french girl” lol

Sure! I only did parts 1-6, hope that's okay!

Thank you for your patience. I have a lot of asks to go through but I make sure to reply to as many as I can within a day.

I'll leave it under the cut

Dio

Dio finds it interesting that you have such a talent. But it's only befitting that his darling ought to be as talented as he is

"Draw me like one of your French girls" type of guy, this man has the biggest ego

He wants to see himself in all your artistic glory. I really do imagine him wanting to be painted nude lmao

Dio will also want a painting of you too, his favourite pet~

If he likes your paintings enough, he'll have his servants buy you paint supplies but only if you promise to paint more of him

Kars

Kars is intrigued by your little hobby

Doesn't quite get it but after seeing you paint, he accepts it

He rather you paint than try and run away (not like you can though)

Kars isn't completely heartless. Although he has darling bound in chains, there's enough wiggle room for them to paint freely

He may interpret your art. Trying to see some deeper meaning behind it. If you paint about your feelings of isolation and despair of being his darling, Kars will take a bit of pleasure in that

Kira

He'd probably ask you to paint the Mona Lisa with a focus on her hands

Tbh, he might just request you paints hands

Till your entire house is filled with paintings of just hands

But aside from revering your paintings, Kira likes to watch you paint. He finds it calming but loves watching your hands move with every brush stroke

I imagine he'd want to hold your hand while you paint. It's the best of both worlds

Diavolo

Being in his mansion alone can be awfully boring so he'll allow darling to paint if it keeps them busy and rid their mind of any ideas of escaping

Diavolo doesn't seem to care what you do. As long as you are an obedient darling

The only thing he will make sure of is that you don't paint his face or anything that could give away his identity. Otherwise, there will be grave consequences

He can be pretty cold and quick to anger. So if darling ever pisses him off, then a form of punishment could be destroying your paintings. Especially the ones you're most fond/proud of

Diavolo won't comment on any of your paintings cuz again, he doesn't really care. But sometimes you will catch him staring at them with a certain curiosity

Doppio

Gasses you up for all your paintings

He loves every single one that you do, even if you're not proud of it

Doppio will pay attention to every little detail and comment on it. Not in a bad way, but to admire even the little things you've created

He might ask you to paint a portrait of him and you together

The type of guy who would also try to pick up painting too so he can do it together with his darling

Pucci

Will admire your work greatly and make positive remarks about it

Like Kars, he'll analyze the painting. From the painting techniques you've used to hidden symbolism about what you're trying to convey in these paintings

He knows most of them are about him in some way, shape, or form. Keeping you prisoner hidden beneath the chapel does make darling antagonize him, and he understands

You hate how he's so sweet with his words about your work. But most importantly, how he can see right through you and read your true feelings and intentions

What you hate even more is that a deep part of you actually enjoys his praise

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well-its-not-human-anymore · 4 years ago

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Lol hi im back, alright this is based off another thung i read by milky theholy1 and its like donatello uses this time machine etc etc. Well what if di. Had one of his brothers (preferabley raph) and the reader go forward 10 years and see they have a family of their own? Idl just thought itd be a fun oneshot :)

Oohhhh I've actually read that fic and I absolutely loved it. Hope I do it justice for ya 🧡

TMNT Oneshot's

Yeah you guessed it- time travel

This was not, under any sort of circumstance, how you thought you were going to spend your Thursday evening. You did get a waffle out of it, so that took some of the edge off but with the boys just waking up they had way too much energy for you to deal with. Excluding Donnie of course, the turtle had been awake for longer than 36 hours and it definitely showed.

Cue you going into a total mom-friend moment (you didn't care if he could technically bench press you he was going to drink his water dammit) and yanking the bottle of melatonin gummies out of your bag to throw at him. No shock was felt when he caught them and raised an eyebrow ridge, you opted to simply flip him off.

Over coffee the two of you sat at his desk and discussed his latest plan, you really shouldn't have been surprised that it was a time machine. You knew Donnie well, of course he'd be the one to think of something like this.

"Okay good, I see your point there- no I'm still not happy that you're making me your test dummy but it is a time machine," You pointed out with an exhausted tone.

The genius seemed to perk up at this and your heart plummeted towards the ground.

"Oh right! I forgot to mention it, you're not going alone. Raph's going with you!"

With that statement now out in the open you took the liberty of pushing your mug to the side to avoid any damage before letting your head slam into the desktop. Donnie, still finding this amusing, poked at your shoulder with a smile. His optimism made you fight against your instinct to groan like a toddler.

"Donnie why t'hell are ya waking me up so damn early?" The very antagonizing, very familiar voice drawled from behind you.

Raphael looked asleep, scratch that, he looked like a whole corpse and a half. Standing in the doorway of his brothers lab and glancing between the two of you like you'd grown extra heads. Which you figured was fair, but the fact that he was perceiving you made you want to light him on fire.

"Shut the fuck up."

"Wha- I didn't say anything! Donnie, don't make me go with him. Literally anyone else. I am legitimately begging you.

"Yeah, what they said, lemme go back to sleep," The terrapin yawned mid sentence and stumbled over his own feet, nearly resulting in him landing on his own face and seriously disappointing you when he didn't. He was too tired to shoot you the normal withering glare and instead opted to shove you off of your chair when he stood up, Donnie did nothing to discourage this.

You gave Raphael a single enraged look and turned your gaze to his brother.

"I'm not going with him."

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

"I can't believe I'm stuck in this fucking box with you."

The turtle scoffed in mild offense and rolled his eyes, attempting to turn around again and in doing so shoved you into the wall with a pathetic groan of annoyance. He was completely ignoring you and while you were fine with that it also made you want to vomit.

"Raphael I swear to god if you crush me one more time I'm gonna French fry your green ass," Your voice may as well have been a growl, that's what it sounded like anyways.

Your companion had the nerve to laugh at you but at least he stopped his movement, you looked the other way, your stare boring into the wall to avoid his questioning stare.

"You good shorty?"

"I'm five eight you fuck-"

The machine rattled around them in protest and the sheet metal looked like it was about to catch fire, you and Raph made hesitant eye contact.

"How likely did Donnie say that this thing was to catch on fire?"

You shrugged helplessly and shuffled your feet as a nervous habit, your shoulder bumped his side as you pushed your way to the door.

"We should check it out, right?"

He didn't get the chance to nod because you'd already stepped out of the machine and back into the room you started in. You gave a sigh of displeasure and glanced around the room. Raph followed behind you and kept his eyes narrowed for threat. You were definitely in the lab, there was no doubt about that. But this lab was cleaner than you'd ever seen in your life and you knew that there was no way that Donnie had cleaned all of this in under five minutes.

You didn't have to be psychic to know that your turtle escort was staring at you, not that you cared, you were far to interested in the photo frame on Donnie's much newer desk. It appeared to be a family picture. Sporting a much older looking Splinter, a more mature Casey and April with their arms around each other, and an even more shocking looking Leo, Mikey, and Donnie, who for some reason all hand someone under their arm who looked shockingly human.

But what really took the air out of your lungs were the four at the side of the picture. A person who you assumed was you, but somewhere in their early thirties, tucked under Raph's arm. That wasn't inherently shocking, but the young boy standing in front of you with your hand on his shoulder and the little girl hanging from the turtle's other arm was.

"Raph?"

He was still clueless.

"Huh?"

"C'mere."

His eyes bulged out of his skull the second they landed on the picture frame in your hand, you gave him a calm raised eyebrow that was concealing your bubbling anxiety within. He took an extra moment to look between you and the picture several times before awkwardly rubbing the back of his neck and watching you set the frame back on the desk.

"I uh- I think this might be a good time to tell ya that I like ya?" At your confused expression he sighed in defeat, "I'm mean to ya because I don't like the feelings you give me..."

You snorted out a laugh and rolled your eyes, "Dude, I'm just mean to you because you act like an ass."

You both took a second to laugh at that, then you heard voices approaching and made a quick scramble back to the machine.

Donnie was eagerly awaiting your feedback and met you with a nervous smile when you both stepped out the smoking door.

"Well? How'd it go? What'd you see? Are you hurt?"

You and Raph shared a glance, hiding the underlying hilarity of the situation at hand. You were the one to respond first.

"Not much. But your lab's clean in the future."

#tmnt raphael #tmnt x reader #ask response #askbox #tmnt bayverse

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lis-likes-fics · 4 years ago

Text

English, Please

Part 6: Exhaustion and Enegry Drinks? Your Favorite! Can’t Say The Same For Elijah...

~~~

You were a little cranky. You hadn't gotten as much sleep as you intended to get the night before because you were studying for a test and almost pulled an all-nighter.

So here you were, running on only half an hour of sleep.

Little did you know, Elijah had the same situation as you, except he was up all night grading papers and preparing a test for the week.

All of your teachers picked up on your prickly behavior quickly. You were usually really kind and respectful, but you were a little snappy toward everyone.

"Hey, Y/N/N!" Caroline greeted happily when she got up to you in the hall, about to head to your third period.

You growled, "What, Caroline?"

She made a face, "Jeez, just saying hi. What's wrong with you?"

You rubbed your temples, "I'm fine. Tired."

"I can see that."

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"Hey, Y/L/N, what's got your panties in a twist?" Damon asked as he came up beside the both of you.

You had to keep yourself from snapping at him. Literally. You were not doing so well.

"Tired. Do something and I'll bite you," you threatened full-heartedly.

He shook his head and rolled his eyes, digging in his bag. He gave you an energy drink and told you, "Take this, or you'll end up getting detention with one of the teachers."

Detention with Elijah wouldn't be so bad...

But you really needed a mood lift and a little more energy could give you that. You sighed and drank from the bottle, thanking Damon.

"This is alcohol, is it?" You asked him, lifting a brow.

He rolled his eyes again, "I'm trying to keep you from detention, not throw you in a suspension. Have a little faith."

You rolled your eyes at the Salvatore Brother and got to Klaus's class with Caroline.

You were in a better mood by the time the class ended and were ready to go see Elijah. You couldn't wait.

Oh, a side effect of energy drinks that you tend to have? You got...testy. How you loved to challenge and antagonize people.

You couldn't wait to see how Elijah would fair against you.

So you walked into French class, getting through the door. Usually, you were the first person in so you could steal a kiss, but today you were next to last. Already off to a good start.

Elijah looked up at you when you walked through the door with no one in particular, that very small, very silent smirk on your face.

He narrowed his eyes which followed you halfway to your seat. He cleared his throat and started teaching.

You tapped Stefan's shoulder in front of you, whispering a little, "I'm bored."

He furrowed his brow, "Ceci est votre classe préférée. C'est le cours préféré de tout le monde. Comment tu t'ennuies? (This is your favorite class. It's everyone's favorite class. How are you bored?)"

You shrugged, "Just am. The teacher's no fun."

Stefan rolled his eyes and turned back to his desk, "Concentrer, Y/N. (Focus.)"

You let out a huff and Elijah turned around, a hand on his desk and his ruler in hand. He only used the thing to point at the board or screen when he was using it.

"Y a-t-il quelque chose que vous aimeriez partager avec tout le monde? (Is there something you would like to share with everyone?)" He asked sternly.

Stefan shook his head, "Non, Professeur. (No, Professor.)"

"Êtes-vous sûr? Je suis sûr que j'ai entendu l'anglais. (Are you sure? I'm sure I've heard English.)" Elijah raised a brow, looking to you for an explanation.

You concealed your smile and shrugged, "Non, Monsieur."

He narrowed his eyes at you before turning back to the board. You muttered, "That's 'cause you speak it, dumbass."

"Y/N!" Stefan whisper-shouted.

"Y a-t-il autre chose? (Is there something else?)" Elijah asked, his voice more firm than before.

"Non, Professeur," you told him. He eyed you again and you crossed your legs from one side to the other. He licked his bottom lip between his teeth and you had to keep yourself from smiling at the effect you had on him.

He turned back to the board once again.

You sat in your seat, not paying much attention. You already knew what he was teaching, you got a sneak peak at his lessons last time you were with him.

In fact, he let you do it after he'd finished putting it together. The only reason it was more challenging for you than for everyone else was because he had you do the work while he fucked you, having you read it out loud as you did your work.

That was a fun night...

You tapped your fingers on the desk quietly and thought for a moment. You smiled and grabbed a piece of paper from your bag,

You scribbled a note on it and passed it to Stefan. 'Don't his hands look so hot? Mm, those hands...'

Stefan's eyes widened very slightly and scribbled on another piece of paper, throwing it over to you. 'Y/N, he's your teacher.'

You rolled your eyes. 'I can still fantasize. Besides, we're seniors. I'm out by the end of the year.'

'What are you saying?' He scribbled back.

'I can fantasize about those hands, that's what I'm saying. Those big, perfect, beautiful hands.'

Stefan sighed heavily, 'Y/N! Behave!'

'I'm just saying. He's hot. Just attractive.'

Stefan shook his head and went back to his work, not responding so he could use the last few minutes to do his work.

The class came to an end and Elijah announced, "Au revoir, classe. (Goodbye, class.)"

Everyone got up, packing as they got ready to leave the class. He added, "À part toi, M. Salvatore et Ms. Y/L/N. (Except for you, Mr. Salvatore and Ms. Y/L/N.)"

You almost smirked. Stefan spoke up, "Oui, Professeur Mikaelson." He put the pieces of papers in his bag and went to zip it up.

Elijah shook his head, "Avec les notes, s'il vous plaît. (With the notes, please.)" He didn't turn around as he said this.

Stefan shot you a look and everyone left the class, giggling and murmuring about your "misfortune".

You both went to the front of the classroom, standing in front of his desk. Elijah held his hand out for the notes and Stefan handed it over reluctantly.

"Vous avez une détention, Y/N. (You have detention, Y/N.)" Elijah told you not yet reading the notes. "Merci, M. Salvatore. Vous pouvez partir. (Thank you, Mr. Salvatore. You can leave.)" He said this as he sat down in his seat.

"Quoi? (What?)" You questioned, feigning surprise. Stefan nodded and left the room, shrugging at you as he left. You mouthed "traitor" at him as he walked out the door, closing it behind him.

You turned back to Elijah, smirking a little. He looked up at you and cocked a brow, taking in a breath.

You folded your hands behind your back, rocking back and forth on your feet. You looked over his desk to see the notes, scanning over them as you told him, "Vous trouverez les notes familières. Après tout, je te l'ai déjà dit... (You will find the note familiar. After all, I already told you...)"

"You're going to make me say it?" He asked.

You questioned, "Dire quoi? (Say what?)"

He sighed, "English, please."

"As you wish. I still have a class after this, you know," you told him, quirking a brow.

He spoke as he peaked at you over the notes, "Actually, you have lunch and then you have Kol. You'll be fine."

He began reading the note, drowning the room is silence. His brows shot up as he read it, clearly amused by the notes.

"That's was a little dangerous of you, dear," he told you as he tore the pages and threw them away.

"Maybe I'm feeling a little dangerous today," you told him, licking your bottom lip into your mouth.

He let out a rather aroused sigh and said, "What's gotten into you today? You were talking in class, passing notes. Are you looking you be punished?"

You leaned forward a little, teasingly, "Maybe I am, sir."

Elijah stared at you, his eyes falling to your lips. You were so out of character, but he still loved every bit of it. Oh, you would have to be punished for your behavior.

He spoke, "Don't his hands look so hot? Mm, those hands..." He was repeated your notes to you. The tone in his voice made you so wet. But you wouldn't cave. If two could play that game, then two would.

You nodded, speaking in the most seductive tone you could muster, "Those hands... Those big, perfect, beautiful hands."

You closed your eyes, imagining them inside of you, giving a light moan as you bit your bottom lip. You could tell by the way he sighed and shifted in his chair that you were winning.

You should be sleep deprived more often...

He lifted his hands, setting his elbows on the table. He showed them off, looking at them as he turned them around so you had a good view of them. He asked, "These hands? The ones you love to feel inside of you. The ones you've sucked and fucked?"

You almost lost it then. His tone was so perfect and his hands moving the way they were were making you uncomfortably desperate.

But you wouldn't break.

You swallowed your moan and nodded, "Yes, those very ones. The ones you slide in and out of me, and it's always easy to because I'm always so wet for you. How I love those hands."

You were back on top again because he closed his eyes, no doubt imagining your slick wetness. He loved imagining you.

He finally stood from his desk, adjusting the cuffs of the already perfect sleeves of his already perfect suit. He was just doing it to get to you again.

And it was working.

He moved closer to you and you had to adjust, now looking up at him instead of down. The height difference made you swallow hard.

He noticed and used it to his advantage, "You love seeing me over you, don't you, my sweet?"

You nodded, "And you love seeing me under, nd over, and beside, and bent over that desk or your knee."

Your wetness was now pooling in your panties, wetting your inner thighs. You shifted slightly, just enough, because Elijah heard the slight sound of that slickness and almost completely lost it. You could see it in his eyes; he was holding on by a thread.

"Oh, my dear. The things you do to me," he spoke, so close to your face now.

You licked your lips, "I accept your surrender."

He chuckled lightly. Now you were also hanging on by a thread.

It was whoever spoke first.

And you almost did.

But he had you.

All you were going to say was 'If you're going to punish me, go ahead.'

But he used your weakness against you, leaning into your ear and telling you in that raspy, deep, seductive tone of his.

"If you want to be my good girl, all you have to do is sit on that desk for me. I'm sure I can find a suitable way to punish you for your misdeeds."

Fuck.

You lost. You weren't even mad.

You let out a shaky breath and used whatever breath was left to moan. You sat on the desk obediently, spreading your legs for him desperately.

He smiled, "I win."

You rolled your eyes, "Yeah, yeah, yeah. Get over here and fuck me already."

Continue Reading on Wattpad or Ao3.

~~~

Suit and Staglist: @avala-moon @xxwritemeastoryxx @melodiclovesong @thebrotherssalvatore321 @strangerliaa @njeancastro316 @dumble-daddy @mrs-salvawhore @deviously-innocent

#elijah mikaelson #Elijah Mikaelson fanfiction #elijah mikaelson x reader #elijah mikaelson x y/n #TVD #the vampire diaries #the originals #the originals fanfiction #the vampire diaries fanfiction #Professor x Student #professor mikaelson #elijahmikaelson #the originals x reader

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schrijverr · 4 years ago

Text

I Wrote My Own Deliverance

Chapter 10 out of 10

Alexander Hamilton is reborn as Alex Hambleton. He is desperate not to make the same mistakes twice, but it seems he is stuck in the narrative, unable to get out. Familiar faces pop up all around him as he attempts to keep his previous life a secret and write himself out of the story.

On AO3.

Ships: none

Warnings: none, but tell me if I missed anything or if you want me to tag something!!

~~~~~~~~~~~

“- Oh my god, you have been roommates with Aaron Burr for over a year!”

Alex winced. He’d hoped everyone had forgotten that detail, but it seemed not as the entire room exploded once more. With a last “What the shit, Alex,” from Laurens the room fell quiet to look at him expectantly.

He shrugged and said: “I made my peace with Burr, he’s pretty cool.”

And with that the whole room was send into disarray again.

“How!” John shrieked, “He murdered you!”

“Yeah and he had his reasons. I hate to inform you, but I was the one that said yes to the duel and insulted him the whole way through.” Alex shot back, “Besides, I thought we had just established that this time things can be different. If I can believe in Aaron, I can believe in myself. So far he’s been nothing but civil to me, he’s just another student wanting to live his life.”

It was quiet for a moment and Alex offered: “And Betsy already punched him, so even-Steven?”

“Only you, Alexander.” Eliza face palmed.

“I try.” he grinned.

“Wait,” Angelica said and Alex was scared of what she remembered, “You already knew at the party. Why did you come if you knew you would get punched?”

“First of, I didn’t want to assume and I only put the pieces together when the fist was already flying at my face. Second, I kinda did deserve that.” he told her.

“That’s not exactly healthy.” John pointed out, but he shut up after a look from Alex, the other had too much dirt on him and John was honestly the last who could talk about fighting as a coping mechanism.

Alex stuck his tongue out, as he turned and grabbed his phone: “Speaking of the party and Aaron, I probably need to find him before he does something stupid with his self-esteem issues and blame complex, like no offense, but our last meeting was not the most important thing ever.”

“You died.” Lafayette pointed out.

“Happens to the best of us,” Alex shrugged, “Case and point.”

“Ego much.” John grumbled and Alex just smiled as he called Aaron anonymously, the man probably wouldn’t pick up otherwise.

“Ah, yes, with me, Alex, your favourite and only roommate.”

“No, I’m not here to yell at you. I would have done that already if I wanted to.”

“Yeah, naturally, I never come back on my words.”

“They’re here yeah, already yelled at me and stuff.”

“I cannot with a 100% certainty promise that you will not get punched, but I am willing to try and convince them otherwise.”

He hung up and turned to the others: “Aaron is coming over, be nice.”

“Why would I be nice.” John pouted, arms crossed.

“Because, my dear Laurens, I have forgiven him and he could use some friends.” Alex explained.

“I’m with John here, I don’t want to be his friend.” Eliza mirrored John.

Alex smiled and said: “I know, Betsy, I know, but he hasn’t had it easy either. Even more of a nay-sayer and all around stick in the mud this time around. He has no one, you know how much it sucks to have no one.”

“Theodosia?” she asked, but Alex could tell her bleeding heart was giving in.

“Hasn’t come back, yet.” he smiled sadly at her.

“Alright, I won’t punch him then.” she threw her hands in the air.

They turned to John, who moped: “Whatever, but I’m not going to be nice.”

“Oh come on, man.” Herc said, “Making fun of Burr was always fun, it’ll be like the good old days when we were right and he told us to shut up.”

“You have a warped idea of fun, mon ami.” Laf told him.

“Like you weren’t there every single time to join in.” Herc shot back as they dissolved into squabbling.

Alex smiled and finally felt like he could take a breath. He had his friends around him again and no matter what the world threw at him, he could take it. He was home.

A knock at the door shook him out of his musings and he threw a look over his shoulder as he walked over to the door. Before he opened it, he warned: “Be nice.”

Aaron was indeed standing there and Alex greeted him cheerily: “Aaron Burr, sir.”

“Alexander” Aaron greeted with a wince.

“Come on, don’t be like that. If I had known you would become more boring, I would have never written another public document to fuck with you.” Alex grinned.

“Don’t antagonize him, Alex.” Eliza called out.

“Yeah, we all know how that turned out last time.” John huffed.

The comments didn’t really help, because Aaron winced as he started to back away, clearly on the brink of running.

“Guys, please try to be civil.” it earned Alex some disbelieving snorts, “Look at him, he’s about to cry. Are you gonna make Aaron Bartow cry?”

“Oh, it’s Aaron Bartow now?” John huffed.

“Yes. Yes, it is.” Alex said, “Just like you’re John Lawson and I’m Alex Hambleton. We’re not the same people anymore and I forgave Aaron a long time ago. He deserves people who know and understand as much as the next person.”

“You forgive me?” Aaron voice sounded so small and fragile that all retorts that might have been, died before they were spoken.

“I do.” Alex told him, “I saw your face, you know? When you shot. You were bracing for a bullet and when it didn’t come you looked so heartbroken and surprised. Van Ness had to drag you away. I don’t forget easily. I know I’m abrasive and a loud mouth that has an opinion on everything, who makes rash decisions, so I don’t blame you for wanting to protect yourself.”

Aaron looked at him wordlessly, unsure of what to say.

Alex grinned: “I’m aware you have a stick up your ass, but are you going to stare at my handsome face the entire day or am I going to get a hug.”

“You’re an asshole.” Aaron told him as he clutched the other tightly.

“I’ve been told.” Alex replied, merely holding on just as strong.

It took a while before either let go, but Alex was planning to hide for today and standing in the hallway with his door open was not ideal, especially as time went on and more people got the news, so he pried Aaron off him and led him inside.

He turned back to properly close the door when it was slammed open by none other than Tom, or Thomas Jefferson, he wasn’t sure who he had in front of him.

“You.” he pointed at Alex, whose eyes grew wide as he held up his hands, probably Jefferson he thought, “You motherfucker.”

Jefferson slammed down his hand and seethed: “This, really? You and your fucking pamphlets have to- Ugh! It’s always fucking you with your big ego and thousands of words that don’t even make sense most of the time and-”

“Hey, dude, calm down.” Alex cut him off, “What got you so mad?”

“This triggered my memories.” Jefferson admitted with venom, “Not the history lessons, not my face in buildings, not my legacy fucking me over or even that stupid musical. But you and your constant need for attention.”

“Ah,” Alex is quite unsure about what to say and one look at the others confirmed that neither did they, so he weakly offered, “At least you remember?”

“Like you think that’s a good thing, I read your stupid pamphlet, Lord knows I did, and it sucks, asshole.” Jefferson snarled, “We both know that.”

“It gets better when you find people.” Alex said, gesturing to the others, who waved awkwardly.

“Maybe, but I don’t really have anybody, now do I?” Jefferson told him and Alex would’ve never thought he’d see the day where he sympathized with Jefferson, though in front of him was Tom as well, not just Jefferson anymore.

“I thought we were kind of friends?” he replied, “I like debating with you and we agree more this time and, look, I know people we knew.”

Jefferson looked at him as if he had three heads as he slowly said: “You, Alexander Hamilton, you- you want to be friends? With me? Did you hit your head? Like is there something wrong with you and are you missing your memories? You hate me.”

“No, I hate Thomas Jefferson and if I recall correctly, your name is Tom Jamesson.” Alex replied, “And if you look closely, you’ll see Aaron Bartow sitting there. Besides, I think I can handle more debating in my life.”

“Only you would keep someone in your life to fight with them.” Tom said with a faked annoyance, “Though my name is actually Thomas Jamesson, so get your fact straight.”

“Well, then, Thomas, welcome to my humble abode, now please shut the door behind you before nosy strangers come in.” Alex said when Thomas’ reply wasn’t a blunt no.

Thomas snorted: “You published your life story again and you’re worried about nosy strangers.”

“It’s about the principle of the thing, I wanna do it all official, maybe hold a press conference, get a dinner thrown in my honor, make a long speech that everyone is forced to listen to. It’ll be great.” he grinned.

“The fact that I believe you is disturbing.” Angelica piped up.

And so they roped Thomas into the fray that was their little Revolution crew as they talked about their life now and their life back then. They compared notes on what was different and what was the same.

Apparently the Schuyler sisters were now childhood best friends and Angelicas memories had triggered those of the others. Eliza remarked: “Peggy was so sad she couldn't come to slap you into next week, but she has her internship.”

“Not looking forward to that.” Alex winced, “And I thought she liked me?”

“She does, she just likes fighting more.” Angelica commented humorously, “Being able to have opinions and do stuff, has really gotten her out of her 18th century shell.”

“Good for her.” Alex nodded.

“That’s what I said!” John exclaimed excitedly.

They moved on to Lafayette, who told them it was same old French noble blood and being send off to America for better education and to explore the world. He pouted over not being as close to Washington anymore, but brightened when he told them about the tea they drank together every other Wednesday.

John didn’t say anything about his father, besides the fact that he was a Senator and still a dick, or other family for that matter, but he was ecstatic that he would be able to become a Doctor this time around and he loved his study dearly.

Thomas didn’t really say much either. He was still struggling with connecting his two identities and what that meant for him. When asked about James, he sadly said: “If I saw him, we didn’t recognize each other.”

“Hey, we’ll find him if he’s out there.” Alex comforted him, then joked, “He probably remembered and tried to stay as far away from here as possible to avoid seeing me again.”

It got a small huff of amusement out of Thomas.

Alex looked at Aaron to ask about him, when his phone rang. Nervously he picked up: “Hello, yes, this is Alex Hambleton speaking.”

“Ah, you’ve read it then.”

“I understand.”

“Within the month?” Alex asked surprised, “Then I get to keep my scholarship? Thank you so much, sir!”

He turned to the others who were waiting expectantly as he grinned: “Looks like I’m getting registered and my plan for world domination is still on track.”

“I’ll drink to that.” Herc yelled, getting cheers from the others.

Alex smiled in the midst of his friends with a future bright and obtainable. A story ready for him to write how he saw fit, unbound by mistakes of the past.

He might be an old story in a new place, but there was always room for a rewrite. They were already on the second draft anyway.

#RR writing #Hamitlon AU #hamilton #hamilton the musical #alexander hamilton #Aaron Burr #thomas jefferson #angelica schuyler #eliza schuyler #john laurens #lafayette #marquis de lafayette #hercules mulligan #I Wrote My Own Deliverance #I Wrote My Own Deliverance Chpater 10

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itsstickball · 6 years ago

Note

Can you please write more of the rivalry thing? It’s soooo good. I would love to see Neil’s teams reaction

I didn’t forget you, I promise!! Here is Rivalry pt. 3: All Star Week

(pt.1 pt. 2)

Three days before the start of All Star week, Neil makes the mistake of posting the kitten video he meant to send as a private message directly to his twitter feed. In the clip, a kitten bats away a ball a few times before missing three in a row. The final attempt, the ball goes directly over its head and the kitten topples backwards trying to stop it. By the time he figured out that it hadn’t gone directly to Andrew, there were several hundred likes already. Rather than try to find the tutorial again on how to delete a twitter post, he tags Andrew in a comment instead and adds #shootout.

He doesn’t realize the magnitude of his mistake until he’s sitting in front of a camera, geared up for the shoot-out event, with a microphone two inches from his face and an excited looking reporter.

They’ve made it through the general questions. How does it feel to be called an All Star after only three years in the professional league? (Satisfying, but not as good as being signed to Court last spring). Which event is he looking forward to the most? (The final game, obviously) Does he have any tricks up his sleeve for the shootout? (We’ll just have to wait and see, won’t we?) The sudden gleam in the reporter’s eyes should have tipped Neil off that things were about to go a bit sideways, but he was running on an Exy high and so dismissed it as fervor for the sport he loved.

Looking back, he can practically hear Andrew’s voice in his head: “Junkie.”

“Speaking of the shootout, we can’t help but wonder; most guys -”

“- And girls.”

“Right, most guys and gals treat this week as a celebration of talent, putting aside rivalries and bad blood to just enjoy the sport, but it fans seem to think from your recent social media postings that this might not be the case for you.”

Neil tried to think about which post, in particular, the reporter is referring to. The only person he can remember roasting recently is Nicky, and he’s in Germany doing – well, Neil doesn’t actually know what he’s doing (Erik aside). Thankfully, the reporter had taken his blank look in stride and then exposed more on the situation. Truthfully though, Neil didn’t hear much more than “Minyard” and “kitten.” His expression flattened further as the lightbulb in his head went off. He still didn’t get the merit of his so called rivalry with Andrew, but apparently it made for good media coverage and the blonde hadn’t mentioned anything about stopping it or setting the record straight, so Neil didn’t fight it either.

He shrugged at the reporter.

“Someone told me once that life imitated art. So I guess we’ll just have to see if that’s true or not. With no plays to analyze, Andrew will have to actually put some effort in to protect his goal today.”

Unfortunately – or fortunately, really, for the media. Andrew did not imitate the cat video and stopped roughly 80% of the shots. Of Neil’s, he missed one and blocked the other.

After that, the goalie sat and watched as the rest of the players took part in passing, aim, trick shots, speed, and one-on-one competitions – most of which kept Neil busy.

When it came time for the one-on-one, Neil grinned when he saw who his first opposing backliner would be. Jean seemed less than enthused, but Neil was more than used to that by now. Just because Jean wasn’t smiling didn’t mean he wasn’t enjoying himself. If anything, his resting bitch face was just as famous as Andrew’s – maybe more.

The backliner turned his head when Neil called out his name and a greeting in French, his expression flattening when he realized who was talking to him. Annoyance was easily Jean’s most common reaction to Neil’s presence, but he put up with him nonetheless.

“Ah, so you’ve come to antagonize someone other than the midget for once.”

He answered in French. Neil faked shock with a hand to his chest as he jogged over to where Jean stood, but let out a laugh.

“I’m wounded that you think so little of me, Jean, really.”

“Yes, little.” Jean replied, icily looking down at Neil. Their height difference was supremely pronounced now that they stood next to each other. Neil gave him a wry look for that one, but Jean had a point. Instead he tugged on the corner of Jean’s sleeve.

“How about instead of insulting my mother’s genes, we talk about your new team. Please tell me you switched for the captain, not for the color scheme.”

The Sacramento Sentinels were a relatively new team, with only one full season under their belt. They also chose the colors gold and black to represent them – both of which Jean wore at some point during his college career. Neil was far more interested in Jean’s reunion with exy’s golden boy Jeremy Knox than any homage to the backliner’s former teams. He watched with a grin as Jean’s eyes involuntarily sought Jeremy out among the players. He scowled when he looked back down and saw Neil’s amused expression.

“Just for that, I’m not letting you get twenty feet from the goal, ma puce!”

Neil laughed as Jean pushed him to the bench with a large hand on his face and then stalked away. His grin only grew when he saw that Jean was, in fact, heading over to where Jeremy was talking with their coach for the game at the end of the week.

True to his word, Jean kept Neil well away from any easy close shots on goal, forcing the striker to resort to a strange trick-shot hail-mary that made it in more on luck than skill. Jean snorted and shook his head when Neil cheered at the goal, but he accepted Neil’s handshake-turned-hug nonetheless.

The rest of the week was a blur of exy and stolen moments with Andrew in the locker room or hotel. Andrew’s transfer to Denver at the end of last season put him in the same division as Neil, meaning they’d have to play and practice on the same team for the All Star game. The increased proximity brought great joy to the striker, even if Andrew continued to glare as he batted Neil’s shots away or look bored as they sailed past him.

Neil could feel the measured looks and camera focus whenever the team practiced for the game at the end of the week.

On Wednesday, after the sixth shot that Andrew had rebounded with just enough force that the strikers had to sprint to rebound it, their All Star coach called for a break. Neil removed his helmet and turned to face Andrew from half court.

“Are you going to shut Kevin out like that on Saturday?” He called out in Russian, not bothering to keep his voice down. From what he knew, none of the others on their team spoke the language. Andrew followed suit, taking his gear off and letting everything but his helmet and stick fall carelessly to the floor.

“What will you give me in return?”

Andrew tossed back. He sounded bored, but just the fact that he was replying at all told Neil he was interested in the deal.

“What, the sheer satisfaction of denying Kevin doesn’t do it for you anymore?”

He shot back, earning one of Andrew’s arm guards thrown at his face. Aware of the eyes watching them from the outer court and the open door, Neil grinned and put as many expletives in his answer as possible.

Andrew rolled his eyes, finally coming up to where Neil stood waiting. He grabbed his glove from the red-head’s grip and pointed it menacingly at him. In English, he said.

“Someone ought to wash that mouth of yours out before it gets you in trouble.”

Only when Andrew stomped past them did Neil take note of the reporters who had paused in their interview of a Dallas backliner to watch their little interaction. His smile turned a little less genuine and slightly sharper until they went back to what they were doing. He didn’t bother to collect any of Andrew’s gear, but hummed to himself as he fetched his water-bottle and then sat down to chat with his fellow strikers.

Andrew hadn’t said no.

He did, however, put fuck all effort into guarding his goal in the preliminary game against the Pacific division on Friday though. Neil flicked him off when he realized what Andrew was doing, grateful that he would only be playing one half. Because the goalie was putting zero effort in, it meant that Neil and the other strikers who played first half had to double theirs in order to keep the goal differential down.

“I fucking hate you.”

Neil wheezed, gasping for breath as they headed back to the locker room afterward. He’d never cared much for the shows that supposedly big stars put on during the halftime breaks at professional games, and he especially didn’t care about whatever spectacle they had planned between the preliminary games and the final All-Star match. No, after clinching a 10-9 win, all he wanted to do was rest until he had to get up and do it all again against the Eastern teams.

Andrew, lumbering ahead of him and quite unaffected by it all, didn’t even have the good graces to wait for him.

“No, Junkie, that’s my line. Or did all that running finally scramble your brain?”

“Ugh. Always.”

Neil groaned and though the look Andrew shot him for it was lethal, he was willing to bit it tugged into a smile as he shouldered through the doorway into the locker rooms. A few of his teammates tried to talk to him about the game, how it went well, all things considered and such things, but he mostly tuned them out as he grabbed his water bottle and joined the string of people disbanding into the locker room.

They played first, so the Central team had over an hour to sit and mingle. Neil smiled when he saw a couple of his teammates and members of the Pacific team walking around with their jersey and a marker. When the first one got to him, he asked what it was for. Laila Dermott grinned down at him, making sure that he took the items and started signing as she spoke.

“Some of the players just keep them as souvenirs – a cool way to remember all of the people they played with that year. A couple of us auction them off for charity. This year the proceeds are going to Stand Up For Kids. It’s an organization working to help homeless kids and those out on the streets.”

“Oh, cool.”

Neil said, a bit stunned by the generosity. He knew from Nicky’s ranting how much a normal jersey worn by a professional athlete could go for, let alone one signed by this many of them.

“Ah yes, gotta keep them off the streets,” Andrew piped up. Somehow, Neil had missed him coming up beside them. “Wouldn’t want them to get into anything dangerous.”

Laila frowned, but Neil didn’t think trying to engage Andrew on some social justice issue was worth the risk. He cut her off by handing her the jersey and marker back and replying himself.

“Don’t be a dick, Andrew.”

The blonde made a show of plucking the Jersey out of his fellow goalie’s hands and signing his name in the largest space available. He flicked his gaze back up to Neil even as he held the shirt and marker back out to Dermott.

“Who said I was?”

Neil let out a huff and stood, grateful that he’d brought slides to wear between games rather than his usual running shoes.

“I’m not doing this here.”

He said. He gave Laila a brief smile and then headed for the hallway. Hopefully most of the reporters would have returned to the outer court to watch the Eastern and Southern division teams play. At the very least, he could find an open office somewhere. Behind him, he heard the noise from the locker room crescendo as someone opened the door behind him. As it swung shut, he faintly heard someone asking if they should stop Minyard from following him. Neil sincerely hoped they didn’t – for everyone’s sake.

When Andrew closed the office door behind them, effectively cutting them off from the rest of the world, Neil felt something settle. Of course, just because he was more comfortable this way didn’t mean he wasn’t cross with Andrew still. The blonde seemed unimpressed as he turned to see how Neil was leaning up against the desk, his arms crossed in front of his chest.

“Are you going to spit it out, or waste my time staring?”

“I’m not mad about the comments to Dermott.” He clarified, mostly because he knew Andrew would be entirely uninterested if he thought that was what had Neil bothered. Then again, he probably wouldn’t like the actual topic of his ire either. Neil sighed and ran a hand through his hair, a habit of frustration he’d picked up from Matt.

“You couldn’t have blocked…I don’t know, half of the shots?”

He asked exasperatedly. True to form, Andrew’s expression flattened.

“That,” He enunciated with great boredom and disdain. “Wasn’t our deal.”

Four words. All it took was four words for Neil to be simultaneously filled with petty ire and a huge sense of relief and satisfaction. Because when Andrew implied that something wasn’t a part of a deal, it meant that there was something else that was.

“Oh.”

Neil breathed, letting all of his anxiety wash out with it.

Andrew looked like he wanted to roll his eyes. He stepped into Neil’s space.

“Yes, or no?”

Neil’s eyes were drawn to the curve of Andrew’s neck, the golden sheen of his eyes in the dimly lit room, the way his lips were slightly damp from licking them. Compulsively, he licked his own lips, but his eyes strayed to the clock on the far wall.

“We don’t have a lot of time before we have to get back, someone’s bound to notice us missing for too long.”

The dead look Andrew gave him said he’d wait for an actual answer. Neil heeded his own observation, however, and didn’t waste time talking. Instead, he leaned forward the last few inches and aligned his lips with Andrew’s.

Later, the final buzzer sounded and Neil whirled to face the scoreboard with a grin. He always had the goals running in his head, but it was indescribably satisfying to have the numbers glowing down at him from the jumbotron. Central 6, Eastern 5. They’d won. Even if it was only by the one point, Neil felt the victory singing in his veins. His teammates yelled and jumped off of each other like they hadn’t just run their legs out for the past twenty minutes. Neil joined them briefly before turning his attention to the goal.

Andrew never joined his teams in celebrations - not once he was sober, and no one ever tried to include him. It was a bit of a shock then to see him leaning casually on his stick talking to another player. The surprise mitigated significantly, however, when he realized that the other player was Kevin. Judging by his stance, he didn’t seem to be picking a fight, but with Kevin and Andrew that was always just a breath away from changing.

Neil excused himself with a slap on the back from the huddle of players to jog over to them. As he joined them, he caught the tail end of Kevin’s sentence.

“…tell me it wasn’t worth it.”

“Mmm,” Andrew mused, taking a moment like he actually had to think about his answer. Neil almost felt bad for how Kevin fell for it every damn time.

“Not quite.” He said, to Kevin’s vocal dismay. Then his eyes slid over to where Neil stood just behind Kevin’s shoulder. “Not yet.”

Kevin made another half-squawk as he turned around to follow Andrew’s gaze, but his expression narrowed when he saw it was just Neil.

“Of course.” He muttered, running a gloved hand down his face. He gave Neil a disapproving look.

“If I were to take his neck guard off, how many hickies would I see?”

Neil grinned wolfishly, but it was Andrew who replied.

“Why don’t you come try to find out for yourself, Kev?”

The taller striker shot a fearful glance behind him and then physically shook it off.

“God you two were meant for each other. How anybody thinks you’re rivals is blind to the most blatant sexual tension I’ve ever seen.”

He grumbled, removing his gloves and clearly getting ready to leave the court. Neil didn’t mind dragging their conversation out, but Kevin seemed to have a sixth sense for how long a private conversation could be before it drew unwanted media attention.

“It was a good game!” Neil called out after him, earning a sharp grin and a wave from Kevin, even if he didn’t stop walking away.

Andrew caught his attention again my poking him in the chest with his racquet. Neil lifted his eyebrows in question.

“Go shower before the exy stench sinks even further into you.” He said in Russian. Neil mirrored the grin he’d given Kevin.

“And here I thought it was too late for that.”

Andrew didn’t respond to that, just pushed Neil towards the locker room again with the giant head of his racquet.

When he was ten steps away, Andrew called out again from behind him.

“And don’t antagonize any fucking reporters. You have a deal to uphold!”

At this, Neil just laughed and flicked Andrew off behind his back.

Unsurprisingly, someone got a great picture of it to plaster across exy news and fan sites alike in the morning. Neil saved it to his phone and then rolled back over into the warm spot Andrew left when he got up to pee.

#aftg #tfc #neil josten #andrew minyard #andreil #minyard-josten rivalry #the rivalry #all for the game #Jean moreau #Kevin day #blink and you miss it jerejean #can you tell I follow hockey?#this was way longer than I thought when I was writing it #mkkd2611 #you are my first ask and I will cherish you forever

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womanoflettersinthebunker · 5 years ago

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Ruby looked way too comfortable curled up against Sams side, head on his shoulder and her hand on his leg. Sam didn’t look displeased or pushed her away, and maybe it was his imagination but he almost seemed to be leaning into her as well.

To the outside eye they could almost look like any other couple enjoying a day in the park.

It made Deans stomach churn and he wasn’t sure why.

“Maybe we should take this somewhere else, somewhere we can all sit.” John suggested, looking around and seeing a few other people glancing at them.

Mary let out a deep, almost aggravated breath. “Fine, there’s a diner a few blocks away.” she said a bit tensely. “We’ll go there.”

Ruby let out a put upon sigh and gracefully stood up, taking Sams hand with her. Dean stared at that, stared at the way their fingers entwined together, and walked off together towards the diner.

Dean swallowed down whatever he was feeling, he was going to try to make sense of it later on when he had the time, and followed, glancing at his parents. Both of them looked grave, if looks could kill Mary's gaze would’ve killed Ruby alone.

By the time they all reached the diner Sam and Ruby were already sitting in a booth big enough for five of them. They stayed on one side of the booth, Ruby pressing into him again.

Sam still wasn’t pushing her away or giving any indication that he in any way annoyed with her for her motions, Dean noted as he slid into the booth followed by his parents.

The waitress came over, a bored looking woman who barely looked at them as they ordered, and walked away, leaving them to talk among themselves.

“I want to know why you trust her.” Mary said, leaning forward, her eyes pinning Ruby in place. Ruby didn’t look that fazed, just raising an eyebrow at her in response.

“It's personal.” Sam said tensely. “She helped me when I needed help the most. And no, I’m not going to tell you what happened.”

“And how do you know that you’re not just being manipulated by her?” Mary demanded. “How do you know that she’s not lying?”

“She’s right here.” Ruby said in a low voice. “And considering I’ve been by his side for a lot more than you three combined? I’d watch the tone.”

“Ruby, don’t antagonize them, please.” Sam said, rubbing at the bridge of his nose. “And again mom, it's personal. I don’t want to get into it.”

“How convenient.” Mary said with a bit of a snort. “Because until I hear some concrete, and I’m talking bulletproof, holy water filled evidence. I’m not even remotely convinced.”

“We’re not looking for your approval.” Ruby said simply. “Sams a big boy, he can make his own decisions.”

Their waitress came by then, placing coffees and plates in front of them. Ruby smiled at the plate piled high with french fries and eagerly took the ketchup Sam offered her, all but drowning the fries in it.

“I get it, I do.” Sam said softly. “And trust me, after everything with Azazel demons are the last ones that I would trust.” he gave a small sigh, sipping at his coffee; he hadn’t ordered anything else. “But Ruby is different.”

“What makes her different?” John asked. He held a hand up when Sam was about to speak. “You’re allowed to have your personal experiences that you don’t want to share, but you also need to give us something Sam, we need some sort of proof.”

Dean finally dared to look up, freezing when he saw Ruby was staring at him. Neither of them spoke as the others did, the sounds of their voices fading around them.

Then, Ruby smirked and as quick as anything, her eyes flicked to black. Before he could even tense up she blinked and her eyes went back to the human eyes.

She was still smirking at him and he couldn't shake that, couldn’t shake off the look in those dead eyes, even if they weren’t black anymore.

He can't trust her. No matter what Sam says.

#supernatural #Supernatural fanfic #supernatural fanfiction #spn fanfiction #366 #49/366 #366 day challenge #366 days of writing #family broken apart au #Sam Winchester #dean winchester #john winchester #mary winchester #supernatural ruby

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redfordz · 5 years ago

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HUGO REDFORD ( ALEX FITZALAN ) is a 18 year old SENIOR student at Broadripple Academy. HE is originally from BOSTON, MA but moved to Broadripple FOUR YEARS ago. HE is CHARISMATIC and RESOURCEFUL but can also be MANIPULATIVE and EMOTIONALLY DUMB. --- HOUSE SETON

The the smell of french perfume, wrinkled designer clothes, hand rolled cigarettes, stolen bottles of wine, fast hands sneaking things out of pockets, greek sculptures, empty museums, doing the hard thing, listening behind doors, using memes to repress feelings, always keeping a raised head no matter what and mixed playlists with rap, indie and classical music.

— THE REDFORD FAMILY

Hugo Redford is a privileged boy with a big house, a comfortable life and enough money so he doesn’t have to worry about it right now. His parents have a boring marriage and fight a lot over petty stuff. Actually, his mom doesn’t love his father. She likes to fuck him, sometimes, and make a better use of his money than he actually does. She invests, he’s the trophy husband. This is why his parents let them marry, they saw a lot more potential on her. Grandma Redford is literally every cold-hearted socialite you’ve ever heard of.

Dean, his father, has an affair with his business partner - a much younger man. Hugo caught Dean cheating on his mother, but his father didn’t see him and the son never confronted his father about it.

Helen, his mother, is polite, capable, smart and full of rage. She comes from a middle class family, nothing like her husband’s family, but she always had great ambitions, which is why she married him. Helen raised her son to be better than her husband, but you know, he’s a man, so she doesn’t have high expectations - for Helen, all men are trash. He feels like every accomplishment he does, his mother isn’t pleased enough and maybe she’ll never get to love him as much as he wants her to love him.

— THE ROBERTS TWINS

Hugo learned a valuable lesson in life: don’t expect much from people, and expect even less from Dean Redford. Which is why, when his father told him a year ago that he had siblings, Hugo’s response was a meme. Even before he met Connor and Casey Roberts, Hugo already knew they weren’t cut for that kind of thing. He has a good eye to spot rotten people, since he grew up surrounded by them, and he knew the Roberts Twins were good people.

The first thing Hugo told his brother, Connor, was: “You won’t last a day here. Go back to wherever you came from, you’ll be much better off. He doesn’t love you”. He didn’t say this because he’s mean, although it’s kinda true, but because he felt responsible to prepare them for how the upper class would react to them. Therefore, Hugo would antagonize them to make sure they would be ready.

Dean is a gentleman, he’s fun, he plays golf, tennis, baseball, everything you can think of. He has a way with people, he just knows how to be magnetic, and although this isn’t innate to Hugo, he copies it well enough to be a second nature. Dean wants the world, he wants everything he can put his hands on and leave his mark. However, he has a horrible habit: he gets bored. The twins are the byproduct of an extramarital relationship with their mom, while he was engaged to Hugo’s mom.

— PERSONALITY

Hugo is disciplined and the kind of person that says exactly what he thinks, even if it’s the cold, hard truth. He does the hard things, the dirty job, he gets things done. If his siblings wanted to know his world, they had to get ready, which is why he took the matter with his own hands to prepare them.

His name is inspired by Victor Hugo, and just like his namesake, doesn’t believe in snitching. He has a machiavellian personality, for him everything is politics. He has a weird moral compass, yet, it’s his own ethical code and he doesn’t break it. He is strongly motivated by sense of duty.

Greek god Hermes vibes. Hugo will listen behind closed doors, steal stuff he finds suspicious and do everything he can to make things better, even if it’s the worst thing possible. Absolute wine snatcher, will steal every available bottle of wine with no guilt. A little bit of a kleptomaniac.

Always aims to be the best at what he does.

Absolute wine snatcher, will steal every available bottle of wine with no guilt.

Started to roll his own cigarettes bc he likes to mix cannabis and tobacco. Hugo thinks rolling cigarettes helps him with his anxiety and he only learned to roll a good cigarette because he compulsively started to roll them, absolutely hyperfixated, until he thought it was acceptable.

Depressed & stressed, never takes his meds.

Sleeps around a lot, doesn’t care about gender, and doesn’t pretend he’s straight. It’s just nobody’s business, so he just doesn’t explain it.

Likes art, music, old movies, museums and history.

Misses his cats more than he misses his parents.

He loves pomegranate and cranberry tea with honey.

— BROADRIPPLE

He joined Broadripple when he was a freshman, just like most of his family.

He is organized, but always misplaces his academy card.

Hugo avoids the headmaster’s portrait at all costs because he thinks it’s creepy and feels his eyes are following him. When he can’t avoid, he tries to imagine the headmaster dressed like Trixie Mattel.

Sometimes he forgets to greet Sister Clary and it’s… Alwful.

He is scared shitless of the Lorehill Woods, but likes to hang out there and read murder mystery books for the sake of poetic justice. It’s not often and he doesn’t go deep into the forest.

After the former president of the Broadripple Boy’s Club graduated, Hugo was nominated by him as president. He has no idea how to be a president of this club, but he definitely has in mind challenges involving the woods and the ruins. Being nominated as the president is a lot of responsibility and Hugo is afraid he won’t do justice to the former members.

As a roommate, he is pretty neat, but the beginning of the year is the worst. Hugo hates white walls, it gives him anxiety, so it takes him some time to cover the wall beside his bed with anything that resembles wallpaper.

Hugo often got in trouble with the nuns for bad behavior, so on Junior year he got into mandatory Buddy Club duty until he graduates.

Hugo is a member of the Track Team and plays as the goalie to the soccer team. He hates team work, but he had to choose a sport.

#about.

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consecotaleo · 7 years ago

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BNHA Light Novel Vol. 3 – Eng Translation – Chapter 3: “Crisis” (Part Two)

T/N: Here’s Part Two of the Chinese > English translation for BNHA Light Novel Vol. 3, Chapter 3.

Make sure you read Part One first.

Other BNHA Light Novel Vol.3 Content

Chapter 1: “Cheers!” –> After UA home visits, the teachers go out for drinks.

Chapter 2: “Dramatic Makeover” –> Class 1-A moves into the Heights Alliance dorms. Todoroki-centric, interspersed with scenes from the other students.

Chapter 3: “Crisis” –> It’s an ordinary day at the 1-A dorms.

> Part One –> Class 1-A gets a surprise visitor.

> ***Part Two –> The game is on!

Fantasy AU, translated by aitaikimochi –> Dragon!Kirishima confirmed.

(Fan works relevant to the light novel)

Useful Manga References

Chapter 98-99

Class 1-A students

Class 1-B students

Chapter 3: “Crisis” (Part Two)

(Part One recap: A surprise visitor comes to the 1-A dorms! It’s Class 1-B’s Monoma, who wants to explore the building and harass the 1-A students. Kendo, Tsunotori, and Tetsutetsu show up to drag him back. Just earlier, Monoma gripes about not being served some tea as a hospitality. Kirishima and Tetsutetsu continue to be Epic Bros.)

Soon after, Yaoyorozu and Satou return with translucent black tea and delicate cakes for Kendo and the others.

Tetsutetsu and Tsunotori are amazed that Satou could produce such carefully hand-crafted cakes. Kendo dips her head. “Sorry to trouble you further. Monoma’s remark was out of line.”

But Yaoyorozu is eager to serve the first guests to ever show up to the Class 1-A dorms and urges them to try everything.

“Delicious!” “I usually don’t eat sweets, but this is excellent!” “The tea is superb as well!” Kendo, Tetsutetsu, and Tsunotori freely sing their praises.

Meanwhile, Monoma looks a bit like he’s just swallowed a bug. “Ugh, don’t actually treat us hospitably.” Unable to come up with a single complaint, he glares at the offerings. But his hand reaches out for another cake.

Still bitter from the 1-B boy’s scathing review earlier, Kaminari leaps at the chance to strike back. “Hah, so even the great Monoma is defeated by Satou’s sweets!”

“As if I’m going to listen to someone with a room like that!” Monoma retorts.

Kaminari fumes. “Sounds like your own room must be great, given your impeccable taste. If it’s painfully rustic and boring, I’ll fucking laugh in your face.”

“Yeah?” Monoma challenges. “And if it’s not?”

The bet is on. “I’ll boil water with my own electricity and serve you tea with it. No, I’ll heat up all of Class 1-B’s baths!”

It’s on. Monoma whips out his phone, then shows Kaminari. “This is my room.”

Kaminari stares at the photo, speechless.

Ojiro and the others peer over to look as well. The room is silent.

Hagakure finally manages to find her tongue. “Holy crap! What a European style!” She resumes staring.

It’s barely recognizable as a dorm room. The walls have been repainted in soothing pastels. The standard dorm furnishings have been replaced with antique white furniture. The soft colors and elegant arrangement of furniture come together in perfect harmony. What a lovely French-style room! Looking at it, the viewers are filled with a sense of detachment and longing. It’s as if they could walk up to the window and be greeted with a magnificent view of the Eiffel Tower.

“So cute,” Hagakure adds after a moment. Beside her, Yaoyorozu concurs. “That’s really a lovely room.”

The girls clearly love it, and even Kaminari can’t find a single bad thing to say.

“So when are you going to come heat up that bath water?” Monoma fixes Kaminari with a beautific smile. “But oh dear, should I worry that you’re going to use your remaining reserves to electrocute us? Ooooh, how scary, how scary –”

“Enough.” Kendo whacks Monoma extra hard. It seemed the stupid blonde would never change.

“Hey, what is Kendo’s room like?” Hakagure queries.

Before Kendo can respond, Tsunotori pipes up. “Kendo’s room is super cool! Weathered wooden table, black metal furniture, pictures of motorcycles.”

Tetsutetsu nods sagely. “Kendo’s room is manlier than all of ours.”

Embarrassed, Kendo mutters, “Sorry, I can’t really relax if everything is super cute.”

Hakagure barrels on. “And what about Tsunotori’s room?”

“My room… Um, it’s like this.” Tsunotori shyly pulls out her phone. The room is filled with anime posters and figurines. “I love Japanese anime, it’s the coolest!”

“Ah!” Hakagure sounds delighted. “I love that anime too!”

Tsunotori and Hakagure start chattering animatedly, occasionally shouting out lines from the show.

On the side, Iida and Todoroki notice Izuku staring intently at the photo of Tsunotori’s room. Iida furrows his brow. “What’s wrong, Midoriya? Your face is so close to the screen!”

“Your eyes will go bad,” Todoroki chides.

Ignoring them, Izuku looks up at Tsunotori with starstruck eyes. “This… this is the XXXX All Might figurine, not produced in Japan!”

“Oh, indeed it is,” Tsunotori verifies. “Of course I also like All Might!”

“Uwaa, amazing! Even though it’s available, it’d be terribly difficult to get it imported. Um… that is… next time, could you take some close-ups of it…!”

“Of course!”

“A-a-a-ah!” Izuku thanks Tsunotori profusely.

Seeing the Class 1-A and 1-B members happily intermingling, Monoma scowls. “We should probably head back. There’s no point staying any longer.”

(During all this, Monoma has polished off all the tea snacks.)

But Kaminari and Ojiro block his way to the door. “Hold it right there! You barge into our dorm, insult our rooms, eat all the cake, and now want to leave? You think you can just do whatever you want? Don’t even think about waltzing away like this!”

“Oh no, I wasn’t degrading anyone!” Monoma replies coolly. “I was just being honest. ‘Tell it like it is’, you know?”

“You were just being honest?! That’s even more insulting!” Ojiro looks ready to throttle Monoma.

“Calm down, I never said normalcy was bad. ‘Normal’ is quite important. It’s the standard against which you compare everything else, you know…”

(The tension mounts. Boys with bruised self-esteem? As dangerous as wounded beasts. Except the wounded beasts are actually kittens.)

It’s evident that no one is going to drop the matter, and both sides are ready for a confrontation.

“Hey, hey. What do you guys want to do then? I said I would leave, but you won’t allow that. So now what? You want a decisive winner? A clear decision on which side is the strongest?”

The 1-A boys, usually strung along by Monoma, finally get the chance to be the ones to ensnare him.

(The saying is usually ‘a little cute, a hundred times more annoying’ but somehow it seems more like ‘a little annoying, a hundred times more cute’…)

Watching the events unfold, Kendo makes to separate them. But Monoma and the 1-A boys aren’t listening anymore.

“Let’s have a showdown! Don’t run away!”

“We’re the ones who are gonna win, so why would we run?”

Iida steps forward to stop them, but Monoma won’t let him spoil an opportunity to win again Class 1-A. He quickly cries out the UA motto: “Plus Ultra!”

Ah, so the competition is to practice and improve themselves. Even outside of class, they’re so devoted! Mollified, Iida stands down.

Iida taken care of, Monoma continues. “So how will we do this? Whatever method is fine!”

“Er…” Kaminari looks to Ojiro for help.

Ojiro blinks, and eventually settles on a hesistant, “Arm wrestling?”

“Arm wrestling again? Is this revenge for last time? So unimaginative,” Monoma sneers.

** This refers to BNHA Light Novel Vol. 2 Chapter 5, where Class 1-A and 1-B have an arm wrestling competition and Monoma sabotages it when it looks like 1-B is going to lose.

“What about sumo?”

Monoma sniffs. “Isn’t that along the same line as arm wrestling? Besides, why does it have to be a show of strength? That’s so brutish.”

“You just said anything goes! But fine, you choose something then!”

“Don’t just suddenly dump the decision on me! You’re the ones who wouldn’t let me leave and started the fight.”

“I bet! You’re clearly the one who was trying to antagonize us first. You can’t think of anything either!”

As they squabble and scramble to come up with something, Todoroki, who had been quietly watching from the sidelines, suddenly goes “Ah!”

“What’s up, Todoroki-kun?”

“Well, since no one seems to be able to decide, I do have something.” Todoroki goes up to his room, returning with a barrel-like toy.

There are many slots along the barrel, but only one results in a pirate head popping up from the top. Everyone takes turns picking a slot to poke their toy sword into, and anyone who gets the pirate head loses. The game resets until there’s only one person left, and they’re the winner.

** This is Pop-up Pirate. Todoroki got this toy from Hatsume in Chapter 2

“Wow, I didn’t expect Todoroki to have this,” Yaoyorozu says.

“Someone gave it to me,” Todoroki explains.

“But… was the barrel supposed to be this big?” Ojiro seems to recall the toy from his childhood being able to fit in one hand, but the one before him is as big as a basketball.

“It’s probably just an advanced edition. Please, let’s just use this…”

Finally they set the rules for their showdown. 1-A and 1-B will take turns picking slots, and the side that triggers the pirate head loses.

Since 1-B’s side only has 2 girls and 2 boys present, 1-A has to choose 2 girls and 2 boys to represent themselves too:

Kaminari, who’s bitter about his room being insulted earlier,

Ojiro, who thinks it’ll be fun and wants to participate,

Hakagure, who cheerfully raises her hands,

Ashido, who’d just come out of the bath.

When they do rock, paper, scissors to decide who will go first, Monoma wins against Kaminari. “Ahahaha, it looks like luck is on the side of Class 1-B!”

The smug and confident Monoma decides to go first. “Then, let’s start. To the victory of Class 1-B, the first sword!”

He thrusts the sword in. A sudden loud crack… “BZZT ZZ ZZ ZZ ZZ ZZ”

Electricity floods into Monoma, who’s quite literally stunned into silence. Everyone stares at this unexpected development.

“Monoma? Are you okay?!” Tetsutetsu asks, alarmed. “Monoma? Get a hold of yourself!”

“I’m not dead yet.” The frazzled Monoma glares up at Kaminari. “You dare do this, huh?! To think you’d launch a sneak attack… you Class 1-A lot really have some nerve.”

“Wait, it wasn’t me! Everyone saw, right?”

Ojiro comes to the rescue, declaring that the electricity had come from the barrel itself. A debate starts up. The pirate head hasn’t popped out so Monoma technically hasn’t lost, but there must have been some tampering that triggered the electrical shock. As everyone argues, Izuku turns to Todoroki next to him. “Won’t the instruction manual tell us something? Todoroki-kun, do you have a manual?”

“No.” Todoroki’s response is as curt as always, but even he looks a little shaken. “This is from one of the members of 1-H, the Department of Support. I think her name is Hatsu-something? Because it was something she made, she wanted to know our thoughts after we tried playing it…”

“… Eh??” Izuku and Iida immediately yell, both having been on the receiving end of Hatsume’s inventions before.

Todoroki hadn’t anticipated anything like this happening. “I feel pretty bad though, sorry,” he says in a small voice.

Izuku fears that Hatsume has done some nefarious things to the toy and proposes that they stop the game. Iida wholeheartedly agrees. But Monoma won’t have any of it. “Hahahaha! Are you kidding me? Just for such a trivial matter?”

Kaminari points out, “But didn’t you get hurt pretty seriously?”

Monoma aggressively tries to fix his hair as he taunts, “Running away?”

“!”

“So Class 1-A is going to back out on a silly game like this? Oh, I’m so sorry! I’ll just declare my win over you weak-hearted lot and let you go. You guys accepted earlier but were ready to bolt at any second, huh? Go on back to your rooms to have a good cry in bed.”

“As if! The game must go on!” Though everyone is very worried, Kaminari blurts out the response without thinking. Now it’s too late to take the words back.

Monoma’s provocations have hit their mark. He refuses to be the only victim here – it’s not about the physical pain, but rather the blow to his ego.

Decision made, everyone agrees to see the game through until the end.

“Then it’s Class 1-A’s turn,” Monoma proclaims. “Who will be the next victim?”

“I’ll go.” Kaminari steps forward.

Monoma protests. “Don’t you have resistance to electricity? Isn’t that a little too cunning?”

“Hey, it’s not like I can do anything about having this quirk.”

Come at me, I’ll take whatever you can give! With that thought, Kaminari shoves his sword into the barrel.

But there’s no electricity this time. Perhaps the toy had just malfunctioned earlier? There’s a short moment of confusion. Then the toy partially transforms, suddenly crushing Kaminari’s extended fingers in a vice grip. He shrieks.

Before everyone’s eyes, the toy silently returns to its original state.

“I see!” Izuku blurts. “Hatsume designed this to combine the pirate pop-up game with elements of a batsu game.”

** i.e. Japanese punishment game.

Knowing Hatsume, there’s no way electrocution and pinching are the only two punishments available… But they can’t stop now.

–– End of Chapter 3, Part Two ––

Chapter 3, Part Three

Additional Notes:

Hmmm

#boku no hero academia #my hero academia #bnha light novel #monoma neito #kaminari denki #translation

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metronomeihear · 7 years ago

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Wait. I think I spy a lot of DCMK on your blog. Kaito for the character meme??

Yesssss, Kaito for the win!

Kuroba Kaito

First impression: What a glorious asshole.

Impression now: What a glorious asshole. His struggles! His skills! His dorkiness! Everything! I love you! (He’s my favorite character on the Magic Kaitou side of things, really)

Favorite moment: Ahhh, that’s so hard to pick! I adore all his heists, but I think my favorite has to be his debut in the Detective Conan manga. I loved the Black Star heist.

Idea for a story: Which one to tell... Which one to tell... I think that out of all the ideas I’ve ever had involving him, my favorite has to be Incomprehensible. Essentialy, Kaito and Shinichi end up umping from one parallel universe to the next. Ecah universe is a copy of their own, but with differences from the last. Sometimes the changes are small, other times they are much larger. At first they continue jumping universes because they want to find a way home, and later it’s just because they’re bored. I posted a thing here about it.

Unpopular opinion: I don’t like his relationship with Aoko. It’s not because it gets in the way of ships, hell no, it’s because it’s just not healthy. They’re constantly antagonizing each other and driving each other up the walls, and while they serve as a good motivator for each other it’s not a very healthy relationship regardless. Not to mention the number of lies that pop up between them. Kaito has to keep an entire identity away from her, and that means a lot of lying. There’s a fanfic I really like called “A Study in Scarlette” that demonstrated this really well. There was a scene in there where Kaito said something along the lines of “It feels like only 1 in every 10 things I say to her are true anymore.” Because he is KID, and Aoko is a policeman’s daughter, who hates KID. Kaito can never show that side of himself to her, not only because it would cause her all sorts of complications with her relationship with her father, but also because of how much danger it would put her in. Kaito runs the risk of being killed. The moment the organization he’s chasing figures out his real identity, they’ll kill him. The moment they get the chance on a heist, they’ll kill him. If Aoko knows, and the Organization finds that out... I have no doubt they would kill her too. So he can’t tell her. And those lies will just keep building up until the day comes that the person Kaito shows Aoko isn’t him at all, but instead a mask he has to put up to fool her. It’s already getting to that point. Because of that, I really don’t like the relationship between them.

Favorite relationship: I adore the rivalry he has with Conan. Seriously. I love how in the beginning it was an actual rivalry, with Kaito having little respect for Conan, and Conan genuinely trying to catch Kaito, and by this point in the manga its become something of a game for them instead.

Favorite headcanon: He’s totally the type to read really obscure fiction. Like medieval french poetry or something.

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bellesdomain · 7 years ago

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Starlight Express Workshop - Thurs 14th Sept

Let me preface this with my overall impressions - this show was fantastic in many ways, the performances were all amazing, the band was fantastic, the staging was remarkably full and entertaining given the circumstances! It was an absolutely fascinating experience, I’m so glad I had the chance to go - and that I’m going again to see how it develops further.

But as reviews like this are bound to, this is all going to come across as very negative - but I want to start off emphasising how much I enjoyed it overall!

The theatre is a small, steeply raked auditorium, with a thrust stage about level with the 3rd row. The stairways on either side were accessible from the stage and used in the performance. There’s a gantry upstage, which forms a platform for the 8 piece band and Control - yup, live Control onstage. He had fabulous glowing headphones and an Ipad that seemed to be a racing game - I think it also included his script! Generally I am very anti-live Control, when it comes to non-replica productions - since the entire show takes place in his imagination, he exists on a different plane to the action therefore they shouldn’t interact. But given the fluid nature of this workshop, pre-recording the kid would be impossible so it worked ok!

The show opened with Andrew Lloyd Webber and Arlene Phillips giving us the context of the evening. Lloyd Webber explained how they’d workshopped “School of Rock” in a similar manner - no big automation, complex lighting cues or costume changes, just establishing the story telling. Great concept! And the venue “The Other Palace” theatre in Victoria, is being run for precisely this function.

Lloyd Webber also told us how he and Arlene Phillips had visited the German production for the English Gala, and he hardly recognised the show they were performing as his work. And indeed, I was also at the English Gala and suddenly hearing the material in its original language made the inconsistencies and plot holes glaringly obvious! So the point of this workshop is to see if they can get the show back into shape for a future production, as well as the German production’s 30th anniversary next May.

The show opened in a familiar manner, Control (playing with his ipad), sent to bed by his Mother. She sings her lullaby, the melody is taken up by the mouth organ. The Overture modulates, repeats, swells, in the fans’ mind’s eye you see the shadowy figures skating around the set - and then Control interrupts with “Stop that Boring Music!” And begins to introduce the National Engines.

I think it’s fair to say this change is getting a bit of negative feedback. That overture is the literal HEART of the show, it’s the preview of the Starlight Sequence, it’s the title song melody. It’s the magic happening, as Control falls asleep and we enter his dreamscape. The Overture alone will literally draw people to tears. To have Control dismiss it as “boring music” is crass, insensitive, and a tonal mis-fire, alienating Control from the audience. In other words, he’s a brat!

Entry of the National Trains is always a clunky way to start the show, these minor characters are so unimportant to the plot. Placing the scene later, before AC/DC, makes for better story telling, as the audience have already established who’s important and it contextualises Electra’s entrance as we’re calling forward the competitors for the race. Anyway, the workshop has given us some new names for the Nationals - Bobo the French train is now the feminine Coco, which works well. The German Engine is now named after Wagner’s opera das Rheingold. Rather than fix the dated and embarrassing reference, the Japanese train is still Nintendo. And the British train is now “Brexit” - which is as topical a joke, and I suspect will last in the public conscious about as well as his APT designation did. Yeah, that’s the point. Nobody remembers! A very quickly dated reference. There were a few of them throughout the night, so hopefully they’ll be reconsidered. Rolling Stock - Oliver Tompsett as Greaseball, greased back hair and stubble, was hilarious and a bit menacing - would probably be more menacing if I weren’t so steeped in his performances from Rock of Ages! The strangest thing here though, was it. Was. so. Slow. There’s a strange quirk that the 1984 original cast recording has the Rolling Stock track at a stodgy plod - as if an LP record is played on the wrong setting! And this is what they decided to replicate live. The performances were all brilliant, the ensemble mugging it up as their Nationals, it was hilarious and engaging, but why so slow? As far as I know, it wasn’t performed that slow in 1984, it’s just a quirk of the recording - but Andrew Lloyd Webber obviously approved of this!

Second number in was Crazy. Throughout, Crazy and Call Me Rusty have been mixed up and cut together - along with remnants of Engine of Love in there as well. It works, sort of, plot-wise it’s exactly like Engine of Love, here’s young Rusty and the coaches. There’s a lovely bit of contextualisation where Control explains “Rusty is the first train I got when I was six” which grounds us as these are his toys. Then into Crazy. George Ure as Rusty may have dried on his opening lyrics, but a bit of ad-libbing and he was back on track. Christina Bennington as Pearl got straight in there with the high option for Pearl’s “Til someone better comes along”.

Greaseball, Nationals come in to bully Rusty, and the coaches all stick up for him, however Pearl makes the point that she’s not actually Rusty’s partner, flirting with Greaseball. Then we have a version of “Call Me Rusty”, the short version used in Vegas I believe, layering “Call me Rusty if you dare. Call me Rusty if you like…” with the coaches still having the mid break from the original but with some new lyrics from Pearl about “we’re just friends”. Rusty is sent to fetch the trucks, and we have the original intro into Locomotion, “Rusty/can’t/be serious, him/go in/for the race?” but then there was some new material, Greaseball flirting with Pearl, saying “woowoowoo you’re brand new!” Dinah comes forward to warn him off Pearl but she gets sent to “go make the tea” by Greaseball and the Nationals. Here’s where we’re introduced to Tassita (shhh she’s a quiet coach and doesn’t like loud noises), and we go into the new song to “introduce” the coaches, “I Got Me (and that’s all I need)” This song felt to me like there’s some School of Rock type influence. It’s very “I can do what I like” independent rock chick. It’s not a bad song, but it doesn’t serve the purpose of introducing these characters at all, plus the pedantic mind says that these girls are railway coaches - and coaches DO need an engine. Sorry to break the vibe but coaches aren’t independent - but you can easily argue the case that an engine without coaches is as useless as coaches without an engine. The song ended quite abruptly to muted applause, but launched straight into a reprise, which was then interrupted by the Freight train.

Freight ran exactly as the 1992 London, with all the banter from the coaches, which was particularly entertaining despite being such very familiar lyrics. Whether it was due to the small ensemble, or an effort to address the gender imbalance in the show, Hopper 3 was female, and she was having a great time of it. Sadly no return of the Rockies, the Hip Hoppers are about the only remaining remnant of the contributions made by David Yazbek in 2003. The only new moment in the number was one of the most jarring changes - Caboose is included, but rather than introduce himself using the “There’s Me” melody (“at the back on every piece of track…” Being “All alone, you think you’re on your own…”) no, the Red Caboose comes straight in with “Wide Smile, High Style” melody, telling us straight off that he’s in the business of wrecking trains. His characterisation was very much aggressive, nasty and scary! No pretense at the sweet and helpful Caboose that anyone would trust, this guy is clearly one to avoid. Caboose made a point about being paid to do his job.

Straight after Freight, we have Control announcing technical problems�� oh boy! A late entry! These must be his minders! Kilowatt is Electra’s security truck. Wrench is the repair truck, Purse the money truck ordered us to switch your accounts to Electra. Again money is an active concept in this world. Joule and Volta followed - male Volta, as with Hopper 3 is this a limitation of the size of ensemble?

Electra appeared in towering red velour heels, fishnet stockings under a conventional masculine ensemble of slacks and jacket. Liam Tamne has an incredible voice, great range and strength and falsetto! But his characterisation flat for my personal taste for Electra, and also really reminded me of someone else, a character on TV perhaps. He was very flamboyant and self-indulgent.

AC/DC is interrupted suddenly, as Greaseball appears. The coaches, who 10 mins earlier were making such a point of not needing no man, especially Dinah getting up in the faces of the Nationals to protect Pearl, undergo a complete 180 on their characters, turning to the regular excited fangirls we’re used to seeing in Pumping Iron. This felt especially wrong given Dinah’s “Back off girls, he’s mine!” - really? Is he? Because you were defending your girls from his flirting just now, and showed no suggestion of a relationship between Dinah and Greaseball other than antagonism. The earlier scene is massively out of character for Dinah.

Oliver Tompsett rocked Pumping Iron, of course, it’s easy to appreciate why the girls are all fangirling over him. The two female components stayed to dance, while Electra and his boys left in a huff. This was one scene where the minimal staging fell flat, as the dance break needs some rock’n’roll partner work, skates or not.

Coda Freight ran much as expected, the confrontation between Greaseball and Electra was extended by the two of them sharing the lines usually sung by the Nationals, as they mock Rusty’s intent to join the race. Coda Freight originally did not modulate key - the German production is one where it drops into a lower key which always jars. But this time we get a modulation UP a key, which is different! But not necessary, it’s quite busy enough staying in one key.

Control announces five minutes to race time, and “if you ain’t in twos, you lose”. This is where we would expect to find Crazy, and indeed we have a reprise of the number where Rusty approaches Pearl, but she rebuffs him with something about “don’t push me around”. But then their conversation follows the coaches’ melody from “Call me Rusty”, as she explains in no uncertain terms that while she likes him she wants an engine of the future. Then they are interrupted by Electra’s Bodyguard Kilowatt (shall we just call him K?) who explains Electra’s coach has a “Migraine”. Pearl has her dilemma, and will let Electra know.

Pearl has a new intro to “Make Up My Heart”, written to the “diddlydiddly” pre-race music (also used by Caboose pre-”Wide Smile”), as she discusses how Electra seems fun, then she had an echo of “He Whistled At Me” - which I think was the only occurrence of that/”Engine of Love” melody. Then that disjointed selection of melodies led into the full “Make Up My Heart” number, as performed on the 1992 London recording.

Control starts the races, with a comment about “I’ll pick your partners for you”. A new addition for the races which grew very tedious almost immediately, each engine as they’re introduced, sings the “Clear my track, this is my train now, this could be my dream, clear my track” fragment of “No Comeback” that Pearl sings in “Laughing Stock” - each with their own lyrics of course. But hearing that same fragment four times in a row was repetitive, and annoying given that that melody is meant to specifically refer to Electra. The concept of melodies referring to specific characters and event - the use of leitmotif - has more or less been lost, apart from a few occasions which shows that while they COULD use the concept, they choose not to! Race 1 ends up with a Dead Heat between Greaseball and Electra, with only the “No Comeback” melody appearing in the race music.

As the racers clear away, we have a mopey Rusty with the “Call me Rusty” melody on the mouth organ, as he approaches the Freight yard and “Momma” is singing The Blues. Mica Paris was poorly served by the existing score - while the major solos are within a reasonable alto range, most of Poppa’s recit is well below an alto. However her character, and the staging for the number was really engaging and fun, and included Caboose mooching in the background. Caboose has always seemed notable by his absence from this scene of the Freight - I presume the practical reason is that Caboose has just finished racing so to make him immediately be onstage but purely for context would be unkind. But within the world of the show, why is Caboose not hanging out with the rest of the freight? Momma’s response after “Let me hear you say Steam!” - the Starlight Express melody - is “When the Night is Darkest” rather than “When Your Goodnights have been Said”, which probably only coincidentally is kinder on her vocal range. But it’s slightly odd in a production that draws so heavily from the previous London productions, to bring in the Broadway variation of the title song. Control interrupts to inform us of heat 2, Momma decided to race and ends up with Dustin much as is familiar from other productions. The exact reason was unclear but Brexit meant the British train was missing, allowing Momma to race.

Race Two again seemed to have Control decide the race partners, and again repeated the “Clear my Track” melody, except Momma introduced herself with the Coaches’ “I got Me” melody which seems to be pretty random for an old Steamer. It was also incorporated into the race music.

After Race 2, into Laughing Stock, played much as normal, but with one small 1984 detail restored - Momma points out Rusty “Couldn’t face that losing shame!” rather than Rusty admitting his own weakness, or the line being omitted altogether.

Starlight Express - the title song closed act 1 with an unexpectedly subtle edit, new lyrics to the “When the Night is Darkest” melody. I’m not absolutely sure new lyrics were needed for this number, but they’re evocative and very much in keeping with the scene and Rusty’s emotional journey.

(And we have the interval. Go get a glass of wine. You’ll need it.)

Act 2 begins with The Rap - entirely a capella, started by Hoppers “Are you Ready?” which updated lyrics. The Coaches come in with something like “Swipe to the left? Swipe to the right? Who will be my date tonight?” which feels like it’ll date very quickly. It was a mix between the 1992 Rap in structure, “Gotta be in the frame if you’re gonna win the game, are you ready for the big one, ready!” with quite a lot of the individual lines tweaked. This meant that we’ve still got all the “Shut it, Dinah!” and some of the classic lines like “losing the race with this floppy disc” and “Boil with the oil or lose with the fuse”. Performed entirely unaccompanied, with much stomping on the beat, worked really well.

“Pearl Twirl” ran unaltered, giving Dinah a COMPLETE character shift from act 1. The confident, sassy girl is completely unrecognisable as the heartbroken Dinah singing “Uncoupled”. Fantastic performance from Natalie McQueen, really heart-felt and beautifully sung, but it was distracting how she seemed to be playing a completely different role to earlier. The staging was even much as normal, with the other two coaches hanging out behind, with varying levels of sympathy and boredom as they sing backing vocals. But without Dinah having established a character of a devoted, in love with Greaseball, the song was very out of place.

Invitation Dinah included some new material, a longer conversation between the girls, with Dinah saying “I can’t manage on my own” - again, this is not the Dinah we saw in act 1. The line “But if Greaseball changes his mind!” is in there. Tassita and Belle have very little to do - no Girls Rolling Stock - but whereas in the past the coaches only had “Oh, Dinah!” to express their frustration, this gives them a little dialogue.

Caboose’s scenes in the middle of act 2 almost had me vocalising my frustration! This scene is one of my biggest problems in the current show AND IT HAS NOT BEEN CHANGED!

First, Caboose tells Greaseball that Rusty is fast, and they plot as in the US Tour with Greaseball’s “Ohh that’s nasty, I like it!”. This conversation also gives us the existing line “Just cos I smile all the time, don’t mean I’m not into crime”. This is not news, this is not a reveal, and this Caboose has only been smiling in an evil, mean way. There’s been no pretense at Caboose being helpful or sweet, he’s been flat-out nasty from the beginning.

Then we have the Disco-tastic 1984 version of “Wide Smile” which repeated the “Just cos I smile all the time, don’t mean I’m not into crime” line, and included “Under the smiles, under the fun I’m public enemy number 1” - again, there’s not been any fun or smiles from this Caboose! Also they use the full 1984 “CB” lyrics including the CB radio references which were cut for the Broadway show in 1987 as too obscure!

Patrick Sullivan’s performance was extraordinary, hitting those falsetto notes, amazing energy and rhythm, a really enjoyable number. I don’t know if I should read significance into Electra not joining in the backing for the number, but it was only the components.

The problem is though this scene is a MASSIVE plot point. It should be the moment we learn that Caboose is a cheating back-stabbing bastard, but this has already been established. Also, there is a logical gap in this number - with Electra well aware of Caboose’s enjoyment of double-crossing, why on earth does Electra then choose Caboose as a race partner for the downhill final? Especially when surrounded by his components, any of which would be a suitable race partner. The simple solution, which I was hoping this workshop would consider, would be for Electra to be removed from this scene. Simply continue the song on from Caboose’s conversation with Greaseball, have Greaseball’s gang as the backing dancers rather than Electra’s components. Then, Electra is unaware of Caboose’s scheme, his choice of race partner makes sense. This would also remove a flabby feeling repeat of the material as different versions have been grafted together.

Race 3 - the Uphill Final - begins with Control announcing Greaseball and Pearl, Electra and Dinah, and Rusty and Caboose. This race has not had the extra “No Comeback” repetitions, but rather the normal spoken lines from each Engine including Rusty’s “Let’s hear it for Steam!”

No explanation is given as to how there are only three engines, since Control earlier quoted the 1992 London instructions “There are two heats, two qualifiers from each heat”. So what happened to the 2nd qualifier from Heat 2? Why did only Momma come through from that race?

Well, I can tell you why, it’s because Control’s lines are taken from the 1992 London, but the races are taken from the 2003 US Tour with the pre-recorded 3D races. Because the tour ran with only 4 Nationals including the British train, the races were run on the logic of two heats, and the winner from each would compete in the final, which should have consisted of two engines. But since Electra and Greaseball tied, they both went through to give us 3 engines in the final. But this story telling has been overlooked in this workshop.

The race was staged with Caboose literally picking up Rusty to make it clear he wasn’t going anywhere! The race music also included the inverted race melody, the descending phrase as used in Germany which always jars when used to the London versions. The Race music did include the “Wide Smile” motif. Rusty was thrown to the floor, injured, as Control shouts “Race Cancelled! Who did it? I didn’t do anything!” - again the 1992 London script.

The 1992 London show was the production which cut Caboose - which is particularly relevant in this part of the show, as without Caboose driving the story, the London show included material to patch over the holes. This material was then drafted into the UK Tour in 2004, to cover gaps where some of the David Yazbek contributions were removed, I believe. However the result is that there are two separate scenes which cover the same actions.

Firstly, the Caboose version is that Caboose has crashed Rusty. The original London staging in 1984 was one of the weaker points of the show, where a fairly illogical staging required all the racers to make it onto the bridge to be carried to the top level, mid-race. CB slowed Rusty to the point he missed the connection and the race was then cancelled due, I believe, to the fighting between Greaseball and Electra. This had Rusty challenge Greaseball with “That CB he never took off the brakes”, which is when Pearl realised that Greaseball and CB were in cahoots. The original version didn’t have Rusty injured apart from his pride, but gave us CB’s insane “10, 10 never again you’re no engine!”. CB’s gloating and insane pleasure at the damage he has caused is an essential part of his character arc. The German staging had Rusty crash and tumble down the bowl to land in a heap centre stage, where Greaseball and Pearl came by, with Pearl saying “I’ll go tell the Marshalls!” then as Greaseball pulls her away, she begins to realise she’s made mistakes.

Secondly, the No Caboose version, the London 1992 version, has to find another reason for Rusty to be out of the race. The Uphill final is cancelled by Control when it’s devolved into a fist fight on the bridge, Control didn’t see what happened so Greaseball and Electra jump on the chance to blame Rusty - “Rusty did it, he caused the wreck!” Greaseball then confesses “Shut it, I did it, he was good, he was fast” - without Caboose in the show, this comes as a surprise. The Marshalls have been wordlessly clearing everything up, Rusty then comes back to Greaseball with “They (the marshalls) say - “ “what do they say?” Greaseball then sics his gang on Rusty, to “make sure it won’t happen again”. The Gang then beat up Rusty (to the melody of “Wide Smile”) in order to bring him to the same, injured and dejected state, as if Caboose had been there.

These two separate scenes have been smashed together since the US Tour in 2003 gave the show major re-writes, and the story being told is flabby and confusing. If Rusty has been wrecked by Caboose, is already on his knees and his confidence destroyed, why do the gang need to beat him up directly? Unless the staging includes Marshalls directing the clean-up, who is Rusty talking about with “They say”? If Caboose is there, then how does the line “You told the Marshalls I drove into you!” make any sense?

The Workshop gives us the current version of this scene, with the 1992 London version of the show, including Greaseball and gang beating up Rusty. Then Pearl wanders in, sees Rusty wrecked on the floor, and realises things are going bad “This wasn’t how I wanted it, this wasn’t what I saw” (what had you seen, Pearl? We no longer have He Whistled At Me to specify her dreams and ambitions) Flat-top has his sympathetic line “Give it up Rusty, you’ll never beat them”, and Caboose has just left. Then we have a reprise of “Crazy” at a slow, reflective pace, as the badly injured Rusty picks himself up. This reflects back to Rusty’s naive hopeful attitude at the start of the show, contrasting his previous optimism with his sad current state. Then we hear the “Call Me Rusty” refrain on the mouth organ as standard. This reflects back to Rusty’s naive hopeful attitude at the start of the show, contrasting his previous optimism with his sad current state. Yes, the concept of Rusty’s confident introductory number being reprised in a slow, sad tone is exactly repeated in this scene.

Where we’d expect Right Place, Right Time, we have the Hoppers wander in and paraphrase the opening lines of the number, without any particular motivation for their presence, but the full number is omitted. This scene feels like it might be a compromise as the work in progress nature of the workshop, where this is a place-holder for a new version of the full number for the Hip Hoppers.

Rusty, alone and dejected, runs into the Starlight Sequence as normal, reflecting on how he’s “down and out”. The Starlight Sequence is always magnificent, but it was slightly soured after Control’s “Stop that Boring music!” comment during the overture, which is of course a preview of this scene. Mica Paris as Momma wasn’t quite comfortable with the vocal range of the song but at some moments opened up sounded glorious. There were also some slight lyric paraphrases such as “The Starlight Express is no more or less, I’m you, Rusty”, which doesn’t quite make sense, but I suspect was simply the nature of the workshop rather than a deliberate change. George Ure’s performance was stunning and so emotional, he really carried us on Rusty’s journey.

The Rusty and Dustin scene has some new music, using the same melody as Rusty’s monologue prior to the Starlight Sequence, the melody most characterised as the Coaches’ verse in “Call Me Rusty”. It’s a minor key, the music always suggests concern, worry, lack of confidence, so to use it for this scene felt off. The standard score uses “Belle’s Song” at this point, as that melody is connected with the Freight and Dustin as well as Belle.

Dinah’s Disco is re-worked to be a reprise of “I Got Me” which works well in this context. If “I Got Me” were moved from act 1 to replace “Girls’ Rolling Stock”, following “UNCOUPLED”, this reprise would work perfectly. Electra calls CB to his side with the “AC/DC” melody, the 7/4 time makes the short scene feel a bit awkward, but replacing the “Nobody Can Do It Like a Steam Train” melody makes sense when all references to “He Whistled At Me” have been cut. Electra and CB bargain for the price of CB’s help.

Control introduces the re-run of the Final Race, on the Downhill course. Again the score being used is snipped from the 2003 US Tour - the pre-race 4 has two versions, the original staging called for three finalists, the Broadway and later used four finalists. The beautiful, complex layered music was originally written for the six racers, then altered for eight. But then the US Tour version cut it back to six, rather than referring to the original score, the two vocal lines are simply left out leaving a gap in the music. Specifically the 1992 score had Bobo singing “Le jour du gloire est arrivé” (please pardon my french!) with Ashley singing “Gonna be hot, hotter than hot”. The alternative for that vocal part has Caboose singing “Just for me, I’m in this just for me” (or “Nur fuer Mich” in the German score) - but the workshop uses the Tour version which simply skips this vocal line. Once part that point the complex harmonies were gorgeously performed. While I love the “Rusty’s gonna race in the Final” moment in this number, it harks back so strongly to the original version of the Rap.

The Downhill Final was performed with a very witty side-comment from Control about “Sorry about the lights, use your imagination!” The race music was very much the 1984 original which was gorgeous! Control’s narration tells us the story, including Pearl being disconnected, and Rusty saves her - at which point the Crazy melody was incorporated in the race music, with the ensemble singing “Come on Rusty”. Immediately on winning, Rusty leaves with “I must find Pearl”, as usual.

One Rock’n’Roll Too Many was staged almost exactly as usual - in fact all that was missing was the kneepads! Contextually this was played the same as UK Tour / Germany, not like the 1992 London, which seems a shame. The only major difference (apart from the presence of Caboose) is that in London, the ensemble stayed onstage and witnessed the massive fall from grace of the major players in the game. I appreciate that practically, in staging the show, I am sure the ensemble are grateful for a couple of minutes backstage, but the story telling of including them as witnesses is important. Plus it gives the ensemble characters more time to establish their personalities. There’s no logical reason all the characters leave before the number, and come back at the end. Momma was struggling with the vocal range for the “Where’s Rusty gone?” section.

Pearl is introduced with the electric guitar playing the “He Whistled At Me” melody, but since neither version of her song appeared at the start of the show, her reprise that was the introduction to “I Do” has been cut. Which is super frustrating, because that little reprise was the only good addition with this dreadful song!

“I Do” is untouched, it’s still abysmal, with clunky, random, meaningless lyrics, poor melodic construction, long and repetitive. The lyrics scan very poorly to the music (“you think that noboDY would love you”), and the vocal ranges are very hard to sing, it’s fortunate the cast are so strong! They are genuinely adorable and you’re so happy that they’ve found each other, despite the music.

I have to admit, however, that with the changes to Pearl’s character, that she is given more time to think, the lyrics are not as contradictory as previously. It feels like Pearl, and to an extent Rusty, have been ret-conned to fit this song!

I am genuinely astonished that this song has been kept, I thought the one thing this workshop would be sure to give us was an improvement on the love song. It’s such a shame to have lost “Only He” - in any of its many variations - as the love song being a reprise of one half of the Starlight Sequence is an enormously important part of the story telling. The “Only You” melody speaks of discovery, completion, it’s the answer to the question, where the “Starlight Express” melody is the question.

Following “I Do”, Rusty and Pearl sing a reprise of “I Got Me”, and the “Well Done Rusty, King of the Track” is now set to the same melody, which is slowed, and jars with the dissonance. Then the reprise of the “Starlight Express” melody is as you’d expect, into Dinah’s “Greaseball you’re hurt!” - beautifully performed, and there isn’t the jarring sense of “No, honey, don’t go back to your abusive ex!” - which is possibly more of a negative statement since Dinah’s character is so inconsistent. Oliver Tompsett does have the most magnificent puppy-eyes pleading expression though, making it hard to resist forgiving his character!

Leading into Light at the end of the Tunnel, Mica Paris was again having difficulty singing the role written for a baritone! I had a moment of cognitive dissonance, given how there had been strong throw-backs to the 1984 version of the show, for the one line that was originally sung by Soul Queen PP Arnold as Belle, “The man who watched the pot and said, hey I got…” - for one moment being sung by Soul Queen Mica Paris! The final number bounced along, full of joy and energy as ever, with no changes from the norm. No megamix, just a play-out from the fantastic band.

#stexworkshop #starlight express #Scene by Scene analysis

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