#god he's so poorly suited for his role. I mean he made it work based on reputation for being mean and intimidating and murdery

[llycaons]

“My son had many strengths, but they were…hampered by his temper and pride,” she admits. “I had hoped for your marriage first because of my friendship with your mother, but as I came to know you, I saw the wisdom and grace with which you lead...."

😭 finally jyl recognized for her actual character traits rather than being a stabby and pushy and badass girlboss....just make an oc

[sleepless-in-starbucks]

Hi could you talk more about why youd recommend not watching ww84?

Sure!

warnings for under the cut: spoilers for WW84 and a bit of the first wonder woman; i only saw WW84 once a few days ago + it’s been a hot sec since i saw the original so if i get a few details wrong i apologize

tl;dr with no spoilers: WW84 is a poorly executed movie that insults its viewer with its messy and self-proud plot, bad character/relationship portrayals, and offers a personal slap in the face to a majority of its audience in their various discriminations, generalizations, and plot points.

the first point is the racism, made well by the post i reblogged here, (edit: found a second post that goes more in depth here) so i’d just suggest looking at that for that matter

next is just How they portray wonder woman in this one

i really appreciated the way the first movie portrayed diana because they did very well in keeping true to her Amazonian raising and life while still clearly showing she was a woman

when i say this i mean that a lot of media has a tendency to either make women who are very fem and keep to traditional gender roles or women who more or less shun femininity and attempt to largely fulfill only male gender roles

diana in the original is a warrior, strong and fierce, but still a woman, not trying to shun that or anything. she wears styles that suit her while still being woman’s styles (she doesn’t force her way into a suit), she talks of and addresses her womanhood proudly and without issue, etc

i want to note here i have no issue with female characters who act extremely masc and reject femininity- i love them tbh- but it’s important to remember that it’s not inherently against womanhood or anything to be a strong fighter who doesn’t stick to every stereotypical social gender norm

and the first wonder woman movie shows this very well

WW84... oh boy

first of all, wonder woman’s changing outfits every other scene. even between scenes where it makes no sense! i’m not saying she can only wear one set of clothes but Geez this was too much

not to mention an entire scene dedicated to her helping steve pick a fashion look? i understand this was to highlight the ‘80-ness of the movie, and it would’ve been fine if it seemed diana was helping him pick a period appropriate look, but it was clear she was trying to help him pick a ‘fashionable’ look which. wonder woman? from the island without a sense of popular outfits or fashion? what?

and the amount of focus on her wearing high heels.... ugh

i’m not saying you can’t have a badass woman who also likes social gender norm fem things but it felt clear that wasn’t what they were going for

wonder woman in the first movie liked practical fashion and not only were many of her outfits not that, her high heels? one hundred percent not practical

it didn’t fit her character and felt horribly out of place, clearly just the producers / directors / whoever going ‘oh, wonder woman is a woman how can we show this? fashion! high heels!’ and i hated it

(warning: imma be jumping from thought to thought as they bump into each so uh... enjoy the train-of-thought style of flaw informing)

and starting at the beginning like.... wow that scene had no purpose

wonder woman cheats in a competition and is punished for this by losing it in the end. except. this is stupid for two reasons

as the audience is shown she didn’t cheat on purpose. she made a mistake, lost her horse, and made a strategy to get back into the race despite this. honestly? i thought the story was going to be a lesson in ingenuity in the worst looking situations. but it wasn’t, which is bad storytelling, because the lesson is then based on a point that isn’t even that true

it is literally Never important again later. unless you count what was going on with the wishstone as ‘cheating to victory’ which i dont. that’s not even what the villain did. he wanted to take over the world. there’s no victory there you get without cheating. wtf. why did that message even happen

going into the actual story we meet the cheetah pretty quick, when she’s still whatever-her-civilian-name-is

and the cheetah... she’s such a bad villain

she doesn’t have the same backstory as she does in the comics

in this one, she uses the wishstone- which is a whole ‘nother thing in and of itself- to wish to be like diana, because ig being smart as hell but social awkward as hell too is so bad you need to desperately wish to be someone else? i hate that trope, but onwards-

she gets that, but in exchange for not only diana’s likable personality she also gets her wonder woman powers (and she loses her glasses, because pretty and cool means no glasses, right? /s), she loses her kindness bc of the rules of the wishstone- in exchange for your wish, it takes smth u care about a lot from you; for her, it was her kindness

this makes her villain! just because she lost her kindness. yep. honestly not a good look regarding all those people out there who are low/no empathy and can still be wonderful nice people but i digress

at one point she complains about why she needs to keep her power rather than go back to being just Her and i fucking wanted to scream

she has like. half a dozen degrees, clearly a couple of friends even if she’s awkward, and she’s got a life that was perfectly okay before she made the wish. as someone who is also socially awkward as hell, it infuriated me to here her acting like it was the fucking end of the world she couldn’t be more extroverted or whatever. there are ways to work on that!!! the movie trying to convince the audience she had a legit reason to not un-wish her wish (for the good of the entire world) was stupid and insulting

also her transformation between ‘looks human, wearing cheetah-pattern clothing‘ to ‘humanoid with cheetah fur/skin/appearance’ literally just. happened. for no reason. that was stupid

y’know what else is stupid? the wishstone. it was clearly just a plot device, and a poorly executed one at that. it isn’t even consistent in how it works

and they did a whole side thing with like. how it had the language of the gods written on part of it and it appeared in random locations across history around the time of great tragedies and,,, that was it???

they never explored the divine connection??? who planted it or why??? how it location traveled or anything????

like i said. poor plot device

i move on now to steve

oh boy steve

he’s brought back to life by diana’s wish on the wishstone, but... it causes him to come back in someone else’s body, quantum leap style. this is. weird. and is never ever addressed by him or wonder woman except once in a throw away comment. like. diana and steve kiss and are implied to have sex while steve is in someone else’s body and neither of them seem to care. this is not good!!

and then his relationship with diana? HORRIBLE

in the first movie they were barely starting to fall in love, only barely a couple even if that. more importantly they were friends, and that night he died diana didn’t lose a potential lover so much as she lost her first non-Amazonian friend

but WW84 portrays their relationship as if they were not only already a couple, but one close enough that even after forty years since steve’s death diana is still completely and hopelessly in love with him to the point that she’s literally hanging off his arm as soon as he’s back and making love that very night

it plays again once more into the misrepresentation of wonder woman’s character (how stereotypically hollywood female to fall over herself at the sight of her love interest) and it wrecks their relationship, which had been a lovely friends-who-could-be-more

what they should’ve done was focus on that friendship, build it back up after the long gap for wonder woman, and then started to rebuild that possible romance (and tear it down at the perfect moment... right when steve had to go again... ah that would’ve been lovely)

but they wanted to go in full-haul on the romance and it just felt. wrong and weak to me. diana’s refusal to consider giving up her wish (to get her powers back and save the world) is bc she doesn’t want to let steve go again, which makes more sense in the context of a first and true friend rather than a hastily slapped together love interest

steve’s character was generally good tbh but the way he played into the story? bad

moving on... the main villain of the movie? sucks. he’s just. fucking awful

despite a motivation being given that he wants to have money, he launches into wanting to take over the world for no real reason. he takes advantage of people for this and almost destroys the world he wants to rule for it. the main reason he stops this is for his son, who up until now he largely ignored and didn’t seem to care that much for outside of basic obligations. and the movie dares try to make him sympathetic by throwing in the fact he grew up poor and was bullied and not liked which i HATE

lots of people are/have been poor. lots of people are/have been bullied (myself included). that does NOT justify them DESTROYING THE WORLD TRYING TO TAKE IT OVER. can it be used to show the audience why he does what he does? yes. but to use it and clearly try to make it a reason to hand-wave-away what he did? NO. FUCK NO

also fucking. y’know how wonder woman took down this villain? she talked to him and the world. she gave a stirring speech while she laid slumped against a wall, not injured, just too weak to beat a bit of wind. she talked and she looped her lasso around his leg so she could talk to the world to to convince them to give up their wishes

once again... the mischaracterization

in the first movie, wonder woman gives a stirring speech while fighting Areas. it’s done in her battle, beating the god of war up while reminding him of what she stood for, who she was, why she would keep fighting for a broken world

it was BEAUTIFUL. it was MEANINGFUL. it was BADASS but SINCERE

this was weak. and it clearly wanted to be more than it was

the whole movie wants to be more than it is- it wants to have an important meaningful message like the first movie, about wishes for the self and war and the world and whatever. and it wants it so badly it does it horribly

the message is ham-handed yet messy and unclear and not right. it doesn’t make sense, and it feels poorly plotted. the movie thinks it’s more than it is and that makes it very hard to watch

and to finish my rant off... WW84 lied to its audience

did you see any ads for WW84? i did. they were bright, vibrant, funky music, stunning moments, action and intrigue. i was thrilled for a movie like it

the actual movie isn’t that

it’s not nearly as action filled, it’s not as ‘80s-focused as it leads you to believe, some of the most prominently featured moments barely matter

the lightning swing? pointless, as at that point in the movie wonder woman’s learned how to fly and does it for no reason but the trailers

and that cool suit? introduced in a random myth for no reason halfway through the movie, brought in at random with no explanation, only there for show and the trailers

WW84 is not the movie is lead people to believe it was, and the movie it is is poorly executed and insulting to a variety of peopler/minorities

if you’re gonna watch it, pirate it. i can give you a link. just don’t give dc your money or your legit views for it

[cherubchoirs]

An Explanation of Yaldabaoth

So with Christmas Eve coming up, let’s finally talk about Yaldabaoth – who he is, his motivations and goals, and why he suits P5’s story. Basically, I see a lot of confusion (as well as frustration) surrounding his character and his status as the final antagonist, but I totally get that. His writing is messy and his execution left a lot to be desired, despite the idea of him being sound, so I understand why so many players felt he came out of nowhere and screws up the story’s themes. As I am (unfortunately) a big fan of his character, I wanted to put together a post that might help people confused by him see how he fits in, why he was included in the story, and why he makes a satisfying final boss for the plot of P5. And even if you still hate him (totally fair! Everyone’s got different taste and no matter what, his handling is god awful), I just hope I can sort of explain him so he at least makes more sense. This is going to be long, so let’s get started!

First, Yaldabaoth (also known as the Demiurge) is a figure from Gnostic lore, the false god of the material world. He came to be when Sophia, a part of the unknowable, Supreme God, decided to create something separate from the Pleroma (the divine totality) all on her own, without divine permission. So she gave birth to Yaldabaoth; however, he was so monstrous she grew immediately ashamed of her creation, and so provided him with a throne which she then wrapped in a cloud to hide him and make him ignorant in turn. Unable to behold his mother or the divine, he then believed himself to be god. Because of this, Yaldabaoth set about creating the material world, a place he unwittingly based upon the true world of divinity. His creations are animal, like him, but with Sophia’s divine spark as she provides him the power to create. This world is poorly made due to Yaldabaoth’s own incompetence and so that divine spark is trapped in the material, making it something like a spiritual prison. Because of this, however, humanity can ascend while Yaldabaoth cannot, making him envious of human beings. He grows to hate humanity, angered by their imperfection (as he bungles their creation) and the fact that they can ascend while he’s forever trapped in the depths – he turns spiteful, and he is sometimes thought of as the God of the Old Testament as an explanation for his cruelty. Obviously this is incredibly simplified (as I am by no means an expert on Gnosticism), but this is the basis of his character, and I think it really is something the writers played with (including that Satanael, his son, is the one to rebel against him and his ignorance, which is why he is cast from heaven).

A false, artificial god who believes himself to be the Supreme Being, resents humankind, and traps them in a prison...sounds pretty familiar. So what’s different about his character in P5? This Yaldabaoth is the creator of the Metaverse, and he is born from the will of the public – people wished for ease and comfort over free will, the luxury to be free of making decisions and taking responsibility for themselves, which the Holy Grail explains to the PTs as its origin.

However, Yaldabaoth is also just a manifestation of that need - one that gained sentience through the power it was fed, but he is still simply the unconscious desire of the public made material as pointed out by Lavenza (but this explanation scene is where things get rushed, confusing, and glossed over to a frustrating extent)

Yaldabaoth IS society, a tangible stand-in for the true villain of P5 – The people of the public that allow, condone, and even encourage those the PTs have fought. They can defeat criminals, but as long as society remains intact, another will immediately spring up to take their place. Makoto actually states as much when Joker comes to retrieve her from her cell:

Yaldabaoth, therefor, is not just a god thrown into the plot randomly for the biggest bad possible – he is the evils of society incarnate, the people who allow the heinous crimes the PTs had been fighting against, the people that consumed these devastating crimes as entertainment or turned a blind eye to people in need, the people that threw the PTs out the minute any doubt was cast on them. The apathetic, uncaring, callous public as a whole, the ones who constantly ignore or support these criminals until it is no longer convenient (more on that in a minute) – The palace rulers are absolute monsters and yet...we see them all over society because they are a product of that society. And then there’s Futaba, an orphan and mentally ill girl left to rot by society; Sae, a woman trying so hard to achieve her justice and support her sister, constantly stamped down in a society that says a woman can’t, a woman shouldn’t. Society is the true villain and Yaldabaoth is their collective will, manifested so that the final boss battle of the game can just be the PTs taking down the whole of a corrupt society. It’s really the ultimate culmination of their efforts and what they’ve fought against. Because as awful as they all are, the palace rulers are products of a screwed up society (one that reflects our own) – Totally and 100% responsible for their acts, but they were allowed to exist due to this society.

SO if they’re made by society, why are they “escaped convicts” from the Prison of Regression? This is a representation of how society is broken – it creates these criminals, it condones their actions, but once they become too “disruptive”, THEN and ONLY then do they become an issue. Yaldabaoth, to me, is similar to a supercomputer type villain (think AM, a very similar character imo) – the palace rulers are errant, erratic variables that upset the status quo and so must be culled. His dialogue reads very much like a sterile computer program and I think rather than completely outright malicious in his intent, he is performing what he believes to be a necessary function:

Society creates them, encourages them, and then becomes upset when their actions are brought to light and so punishes them (or in Shido’s case at first and so often irl, are let off) so as to quickly restore equilibrium where they can once again ignore all of their ills. Essentially, the palace rulers exhibit that the whole system is sick and doesn’t work, yet people by and large pretend it does because it’s so much easier to say it was one “bad apple” or blame the victims rather than admitting the entire framework of society is completely rotten from the inside out.

What is Yaldabaoth’s goal then? He sets up a game to see if society can be shaken from this apathy or if they no longer wish to lead their own lives. Joker plays the trickster, an antihero the public can root for, the rebellious and glamorous rogue that punishes criminals without help of the establishment. If he wins, this would indicate the public no longer wishes for the status quo, but for a new society that wants to reinvent itself, which is generally well explained...

Goro Akechi is his opposite – He creates chaos and fear in the public to push them back into their comfortable boxes, make them wish for the status quo represented by Shido so they can stop living in fear and return to their lives where they can ignore everything around them. If he wins, this would signal that the public don’t want to fight but instead only want security and familiarity, choosing to turn a blind eye to everything the trickster had accomplished in order to remain safe. (This is made much less clear in the dialogue, because they don’t go over Goro’s role much at all.)

He sets up the entire game on this premise, and the experiment runs...however, it ends unexpectedly. Joker succeeds in taking down Akechi and the PTs expose Shido’s crimes as well as the conspiracy itself, but the public still does not support the Phantom Thieves. They clamor for a disgraced Shido and THIS is why Joker still loses – remember, Yaldabaoth is only a representation of society itself, and society no longer believes in the Phantom Thieves. Yaldabaoth did expect the loss, he knew how far gone humanity was, he just didn’t expect this exact scenario. Of course, the game was rigged – as Lavenza says, Yaldabaoth expects Joker to fulfill the role of the Trickster and so he keeps him close, watching over him in an attempt to stall him out as Lavenza explains. 

However, due to the set up of the game, the only win condition is public support. Joker doesn’t earn it and therefor he loses, a decision that is not arbitrary despite possibly appearing so (although it is certainly unfair, pointed out by Morgana).

After offering Joker his deal (that’s a whole OTHER post I could write, y’all know I’m a clown), Yaldabaoth then moves to merge reality with Mementos in order to exert his will over the whole of the public. He wishes to rid them of their free will because, as Yaldabaoth sees it, it seems a vast majority of the public wish to no longer have it anyway and the ones that do merely become anomalies that must be purged from his system before they become too disruptive. Of course, this is an oversimplified way of viewing the issue, but again, he’s sort of like a computer – he will take care of the issue in the most efficient way possible, and that is to rule over society himself. (Again, using the word “administrator” invokes computer terminology and likens him to a mechanical program):

Interestingly, his defeat is brought about by the public backing the Phantom Thieves 100% - an action that triggers Arsene’s evolution into Satanael, Yaldabaoth’s rebellious son. Satanael is of the Fool Arcana, the confidant that represents Joker’s bond to Yaldabaoth himself...to the public, in a sense, and so it’s fitting that this persona is the one to destroy him as he is no longer needed.

So Yaldabaoth is both a character in his own right and representative of the will of the public as well. His writing is confusing, lacking in explanation, and relies heavily on obscure references to his Gnostic roots along with religious symbolism (eg., the floors of Mementos taking their names from the Qliphoth and the palace rulers being representative of the seven deadly sins), and I think that’s why he feels so out of place to so many players. However, the best possible final antagonist for P5’s themes and plot is society itself – the society that shunned them, the society that created the palace rulers, the society that desperately needs to be done away with if we wish for these travesties to come to an end. Because P5 isn’t about individual evil, it’s about institutional evils that create and perpetuate so much individual pain that goes unnoticed and uncared for. Yaldabaoth is the amalgamation and manifestation of that broken system, he gives it a presence and a voice so that the PTs can fight back against it physically. So even though his writing is handled poorly and his execution is lacking, I find him to be a perfect fit and a satisfying conclusion to P5’s themes as an unfair, cruel society turned into a dogmatic god. 

This meta really just gives an overview of everything he represents, so I can always go into more detail about any of the points but I hope this explanation helps those that were confused by his inclusion in P5! I’m perfectly happy to elaborate on anything I talked about and clear up any confusion (I didn’t want this post to go on literally FOREVER, so I know some things might require more info), so feel free to ask questions! Other than that have a happy Day of Reckoning and remember to celebrate Bad End Akira’s birthday 🥳🎉

[journalxxx]

Contrapasso

Maxwell wasn’t a fool.

There were several elements that may have lured a lesser man into a false sense of security. The fact that he was still alive, first and foremost. That had been a surprise in and of itself, although he hadn’t quite decided yet whether it was a pleasant one. One did not intertwine his own mind, body and soul with the darkest forces in the universe simply to walk it off when said connection was brutally severed. Turning into dust was a remarkably tamer consequence than he’d imagined for being torn from the throne, and waking up anew, fully endowed with his own sense of self and most of his humanity, had been quite the shock. He supposed it made sense for Them to want to squeeze every drop of fun They could possibly get from him, even past the expiration date of his Reign. One more death, or maybe a dozen, in the Hell of his own making. The irony didn’t escape him.

Secondly, the Codex. He hadn’t seen, actually seen, that damned book in ages. When the throne had ensnared him, he had more or less… incorporated it. Well no, such an insulting wording was likely to earn him the rage of the greater powers: it had incorporated him. Like one of its many pages, a relatively self-contained bit of essence that relied entirely on the whole to realize its meaning and potential. The simile was somewhat shaky, he realized that, but after all one couldn’t get even close to describing the deep and complex entity that was the Codex Umbra without looking past the trivial form it had assumed on Earth. Nevertheless, despite the pains and misfortunes it had brought him, Maxwell had felt only relief when he had found the precious tome in his pocket. Power was power, after all, and it would have been unwise not to feast on the crumbles They were willing to hand out to a discarded ant stranded in an unforgiving world. The puppets, as frail and mindless as they were, were still invaluable help in his daily struggles, and he could only count himself lucky for having them.

Lastly, the world itself. Faithful to its name, it was still the same old Constant he himself had crafted. Same monsters, same biomes, same extreme weather that was barely compatible with human life. The new management hadn’t interfered with its inner workings in the slightest; in fact, it hadn’t even made itself known to Maxwell, neither for revenge, nor for gloating, nor for threats, which was admittedly surprising. Reassuring, an imbecile might have thought. An optimistic idiot may have interpreted all these facts as a benevolent sign, as a generous second chance to prove his worth, even with a quantum of regard for his less than optimal physical shape. An utter moron may have taken all these facts as a promise of hope, of goodwill from a new ruler that wasn’t nearly as vicious as his predecessor.

But Maxwell wasn’t a fool.

So that evening, when shadow tendrils sprouted from the ground without warning as he was calmly munching on his meatballs, he wasn’t too surprised. When they coiled around his neck, arms and legs and forced him to kneel on the very dirt he had created, he already knew what to expect. Or rather, who. And soon enough, the silhouette of the new King manifested from the darkness, walking slowly towards him, head bent down and eyes fixed on the dust his steps were raising, as if he was evaluating it.

The first thing that surprised Maxwell about Wilson’s appearance was, frankly, his body. He was still the same undersized, minute figure he had always been, and Maxwell couldn’t help but wonder if Wilson hadn’t realized he could change the appearance of his projection at will, or if he was genuinely happy with his natural and utterly non-threatening build. It just seemed weird that he hadn’t used his newfound powers to grant himself a few extra inches, especially considering that he had tweaked his aspect elsewhere. His hair, his pride and joy, was more luxuriant than ever: wavy locks adorned his head like a crown, each strand slightly flickering and swaying like shadowy smoke, or maybe dark fire. It was a quirky optical effect, impossible to describe, but it was admittedly impressive. There were few strings of white strategically placed in that mane, and all that was left of the vibrant red of his old waistcoat was the crimson touch of his tie. Everything else in his new form was black and ashen: his three-piece suit, his shoes, his complexion.

Wilson didn’t look at him. He stopped near the firepit and let his gaze wander around Maxwell’s base, taking in the shoddy tent, the charred crockpot, the odd prestihatitator with palpable disinterest. His eyes briefly lingered on Chester, which Maxwell had found only few days prior. The dumb creature didn’t react to his master’s presence, it simply kept panting and drooling at them both, its lumpy paws folded on its precious bone. Wilson didn’t react to the sight of what had been his only source of companionship for months either.

“Not bad, pal.” Maxwell broke the silence, with the barest smile. Their roles may be reversed, Wilson may now be and even look the part of the uncaring false God who had the last word on Maxwell’s torture, but the former King would rather be struck down on the spot than letting him have the first one too. “Not bad."

Wilson finally turned towards Maxwell’s prone figure. He stared at his chest, silently. It was starting to grate on Maxwell’s nerves, to be honest. Wasn’t he even worth derision, scorn, any sort of interaction? Or had the throne squashed his original personality so thoroughly? If Wilson was going to stick to that sort of charade, he’d spoil all the fun for the both of them. Maxwell mentally reached to the duelist and the two gatherers hidden behind the tent, and found them still in his control. He wasn’t planning to make them attack, because there was no point, the King could swat such feeble annoyances like flies, but maybe it would be worth just for the sake of eliciting a reaction-

Suddenly, Wilson reached down to him and, for the briefest moment, a spark of fear raced through Maxwell’s nerves, an instinctive reaction to those sharp fingers moving straight towards his heart. Wilson’s claw did not burrow in his flesh, though; it delicately slithered under the hem of his jacket, removing the object from Maxwell’s inner pocket. Wilson weighted the Codex in his hands, considering its crude front and flipping slowly through the weathered pages, still silent, still blank. Then, in a blink, he vanished, along with the bonds around Maxwell’s body.

“...Hey!” Maxwell finally said a good minute later, to absolutely no one. He stood up when it was clear that that had been it, the new King’s first apparition to his former persecutor. Rather underwhelming, really. He patted his jacket, pointlessly, for he wasn’t really expecting the Codex to reappear so soon, or at all. Well, that was a pickle. He studied what remained of his renewable magic workforce, standing idly where he’d left it. He’d better make those three last, he supposed.

It was a good month before Maxwell received the next visit. Wilson materialized in Maxwell’s camp with even less fanfare than before: no tendrils or monsters, just him, suddenly casting his small shadow on his half-asleep pawn.

“Grab a lantern.”

“...Oh, good. You can still talk. God knows I can’t stand pantomimes.” Maxwell sat up unhurriedly, meeting Wilson’s gaze with no little satisfaction. About time the shadow twerp dropped the superior act. He made no move to obey, and Wilson waited a tad too long before talking, as far as imposing silence went.

“I said grab a lantern.”

“What if I don’t?”

That didn’t make Wilson angry, unfortunately. He looked simply confused, staring at Maxwell like one would stare at a brand-new machine that inexplicably broke down. “You’re coming anyway. You can grab a lantern now or perish in the darkness in a minute.”

Albeit very poorly delivered, the threat was real enough to push Maxwell to ruefully fetch the tool. “And where are we-”

The world shifted before he finished his sentence. The comforting glow of the firepit disappeared, replaced by the smaller circle of light granted by Maxwell’s lantern. Even though the place was mostly enveloped in darkness, he instantly recognized it. The characteristic color and the crude carvings of the turf under his feet were unmistakable, as well as the peculiar smell of the stagnant air, an intense mix of moss, stone, and fuel that filled one’s lungs as thickly as water.

“What can you tell me about these ruins?” Wilson asked, gazing past the blackness. Maxwell stood up and took a few steps in a random direction. Piles of broken clockworks and assorted pottery lay scattered around the area; two rows of golden statues of creatures that had long since ceased to exist glinted eerily from opposite sides of the large room. He kept his distance from the relics as he strolled past them, making sure not to stray too far from Wilson.

“Ah... Not much more than you already know, probably. You’d better ask Them.”

“They are quite reticent about this topic, and the Codex isn’t any clearer.” Wilson’s voice echoed clearly in the perfect stillness of the atmosphere. It still had its usual high timbre, but the utter lack of emotion was enough to make it sound less juvenile. “You said you created this whole world from scratch, didn’t you? If that’s true, that must mean you made these ruins too.”

“...Yes, and no.” Maxwell acknowledged. He headed back to the center of the chamber, shivering from the underground chill. He wasn’t interested in exploring, nor had he ever been especially interested in the remains of that wretched civilization. By the time he had learnt of its existence, it was far too late for cautionary tales. “I found only dust and void when I first arrived in the Constant, yes, but they weren’t… chaotic. They bore traces of what had been here before me in their very nature. Intangible ones, mind you.”

He paused, and he noticed that Wilson was observing him with genuine interest. Confound the man, he was still an open book. One only needed to dangle a juicy bit of trivia before his nose to obtain his undivided attention. Well, better that way. No doubt Maxwell could find a way to turn Wilson’s insatiable curiosity to his own advantage.

“It was like a disassembled jigsaw puzzle, you get me?” He continued. “Scattered particles and sparks of magic with different forms and qualities, an apparent mess with no obvious head or tail, but… if you paid close attention, you could dimly see a bigger picture. I did try to recreate at least a portion of what was before, and this is the result.”

“...Ah. You had no idea what you were doing then. You were simply following an outline laid out by someone else, out of sheer curiosity.“ Wilson paused meaningfully. “Fascinating.”

That gave Maxwell pause. “I suppose you could put it that way.” He eventually said evenly. He was well past the point of caring about every little sarcastic twist They or anyone else may have imparted on his life anyway.

“And then? Why did you rebuild only so little?”

“They didn’t like it.” Maxwell shrugged. “They had already destroyed the world I was reassembling. They were bored of it. They wanted something new to toy with, so I just gave Them that.”

“...I see. A pity-”

“And I bet They aren’t too fond of you snooping down here as well, instead of entertaining Them properly.” Maxwell added with a smirk. “You’d better focus on what’s required of you, pal. Before They get impatient.”

“I have been granted both the freedom and the power to pursue whatever endeavour I desire. You needn’t concern yourself about such matters.” Ah, such ingenuity! Had he still had the tiniest shred of sympathy in him, he may have even felt pity for the naive little man, and the obvious ruin that lay in his path. As things stood, however, he just couldn’t wait to witness it. “What else do you know about the Ancients?”

“A few things.” Maxwell smiled affably, putting down the lantern and clasping his hands behind his back. “And I’d be more than glad to share such information with you, if you were kind enough to return the favor.”

Wilson blinked stolidly.

“The Codex.” Maxwell patiently explained. “You have no real need for it, do you? It is merely a reflection of Their essence, after all. Useless to someone who stands as close to Them as you do. To me, on the other hand, it is a priceless aid. I believe They wish me to keep it anyway, since They gracefully allowed me to retain it after you succeeded me. If you-”

“No.” Wilson interrupted him curtly. “Tell me what you know.”

“Come on, consider my position, pal.” Wilson’s dogged single-mindedness was positively grating, without even mentioning his dreadfully incompetent attitude. However, Maxwell was an adept liar, if nothing else. “It would take me far longer than a single night to dispel your every doubt. And if I die, as it will happen sooner than later if I’m stripped of my most important asset, your questions shall remain unanswered. What would it cost you to-”

“Are you seriously trying to bargain with me?” Suddenly, Wilson’s demeanour changed completely. There was a dangerous edge in his tone, as sharp as a scalpel, one that was completely extraneous to the scatterbrained scientist Maxwell had known and despised. Maxwell raised one hand placatingly.

“I’m simply asking for-”

“Look here, you miserable worm.” Wilson moved towards him and Maxwell, despite himself, took a step back, stumbling against a statue that, he was sure of it, hadn’t been there a moment before. Inky tentacles erupted from the polished gold and trapped him against it, coiling more than once around his neck and forehead to block his head firmly on the spot. “You should be kissing the ground I walk on simply because I didn’t wipe you off my world the moment I noticed you were still crawling around it. I don’t have time for your idiocy. Start talking before I dig your brain out of your nose and rummage into it myself.”

For the very first time, Maxwell found himself gazing straight into the new King’s eyes: two large pools of blackness, framed by a shimmering iris of an ineffable, ever-changing hue, currently veering towards a fierce shade of scarlet. “Hey, all right, no need to-”

“In fact,” Wilson added, and unceremoniously shoved two clawed fingers up Maxwell’s nostrils, “I may as well.”

Pain exploded in Maxwell’s head without warning, immense, horrendous, indescribable. Fluid shadow wormed its way into his skull, freezing and burning his very bones from the inside out. It filled his nasal cavity, dripping down his throat and windpipe, disgusting and suffocating, it seeped through whatever feeble tissues stood in its way until it reached its destination, and ravished it. Maxwell had been through his fair share of infernal agony, but in that moment he could not recall experiencing anything more excruciating than that. In that moment, he could not recall or think anything at all, as Wilson probed through his grey matter with all the grace of a butcher, piercing and mincing and slicing away in his meticulous search. Maxwell became aware of his own screams only when he needed to stop to breathe, gasping and convulsing uncontrollably against the tight tendrils, only to begin anew when pain flared up again, impossibly stronger, when Wilson found what he was looking for and latched onto it like a leech.

It ended as abruptly as it had started. Maxwell found himself sprawled on the ground, feverishly clutching his head, palming his face, desperately trying to prevent his own thoughts from trickling down the cracks Wilson must have left in his skull. It took him several anguished minutes to realize that there was no blood on his gloves, no outer sign of damage or injury anywhere. He rolled on his side with a jerk and retched.

“Mh.” Wilson hummed thoughtfully as he paced away from Maxwell, gazing at his surroundings appraisingly. He clicked his tongue, frowning disapprovingly at the statue Maxwell had been tied to. “And yet…”

Maxwell shakily wiped his mouth on his cuff, taking avid gulps of air when the heaves finally receded, his throat burning from the bile. He didn’t dare to speak, until Wilson turned his back to him.

“Higgsbury-” Maxwell croaked, but Wilson had already disappeared. Maxwell didn’t move for a long time, until the ground turned a faint shade of grey under the blooming light of the statues, and a deep thrum echoed in the forgotten chamber.

Maxwell wasn’t a fool.

But there was no denying that he had made a significant miscalculation.

If Maxwell had dared to push his luck with his request and uncooperativeness, it was only because he was perfectly aware of how limited the King’s ability to mess with the survivors was. Not for lack of power, obviously, but for a very precise restriction. They did not appreciate when the King abused his position to punish a pawn arbitrarily. They wanted Their game to be (or at least appear) fair, They wanted each participant to feel capable of overturning their disgraceful doom. It added zest and motivation to their actions, it feeded their anger and spite, and They liked it. Maxwell himself had never dared to go against Their will: even when he was cornered, even when Wilson was literally on his doorstep, he had never raised his hand directly against him, or against anyone else.

Well, except the mime. But that moron had managed to piss Them off too, so he was a bit of special case.

Wilson, however, didn’t seem to be playing by the rules. When and how cruelly his disorderly behavior would be punished was of little consequence or solace to Maxwell, considering the amount of problems it was causing him presently. Stealing the Codex, Maxwell’s unique and personal perk, was an unforgivably cheap shot. Unforeseen accidents and attacks had decimated the few puppets left in less than three weeks, and he was already struggling to keep up with the ungodly amount of food and materials life in the wilderness required him to gather on a daily basis. Then, Wilson had gone and practically kidnapped him, abandoning him in the most dangerous area of the map without a second thought. Maxwell had managed to make it out of that hellhole only thanks to the ingrained habit of keeping his sword and armor on his person at all times. Still, he hadn’t escaped unscathed. Just as he had found an exit from the underground, a single moment of relief and distraction had been enough to leave him exposed to the attack of a colony of bats. He dropped the lantern, its glass cracked, the fireflies escaped. He had managed to grab a handful of lightbulbs on his way out, but he had been slow, too slow to pull them out of his pocket, what with the bats’ teeth sinking into every square inch of his armor, and then- and then-

Maxwell’s hands shook visibly as he pressed the silk cloth on the bleeding gashes on his arm. There was no helping it, he’d have to stitch them, tremors or not. He didn’t hope for a moment that it might be less painful than it looked. He fetched the sewing kit, trying his best to steady his mind as well as his limbs. It had been a trick. It must have been a trick, obviously. Nothing simpler than mimicking a voice, just for the hell of it-

“Not looking too dapper tonight, are you?”

Maxwell jumped on his feet with a gasp. Behind him, at the very edge of the firepit’s light, was a human silhouette- God, that stupid hair-

“What do you want now?!” Maxwell barked, heart thumping in chest.

“Don’t lose your marbles, pal.” Wilson was barely visible in the dim light, yet his wide smile stood out sharply from the darkness, almost luminous, like a jagged crescent in the night. “Unless you want those guys back there to join us.”

He pointed behind himself, deep inside the wall of blackness. Maxwell didn’t need his sight to guess what lured back there: familiar whispers and choked noises slithered all around him, alerting him of the presence of the Corrupted Ones, waiting for insanity to drag him within their reach. He wasn’t in any rush to do so.

“What do you want, Higgsbury?” He seethed.

“Oh, I’m just here to offer some company. You look like you might use some, after all.”

Well, it looked like Wilson may have finally remembered his old grudges and decided to act on them. If he intended to hurt him, there wasn’t much Maxwell could do to prevent that. If he merely wanted to annoy him, Maxwell’s best bet would be to ignore him completely and hope he’d get bored soon. That seemed like the best tactic to adopt.

“You’ve had enough fun at my expenses for tonight, I’d say.” Maxwell sat back on the log and resumed preparing the thread. “Get lost.”

“Aw, but I just got here. Come on, let’s have a chat.” Suddenly, Wilson vanished, only to reappear sitting beside Maxwell. He snapped his jaw open and close a few times, his teeth clinking audibly. “What’s eating you, pal?”

Only then Maxwell noticed that Wilson looked different. His projection was nothing like the ones he’d used before, in fact… he looked pretty much like one of Maxwell’s puppets: no features or colors, just a uniformly grey lump of shadow, except the bright mouth. The fact irked Maxwell almost more than anything else: he wasn’t even fully focussing on tormenting him, he had just sent that half-assed placeholder while he was probably busy misusing his new powers somewhere else. The nerve of the man.

“My my, someone’s really grumpy tonight. Good thing I know you better than you know yourself.” That manic smile seemed stuck on his face, barely moving as he spoke and leaned closer and closer to Maxwell. “It’s her, isn’t it?”

The first stitch stung horribly. Puny, cowardly bastard. Maxwell kept ignoring him as he worked, and Wilson remained quiet for a few moments as he observed Maxwell’s dubious dexterity. The moment of respite didn’t last long.

“What a surprise, uh? She hasn’t uttered a single word since… well, since before she got here, if we don’t consider all the screaming-” Maxwell’s hand closed into a fist automatically, and it flew towards Wilson’s head. It went straight through it. The dark silhouette laughed mirthlessly. “What? Really, you should be happy for her. Your name was the first word she remembered, isn’t that something to cherish?”

“Don’t try to play games with me.” Maxwell hissed, despite himself. His arm hurt, his head hurt and he had no patience for any of this bullshit. “If you think you can trick me with something so stupid-”

“It was no trick, pal. You heard her, right? She called you. And then she mauled you because, honestly, who wouldn’t?”

Maxwell’s hands trembled harder. Eyes trained on the wound, he sank the needle in the flesh again. A thick drop of blood coalesced at the opposite end of the gash, it rolled down his wrist- and stopped halfway through. It turned black, black as ink, and Wilson’s head phased through his arm from God knew where, smiling up at him.

“It’s easy, isn’t it? Pretending that it’s all a ruse. I can hear you thinking that. ‘Lies, all lies. She can’t speak. She can’t remember. She’s gone.’ It’s easy to pretend that someone else couldn’t possibly have succeeded where you had failed.”

“There’s no way you have!” Maxwell snapped. He couldn’t even see his arm now, there was no more pain to distract him from that frustrating conversation. “I have tried everything, I have-”

“You have tried everything, except the one thing that would work! Do you really not know what the problem was?” Wilson laughed, he laughed until he couldn’t breath, as if he needed to in the first place. “You.”

The rest of Wilson’s body rose up right in front of Maxwell, like smoke seeping through the bleeding cuts. His smile was wide, impossibly wide, of the brightest white Maxwell had ever seen, and he found that he just couldn’t take his eyes off it.

“Let me tell you a story.” Wilson cooed, softly, mere centimetres from the tip of his nose. “There was, once, a foolish, weak man, who wandered straight into the clutches of beings much stronger, much smarter than he could ever dream of becoming. In his idiocy, he dragged an innocent girl down to hell with him. The man was graciously spared, and turned into the King of a Reign of his own making. The woman was not, and darkness latched onto her, and she onto it.”

Wilson’s body kept growing, longer and thinner, coiling around Maxwell like a snake, immaterial like air, oppressive like gravity. Maxwell couldn’t move. He wasn’t sure he was even trying to.

“The King mourned his friend’s corruption deeply, so deeply that he started harboring twisted thoughts. Thoughts of rebellion, of escape, of annihilation. Thoughts unfitting of the King of the Constant, thoughts that defeated the very purpose of this world. Thankfully, They intervened. The few traces of the woman that were left, the fragments of her mind, of her will, of her semblance, brought nothing but pain to the King: so They repressed them. They caged her humanity and her soul in a shell of unthinking bestiality, of remorseless violence and unawareness.”

“...What are you talking about?” Maxwell’s throat was dry. His head felt heavy, so heavy that he couldn’t keep it raised. He couldn’t look at Wilson any more, he could only see the grass beneath his feet, grey like ashes, grey like his suit, grey like everything.

“Her suffering was dulled… and so was the King’s. Without the remnants of what she had been, it was easier for him to let go of his delusional fantasies. She is gone, They said: he acknowledged it, and under Their guidance, he finally made the right choices. She’s hungry, They said: you should feed her. He did so, he let her roam his lands and feed on the flesh of the lesser creatures. She's ugly and ruined, she'd hate to be seen like this, They said: you should hide her. He did so, he shrouded her in perennial darkness, so that unworthy eyes and minds may not be privy to her disgrace. And eventually, the King gave up on her recovery, as it was easier for him to accept irreversible doom than to keep failing and mourning.”

“I didn’t- I did not-” Maxwell had to support his forehead with his hands. The blood was warm on his fingertips, it flowed freely along his forearm, and Wilson’s voice flowed as well, cold and thick, like poison dripping into his ears.

“Until, one day, things changed. A new King arose, one driven by the purest thirst for knowledge, one unencumbered by self-serving remorse or guilt. They had no reason to keep restraining the creature, for the new King wasn’t bothered by her. They released her from Their grasp, and just like that, she existed again. Bit by bit, she started to remember. Who she used to be, what had become of her.” Wilson’s voice smiled. “What you did to her.”

“I helped her!” Maxwell suddenly roared. “Everything I could do, everything I could think of, I-”

“You were useless!” Wilson’s voice raised in return, distorted and grating. “Had you been steadfast, you wouldn’t have shied away from her crippled form. Had you been powerful, you would have healed her. Had you been merciful, you would have killed her. But you were none of those things. You were just a coward, and condemned her to this corrupted mockery of existence. But you’ll see for yourself, just how grateful she is for your help.”

“Silence!” Maxwell jumped on his feet with an explosion of energy, fuelled by sheer rage and spite. Wilson didn’t seem bothered by the fact, as he kept fluctuating in the same spot Maxwell had been occupying, its shadowy body coiled like a sick, twisted cobra. “Do you really have nothing better to do than messing with me? Why do you expect me to believe any of this nonsense?! You know nothing of her, nothing of me, nothing of this world!”

“And you do? Why do you keep addressing me as if I was the King, then?” The shadow laughed. “He’s very busy, you know? This is all you. I’m all you. I’m sure he’ll find the shape you’ve given me very amusing though.”

It took a couple of seconds for Maxwell to register the meaning of the shadow’s words. It wasn’t Wilson. It wasn’t Wilson, it was- it didn’t matter what it was. If it wasn’t the King himself, then Maxwell didn’t have to tolerate another minute of its cajoling. He immediately drew his sword and lunged forward. The black blade sliced through the air with a hiss and cut the wooden log neatly in half, but the apparition had dissolved before it could be hit.

“Whoa there, getting so worked up already?” The derisory voice came from Maxwell’s left this time. “Seriously though, did you think the King would waste his precious time with the likes of you? You have no more knowledge to offer, he may as well forget you now.”

Maxwell attacked the shadow over and over again, but it kept fizzling out of existence before any hit could reach, only to reform at the opposite side of the camp. He found himself short on breath very quickly, his arm as heavy as lead and his heartbeat pulsing painfully in his temples.

“In truth, he may have been interested in you, once. Back when you were shrouded in a convenient cloud of mystery and apparent omnipotence, that is. Back when you were the unreachable oppressor. And indeed, when he accepted to serve Them, the first knowledge he seeked was about you, about who you had been. And he found out. Everything. And when he did…” The homunculus shrugged and shook his head. “He lost all interest in you. Even his desire for revenge. I wouldn't go as far as to say he pitied you, but-”

“Shut up.” Maxwell had to stop, supporting himself against the nearest tree to keep his balance. The world swam around him, and he covered his ears, in a vain effort to muffle the deafening whispers.

“And, I mean, can you really blame him? Is there a more shallow, boring, pathetic story than yours? You’ve tried your damndest to make it worth telling, but at the end of the day there’s no fancy suit, no mystical power, no pretentious name or grand persona that’ll ever make you any better than what you’ve always been, William Carter.” The figure emerged from the bark and stepped forward, it overlapped Maxwell’s body, and when it spoke, the word rattled within the walls of his own skull. “Insignificant.”

“SHUT UP!” Maxwell stumbled backwards and lashed out instinctively. The sword cleaved the creature’s shoulder neatly, cutting through the rest of its dark body like butter. It vanished slowly, dispersing like smoke in the faint breeze until only its dazzling smile was left, floating idly in the air for a few more seconds before disappearing as well.

Maxwell waited, frozen in place, for the shadow to reappear. It did not. When the sinewy outline of a terrorbeak snaked beside him, still blessedly incorporeal, he dropped his sword and kneeled to the ground, eyes darting left and right to spot as many flowers as he could. He ripped them all off unthinkingly: the fierce gladiolus, the twin daisies, the bright tulip, the lonely rose at the very edge of the light.

[ildannatorp-blog]

“I think I am haunted. I think I am a contagious specter. The first person I touched after I moved here turned to Xanax, the second to scotch, the third was just vomit.”

N A M E -  Tyson Kekai A G E - 36 C A R E E R - Security/drug dealer A F F I L I A T I O N - Dannato Club

“ TEN YEARS FROM NOW, MAKE SURE YOU CAN SAY THAT YOU CHOSE YOUR LIFE, YOU ‘DIDN’T SETTLE FOR IT. -

Tyson grew up on the outskirts of a small island that held the notion of ‘family first’ in extremely high regard. Although outsiders were welcomed, often with open arms and a beverage that tasted nothing like what it did back home, that didn’t stop them from feeling ever-so-slightly on edge when the sun set. The young boy wasn’t oblivious to the goings on when darkness came; the place was brimming with drug dealers, working girls, and knife crime, but it was his home and being surrounded by those accustomed to the place settled any fleeting qualms he had. The beach was the island’s little slice of paradise, and it had held many an event from weddings to birthdays, from barbeques to surf-meets, and even the occasional funeral. Possibly the most notable occurrence to Tyson was that of the death of his uncle – he had proudly owned Marco’s Beach Hut for the last forty-something years before meeting his unfortunate (but expected) demise, though luckily he had willed that his ashes were scattered into the sea so he could keep an eye on his beloved beach.

Guests had shown up from all over the island, some even further afield, and the grieving process for one of the island’s most loved souls had been a tricky one to endure. However, the Earth ceased to stop spinning and it had been revealed that Tyson’s father was gifted the Hut by his late brother – meaning he had people to serve, stools to wipe down, and a legacy to uphold. Tyson had only recently turned four so, in reality, he wasn’t of much assistance to the everyday running of a small bar, or anything else for that matter, but that didn’t stop him from waddling behind his dad every morning to help set up shop. He’d help clean up the surfaces and rearrange anything that wasn’t breakable, before hopping up on a stool and chattering along about nothing in particular until the first customers showed face. Their collaborative efforts lasted for two years before the numbers from the business didn’t quite match up to the red-stamped bills coming through the door, and tourism had slowly declined once everyone had heard about what richer countries could offer them.

New York had never been on the agenda. In fact, moving from their homeland at all was something of a myth to the Kekai’s, but that’s exactly what it came down to. An old family friend had heard of the family’s monetary troubles and contacted Tyson’s mother immediately, offering insight to the fruitful city he had long before set up in. There was freedom, jobs in abundance, every kind of pizza you could ever ask for, and an education system that young Tyson still had the chance to utilise. As the days went on, it became a no-brainer to the Kekai’s and four months later, they were settled in to an equally questionable New York neighbourhood, full-time jobs waiting for both parents and a placement in a school for Tyson. Life was looking up for the trio; they lived comfortably enough that they were all warm, watered, fed, and happy – they’d even made a handful of good friends dotted around the city. It was all that they could ask for given their prior circumstances …  though Tyson’s mother seemed absentminded often, like she was longing for something a little more. Tyson never really understood why exactly that was and would often ask his father why mommy was so sad, though he would simply be met with a wistful smile and a firm grip on his shoulder. “Sometimes, son, the world isn’t fair and we have things taken from us unrightfully so.”

Tyson’s mother had suffered two miscarriages in the first ten months of them being in their new home. Of course, he never understood at the time, and he couldn’t fully comprehend why they were taking a boy home from a large house one day, but his parents told him it was his brother, and so it was. As Tyson grew, so did Sage and whatever one did, the other was usually involved in some way or another. Whether his brother was watching the wrestling, or trawling through his old comic collection, Tyson would be close by like some sort of guard dog. Even as they aged and progressed through the symbolic years of early adulthood, Tyson would humbly agree to take (or force) Sage out with him and his rowdy group of pals.

Eventually the novelty wore off for the pair and they both started to understand and respect one another’s personal space. Tyson moved downtown in his mid-twenties, slumming it in some apartment above the gym he had religiously worked out in since he was sixteen. Not only had he made something of a name for himself in the land of MMA – often challenged to fights, and often triumphant – but he had also been long since distributing drugs, known and loved by his punters for his ability to produce strong, pure merchandise. His life had never been particularly vanilla, not since he was about twelve years old, though his exposure to extreme violence and class A demand threw him into a whirlwind of danger that soon became more addicting than the baggies he sold. Friends were fleeting, nothing more than buddies to get high and have a good time with, same with the women – they came and went as they pleased, using Tyson for his stash, but he had never minded. The man had always been something of a lone wolf, yet one woman in particular had sparked an interest in him. Their love had been intense, fuelled by drugs and an adrenaline unmatched by any other lifestyle. It lasted two hot-and-cold years before she was lifeless in his arms, still and petrified eyes burning into his with froth still lacing her mouth.Tyson had cut her the lethal dose; he had killed her.

Years on and Tyson is working with bigger packages and bigger people. He had stayed committed to the gym he had called home throughout everything, pushing his all into building himself into something stronger than the doses he took – the pain, the anger, the guilt, it all paid off in some kind of twisted turn in events. It was there that he had been scouted by an older man, dressed exquisitely from head-to-toe and insisting that he could pay a hefty sum in return for a little brute force. Tyson worked as a henchman for the mob for a year, setting boundaries with businessmen and obtaining overdue money, merchandise, and even information from those who had failed to uphold their end of the bargain. Deciding that he preferred to issue violence on his own terms, this particular role didn’t suit him for all that long and he can now be found standing tall at the front of Dannato’s club, refusing entry to those he deems unfit, and protecting those that are inside. He continues to supply a lucrative amount of drugs, mainly downtown, but also to the clientele that grace the club. With the body of a Greek God and the charisma of an entrepreneur you love to love, he’s one of their best, and the workload is less than strenuous for a man who’s seen it all.

 - C O N N E C T I O N S -

Sage Kekai 

His beloved little brother, his roommate, and the thorn in his side. The brothers have always been a close duo, sharing everything from t-shirts to wrestling tips, but even the strongest of bonds can be shaken when secrets best-kept at just that are hidden. A disconnect between the pair is in the air, and an odd lack of engagement as of late has left Tyson wondering what it is that Sage is so quiet about.

Violetta Aureum 

 Tyson has little desire to open himself up again, he’s far too deep into the realm of living up to his lone wolf ideals, though the company of a pretty woman looking for a high is something he’s never been able to resist. When Violetta is looking for a fix, Tyson is more often than not there to supply her, and when he’s looking for his, Violetta is happy to spread her legs and supply him – keeping it confidential with absolutely no-strings-attached.

Robin Underwood 

 An unlikely source of friendship, Tyson was one of the first to accept Robin into the mob. Others were careful to place trust in her, as was he, though he was never one to treat someone poorly based on preconceived ideas. As she rose through the ranks and landed herself the title of underboss, their friendship surprisingly remained as strong as ever, based solely on honesty and integrity.

[dannatobiosandshit]

tyson bio

“I think I am haunted. I think I am a contagious specter. The first person I touched after I moved here turned to Xanax, the second to scotch, the third was just vomit.”

N A M E -  Tyson Kekai A G E - 36 C A R E E R - Security/drug dealer A F F I L I A T I O N - Dannato Club

“ TEN YEARS FROM NOW, MAKE SURE YOU CAN SAY THAT YOU CHOSE YOUR LIFE, YOU ‘DIDN’T SETTLE FOR IT. -

Tyson grew up on the outskirts of a small island that held the notion of ‘family first’ in extremely high regard. Although outsiders were welcomed, often with open arms and a beverage that tasted nothing like what it did back home, that didn’t stop them from feeling ever-so-slightly on edge when the sun set. The young boy wasn’t oblivious to the goings on when darkness came; the place was brimming with drug dealers, working girls, and knife crime, but it was his home and being surrounded by those accustomed to the place settled any fleeting qualms he had. The beach was the island’s little slice of paradise, and it had held many an event from weddings to birthdays, from barbeques to surf-meets, and even the occasional funeral. Possibly the most notable occurrence to Tyson was that of the death of his uncle – he had proudly owned Marco’s Beach Hut for the last forty-something years before meeting his unfortunate (but expected) demise, though luckily he had willed that his ashes were scattered into the sea so he could keep an eye on his beloved beach.

Guests had shown up from all over the island, some even further afield, and the grieving process for one of the island’s most loved souls had been a tricky one to endure. However, the Earth ceased to stop spinning and it had been revealed that Tyson’s father was gifted the Hut by his late brother – meaning he had people to serve, stools to wipe down, and a legacy to uphold. Tyson had only recently turned four so, in reality, he wasn’t of much assistance to the everyday running of a small bar, or anything else for that matter, but that didn’t stop him from waddling behind his dad every morning to help set up shop. He’d help clean up the surfaces and rearrange anything that wasn’t breakable, before hopping up on a stool and chattering along about nothing in particular until the first customers showed face. Their collaborative efforts lasted for two years before the numbers from the business didn’t quite match up to the red-stamped bills coming through the door, and tourism had slowly declined once everyone had heard about what richer countries could offer them.

New York had never been on the agenda. In fact, moving from their homeland at all was something of a myth to the Kekai’s, but that’s exactly what it came down to. An old family friend had heard of the family’s monetary troubles and contacted Tyson’s mother immediately, offering insight to the fruitful city he had long before set up in. There was freedom, jobs in abundance, every kind of pizza you could ever ask for, and an education system that young Tyson still had the chance to utilise. As the days went on, it became a no-brainer to the Kekai’s and four months later, they were settled in to an equally questionable New York neighbourhood, full-time jobs waiting for both parents and a placement in a school for Tyson. Life was looking up for the trio; they lived comfortably enough that they were all warm, watered, fed, and happy – they’d even made a handful of good friends dotted around the city. It was all that they could ask for given their prior circumstances …  though Tyson’s mother seemed absentminded often, like she was longing for something a little more. Tyson never really understood why exactly that was and would often ask his father why mommy was so sad, though he would simply be met with a wistful smile and a firm grip on his shoulder. “Sometimes, son, the world isn’t fair and we have things taken from us unrightfully so.”

Tyson’s mother had suffered two miscarriages in the first ten months of them being in their new home. Of course, he never understood at the time, and he couldn’t fully comprehend why they were taking a boy home from a large house one day, but his parents told him it was his brother, and so it was. As Tyson grew, so did Sage and whatever one did, the other was usually involved in some way or another. Whether his brother was watching the wrestling, or trawling through his old comic collection, Tyson would be close by like some sort of guard dog. Even as they aged and progressed through the symbolic years of early adulthood, Tyson would humbly agree to take (or force) Sage out with him and his rowdy group of pals.

Eventually the novelty wore off for the pair and they both started to understand and respect one another’s personal space. Tyson moved downtown in his mid-twenties, slumming it in some apartment above the gym he had religiously worked out in since he was sixteen. Not only had he made something of a name for himself in the land of MMA – often challenged to fights, and often triumphant – but he had also been long since distributing drugs, known and loved by his punters for his ability to produce strong, pure merchandise. His life had never been particularly vanilla, not since he was about twelve years old, though his exposure to extreme violence and class A demand threw him into a whirlwind of danger that soon became more addicting than the baggies he sold. Friends were fleeting, nothing more than buddies to get high and have a good time with, same with the women – they came and went as they pleased, using Tyson for his stash, but he had never minded. The man had always been something of a lone wolf, yet one woman in particular had sparked an interest in him. Their love had been intense, fuelled by drugs and an adrenaline unmatched by any other lifestyle. It lasted two hot-and-cold years before she was lifeless in his arms, still and petrified eyes burning into his with froth still lacing her mouth.Tyson had cut her the lethal dose; he had killed her.

Years on and Tyson is working with bigger packages and bigger people. He had stayed committed to the gym he had called home throughout everything, pushing his all into building himself into something stronger than the doses he took – the pain, the anger, the guilt, it all paid off in some kind of twisted turn in events. It was there that he had been scouted by an older man, dressed exquisitely from head-to-toe and insisting that he could pay a hefty sum in return for a little brute force. Tyson worked as a henchman for the mob for a year, setting boundaries with businessmen and obtaining overdue money, merchandise, and even information from those who had failed to uphold their end of the bargain. Deciding that he preferred to issue violence on his own terms, this particular role didn’t suit him for all that long and he can now be found standing tall at the front of Dannato’s club, refusing entry to those he deems unfit, and protecting those that are inside. He continues to supply a lucrative amount of drugs, mainly downtown, but also to the clientele that grace the club. With the body of a Greek God and the charisma of an entrepreneur you love to love, he’s one of their best, and the workload is less than strenuous for a man who’s seen it all.

- C O N N E C T I O N S -

Sage Kekai

His beloved little brother, his roommate, and the thorn in his side. The brothers have always been a close duo, sharing everything from t-shirts to wrestling tips, but even the strongest of bonds can be shaken when secrets best-kept at just that are hidden. A disconnect between the pair is in the air, and an odd lack of engagement as of late has left Tyson wondering what it is that Sage is so quiet about.

Violetta Aureum

Tyson has little desire to open himself up again, he’s far too deep into the realm of living up to his lone wolf ideals, though the company of a pretty woman looking for a high is something he’s never been able to resist. When Violetta is looking for a fix, Tyson is more often than not there to supply her, and when he’s looking for his, Violetta is happy to spread her legs and supply him – keeping it confidential with absolutely no-strings-attached.

Robin Underwood

An unlikely source of friendship, Tyson was one of the first to accept Robin into the mob. Others were careful to place trust in her, as was he, though he was never one to treat someone poorly based on preconceived ideas. As she rose through the ranks and landed herself the title of underboss, their friendship surprisingly remained as strong as ever, based solely on honesty and integrity.

[jtmercronin]

A lot of this still holds up, especially regarding Corporate, Publisher management, shit editors and mother company oversight company men. People who only value profits and the popular trends one pulls out of their asses and try their hardest to blot anything positive in the industry.

Now, it's all poor management, often nonexistent editing or direction, reckless spending, scandals, pandering, a deep-seated pettiness, deceptive/misleading business practices are listed in the following paragraphs.

Sexual Orientation and Gender Politics are used to present the LGBT(Q) and Non-binary community. There's more distrust and witch hunting there with in-house prejudice I just don't want to address. Comics won't. It's a big LGBT utopia written by straight overwhelmingly "progressive" liberal people with Matt Fraction being the wildcard. Representation used to be big because there wasn't a lot of it. Early on where it was against the Comics Code Authority. They want you wholesome, virgins, straight and embracing your gender roles plus reign in on apathy, incest, gore, rape, torture, satanic themes, deities, etc. because 1950s horror comics went buck wild. Wonder Woman was co-created by the inventor of the polygraph, his wife and his mistress/dominatrix. With those beginnings folks wrote about LGBTQ in roundabout ways and stereotypes with code words "confirmed bachelor, more New York, left handed" as a means of self-expression while closeted. Today, there's more marketing ploy because the niche untapped demographic is the target audience. I want their money today, yesterday. When representing a demographic as gimmick to target the correlating demographic of potential consumers for the quarter: The art is great with vibrant colors, top work. Everyone is attractive in the marketing way. The writing is shit, context is nigh-nonexistent, the characters are two-dimensional, non-issues are played up to personal crises. It's Fucking Insulting. A Progressive actually thinks I'm stupid (I'm fucking stupid) enough to buy flaming dog shit in an original da Vinci where the subject it is flipping you off. The only exception is to new full-bodied fleshed-out characters with at least decent endearing writing.

Race politics (consider that there's some beating a dead horse here. People live well and comply with law/law enforcement but are marginalized and face adversity on a tiered contradictory pandering system structured on an ideology based on racial stereotypes, subjective opinions developing a disproportionate privilege based on race implying some "minority" races contribute less to society and enable White Privilege for a higher privilege standing than the other minorities (((like equating Jewish to Caucasian))). Two Jewish men made the Black Panther sidestepping the bollywog incompetent sidekick portrayals from times past. Afterwards Black writers became more prominent and paid. Conservative-Democrat Christopher Priest and Republican Dwayne McDuffy had a very deep and engrossing run. Character personalities, interactions, motivation, goals, dreams and passion sold those issues. They would create the DC Milestone Comics imprint for African-American writers and artists. Reginald Hudlin breathed in some new air in a creative way. re-imagining classic D-list villains, Hudlin spun gold out of manure covered straw. His Grab for Power arc would be serialized into a BET television show that went on YouTube for free. Reginald Hudlin's run is however, is marred with portrayals of people as overwhelmingly racist with implications that everyone harbors some amount of inherent racism. The Masai are racist, late 1890-1900s South African troops are racists (they are), The Joint Chiefs of Staff are racist. All of Europe via the Catholic Church conspire to break heathen n****r Wakanda ((a strong independent African country who don't need no man)) and bring it to heel. Hudlin didn't care to know about anything about non-black tertiary characters and they're poorly written. (Example: Rhino wears a Rhinoceros style suit, so He'd want to kill a Black Rhinoceros) There's an attempt to honor African culture that comes off like Kwanzaa compared to the African plains tribes spring festival to several deities.

Class Warfare (on a Democrat politician level where wealthy people you like are good and don't are bad despite the pre-established ideology that the %1 ($1,000,000+ club) is to blame. There are 250+ millionaires in office from their untaxed salaries), politically left ideology in the most superficial partisan way with Marvel Worldwide, Inc- A Walt Disney Company and DC Comics-a subsidiary of Warner Bros. Entertainment.

Oddly enough when it comes to Oregon native Gail Simone, respecting and adding onto what Robert Ervin Howard started and L. Sprague de Camp finished. Howard was 23 years old with Weird Tales showcasing His short stories earning $800.00 per week. Howard shot and killed himself upon hearing about his mother in 1934, He was 30 years old. Sexism, serious Lolita complex, old world racism and stereotypes echo the old work, a product of their time. Red Sonja was created from reworking source material into the Hrykanian (Russian Federation, ethnically the USSR ) warrior clad in brassiere and fauld of scaled lustrous unbreakable metal. Mane of fire, mouth of a sailor, speed & finesse a blink would miss, supple and strong as an ox. Scarath is her God bestowing weapons, armor and unconditional prowess for Her vengeance in exchange for celibacy.

You can always make some all-new all-different characters with incarnations, but Howard has hundreds of thousands of years plotted linear fictional history set up into six ages: The Age of Creation, Second Age (Kull), Conan the Barbarian with Red Sonja in the Third Age-The Hyperborean, geographically all in the northern hemisphere. The Fourth and Fifth Ages. We live in the Sixth Age. Simone is contractually obligated to follow it. placing the setting further in the future Snake men sprout of the ground can really hinder the story you want to tell in someone else's universe. I am so up to realism in media but even industry feminists go cheesecake. It really nullifies the argument when you have full reign and embrace the impossible body standards while knowing damn well that desk work without activity or carb control will balloon you out. 20 pounds in 3 weeks on 5:00 AM-7:00 PM shift sucks and the stretch marks are ugly AF. Reality, as life is needs meat on those bones without a bodybuilder's physique. Julia Vin lifts 287 lbs. at 5'4 and 106 lbs. A stick with two buoys on the chest two in back and stick limbs can't fight. Farmers are strong hardworking people. Sonja has that in common as the daughter of an artisan level serf. The land had stables, some space for studding rather than ranching, a warren of rabbits, rye, potatoes, cabbage and beets. The rye takes forefront as required by the noble, a Boyar-Postelnic or Varnic. Specifically, a Landowning Noble of largely rural agriculture driven economy made by clearing forest to supplement steppes land but enough for hunting and wood. As the 13th Century for Edward I of England, the early reign of Wenceslas I of Bohemia and the Sengoku Era of Japan can tell, wartime, constant war with governmental instability, post battlefield and post-war influx of battle hardened conscripts with no fields (or lack of wanting to) yields bandits. After refusing their home (thatch domicile, reinforced with cedar, mud and clay) to conscript soldiers. Kill father, beat, rape and kill the family. Fighting through the whole ordeal catches Scarath's notice and garners favor. Sonja will be revived as Scarath's Champion. Anybody can do anything and the strong can take what they please. Sonja does everything on her terms. She is the best and usually the only Female mercenary. It feels weird to morally, narratively, and logically to shake off surviving rape, mortal wounds, losing your family and immediately live on one-night stands.