#he got on a boat with some obscure cousin and went to work on a dairy farm for a relative

[benevolentbirdgal]

I have a list in my head, of the goyim I know would hide me. It's in the single digits. And for some of them, I don't think or don't know if their partners or other housemates would allow them to do so, so it's a moot point.

I learned to pack a go bag before I learned to walk. When I was a kid, I thought it was for hurricanes. I had an epiphany in my teens and asked my mother - she just shrugged and said there are a lot of reasons to leave in the middle of the night.

Plenty of regular people have been antisemitic during times of great violence, but honestly, I think most people aren't evil - just self-preserving. Doing the right thing when it's safe is easy. When it's messy, or dangerous, or endangers your family, it's a hell of a lot harder. I can hear the justifications folks would give - their family would be in danger. It can't really be that bad. The Jews could avoid it by doing x or y. It won't really be that level of violence or extremism. I know the ways people would justify turning their backs on Jews, because it's happened thousands of times in hundreds of communities. This doesn't even make me mad or sad anymore - it simply is, and I need the room in my brain for more important things.

One of the books I read as a little kid about the Holocaust was written by a child survivor. She talked about being snuck out of the ghetto after her parents. The righteous gentiles who took them in and hid them had reckoned it was the same punishment to hide three Jews as one: execution. When they took the author's father, they possibly condemned themselves to death, and they'd accepted the very serious stakes. Most people simply aren't going to put their life on the line when push comes to shove, and many would not be willing to risk significantly less than that. I honestly don't believe most people would even endanger their social standing to protect Jews, much less financial consequences, prison, or death.

It's easy to say that you support Jews, but actually doing so is much harder. And I know for a damn fact that if you'll excuse antisemitism - because it's *only* against certain kinds of Jews, or because it's from a particular kind of person (i.e. other marginalized people), you wouldn't hide me.

this sentiment is so true

[frodo-with-glasses]

How about 1, 3, and/or 5 for Samwise and Merry? It's an obscure one, but their canon interactions are so fun!

1. “How I think they met”

Honestly, I think they’d never really spoken to each other until Merry recruited Sam for the Conspiracy; but I think they would’ve known of each other, through Frodo, for longer than that. Frodo might have mentioned to Merry the latest antics of his gardener, Sam, and he might have told Sam that he was going to have his cousin over for tea that afternoon and to please sweep the grass clippings off the footpath before then.

If they’d ever crossed paths, Sam would’ve been too nervous to try small talk with a gentlehobbit (and a strange Bucklander, at that; don’t you know that they go out in boats??). Meanwhile Merry, while polite and courteous, would have had no reason to say anything to his cousin’s gardener beyond a pleasant “good morning”. But then around comes the Conspiracy, and suddenly Merry has a very good reason to speak to Sam—as a potential source of information, a spy for the good of someone close to them both—and they got to know and grow in respect for one another from there.

3. “A random headcanon I have of them”

Boating is one of Merry’s favorite hobbies. He’ll paddle out into the middle of the Brandywine and fish for hours until his skin is tanned and cracked by the sun. Sam, on the other hand, hates boats, and it’s one of the reasons he distrusted Merry at first, before they really got to know each other.

But as the years passed after the Quest and their curly hair turned grey, Sam began to make short trips to Buckland—“on business”, he said, though he wouldn’t say what the business was—and he’d quietly ask Merry to show him his way around boats.

Merry suspected his reasons from the very beginning, but he didn’t ask questions, and Sam didn’t offer information. Nonetheless, Merry showed him how to work the ropes and sails, and he explained their construction and repair and the waterproofing, and he’d keep the thing steady as Sam held on with knuckles quickly turning white. As the years went by, and Rosie’s health slowly worsened, Sam would visit more and more frequently. He got stronger and bolder on his “sea legs”, as if he was running out of reasons to stay afraid.

When Rosie passed away, Sam dug a letter out of a drawer and sent it straight away to Buckland.

What that letter said, no one else ever knew. But the younger Brandybucks heard old Meriadoc say, when he’d finished it, “Well, he’s off at last. I thought it might be so. I hope he finds him.”

Before the funeral ceremonies were over, a letter from Buckland arrived at Bag End that wasn’t the typical one of condolence; there was some of that, too, but also a message, and a sealed envelope that he was expressly asked not to open.

When Sam arrived in Valinor, he was carrying a letter in his breast pocket: written by Merry, and addressed to Frodo.

5. "A scene I wish we'd gotten of them"

See above. But also, I'd like to see all of the hobbits catching Bilbo up on their adventures just after the Council! I imagine they'd have lots of opportunities, across those months they waited for the scouts' return, to hole themselves up in Bilbo's room and compare notes so Frodo could get things written down. Just think of the laughter when they finally get around to Old Man Willow!

"'Gnaw it down!'" cries Merry, nearly doubled over laughing. "With your teeth?!"

Sam looks a bit sheepish, but stalwart. "Yes, sir, if there weren't no other option. At any rate, I wasn't going to let any gnarled old tree do in you and Mister Pippin not a day's jaunt from the Shire, and that's a fact."

Merry sits back, still chortling, and raises his pipe to his lips. "Well, that is good of you, Samwise. I'm glad it didn't come to that, for all of our sakes. You'd still be picking splinters out of your teeth today!" He shakes his head. "But it's a comfort that someone had the good sense not to listen to that old tree and his talk of sleep."

"I tried to wake myself up!" Frodo cries defensively, but he's smiling.

"Yes, and got an early bath out of it, with your clothes on!" Pippin interrupts.

All five hobbits erupt in laughter, Bilbo most of all, before they collect themselves and the conversation goes on—but no one even tries to refute Merry's praise of Sam. Secretly, Sam is preening like a barn rooster.

"Well, it was good of him to say it. I do have good sense. Strange folk, these Bucklanders, but if they're all half as polite as Mister Merry here, then I daresay they might not be half bad after all, queerness or no."

FRIENDSHIP ASK GAME!

[turningintomalfoy]

Draco Malfoy and the Obnoxious Stone

Rating: All Audiences

Tags: Time travel, AU/Canon divergence, Redemption, Character growth

Chapter: 3/9 [complete]

AO3: Read Here

“You better have a good reason for not writing back to most of my letters last month.” Pansy Parkinson announced the moment her head made it through the threshold of the train compartment. Draco couldn’t push down a feeling of guilt and let himself get distracted enough to lose a round of exploding snap against Goyle. He had barely just calmed enough to look in Crabbe’s direction, thank you very much, and did not want more reminders of the future mistakes he would make.

“Well, they were rather dull. I didn’t think my input would change how the weather ruined your plans,” his friend bristled, but that’s how they always worked best together. “You remember weather spells exist, don’t you? Why do they have to be natural thunderstorms?”

“It’s not the same.” she stretched the vowels, petulant. Draco shifted closer to the window to make room for them both. The train only set off a few moments prior, and were he to peer out the windows, he would still be able to catch the last parents waving goodbye to some student he would have probably seen tortured or killed if Draco paid any attention to anyone’s suffering in the war.

“You got to play quidditch with your cousins, nothing to complain about. Did you work on your catches?”

Pansy, in fact, did not practice her catches this summer, and told Draco exactly what she thought about spending precious time with obnoxious and spoilt kids. This time, Draco stopped himself for pointing out she should fit right in with that crowd. She really did seem put out.

Instead, Draco reached for the abandoned book on obscure age altering potions he pocketed at Flourish and Blott’s while browsing for non-incriminating books that could still be useful. There wasn’t as much choice at the store as he hoped for, but the library at Hogwarts would definitely have an answer, he couldn’t accept anything else. The dusty, in all likelihood outdated, tome had yet to provide a good lead on his situation. On the bright side, if he wanted to remain in this 11 year old body for much longer than a year or return to a more adult form, he now knew half a dozen ways of making it happen and the side effects of each one.

With a sigh, Draco rejoined the discussion about exactly how much cheating in chess is permissible before it’s embarrassing even if you don’t get caught. He hated playing against Pansy on days she decided there was no limit. The other boys somehow ended up entertaining them with all the misadventures they ended up in over the last month, not sugar coating their own ignorance or stupid ideas in the slightest. Before long, though, the conversation died out, probably because no one was used to Draco not vying for the spotlight at every opportunity.

Draco climbed up onto the seat with his book in hand to find his school robes and less frustrating reading material. Everything was going well until he forgot he wasn’t tall enough to step back to pull his trunk down without tumbling down. The trunk avoided squashing him by an inch, but that wasn’t enough to soften the blow to his ego (or his behind). The other kids bursting into laughter definitely didn’t help the issue one bit.

“Ahaha maybe you need to pra-haha practice more swan dives off a stage!” Pansy’s tone couldn’t even reach mocking, she was too busy trying to hold back her laughter. “You were so graceful before .”

“Maybe it’s puberty.“ Crabbe choked out, visibly preening at the rare opportunity to berate him. Goyle laughed so hard he started a coughing fit. Draco would never hear the end of it at this rate. He had to clear his head and recover whatever dignity he could.

He got up with as much poise as he could, considering the burning in his cheeks and ears, and slammed to door on his way out. The food trolley witch would be doing a round by now, he figured, he could buy some sweets for their silence.

He almost reached the front of the train by the time he caught up to the trolley. While the lady counted out change, Draco could have sworn he saw a green chocolate frog jump out of a wrapper and onto her shoulder, but the woman didn’t react. The return journey was slower both with residual embarrassment and the weight of bribes filling his pockets. He pushed past a few groups of older students, who seemed to be debating if Harry Potter was on the train, one of them claiming the boy must have gone abroad to hide from vengeful Death Eaters and will definitely be attending Durmstrang.

Draco almost ran into Hermione Granger as she marched out of a compartment with enough determination and energy to trample right over him.

“You haven’t seen a toad around, have you?” She asked. “A boy called Neville is looking for one, its name is Trevor.”

Draco wasn’t ready. Potter was one thing, he could still hate the Chosen One. But here stood Granger before he belittled and demeaned her in front of most, before he teased and bullied her for being smarter and more dedicated, before witnessing the torture she endured in his home. He felt sick.

“Well? Have you seen one around or not?” Granger prompted again.

“What’s the point of looking? The toad must have taken one look at him and realised it was a lost cause” what was he doing? He wanted to fix things, or to run away from all those he hurt before. Not preemptively insult them. Draco couldn’t tell whether he felt ill, angry, or just tired.

“How dare you. You can’t say things like that!”

Their heated exchange drew attention from the compartment beside them, it’s door opening to show a tall ginger (definitely Ron Weasley), and Potter. This settled it, Draco had to be stuck in his personal hell.

“Oi! What’s going on?” Weasley grumbled. “Can’t you question him somewhere else?”

“Hey, it’s you again. Draco Malfoy?” Potter chimed in, sounding out his name as though it was difficult to remember.

“You know him? Ask him if he’s seen Neville’s toad.” Granger put Potter between her and Draco with a couple steps back.

“It’ll be a public service to let the toad go. It belongs with a proper wizard.”

Apparently, Draco just couldn’t help himself.

“Of course the git would say that. Forget about it Harry, Hermione. Don’t expect any good from a Malfoy.” Weasley exclaimed with pride. The worst part was it wasn’t completely wrong. Still, Draco was already worked up and past the point of no return.

“I don’t even need to ask your name, Weasley. Father says your parents have more children than garden gnomes. Figures Potter would take pity on a charity case like you.” Weasley’s face turned scarlet, and both boys seemed ready for a fistfight, Draco realised a little late with a sinking feeling in his stomach. “Anyway, I have better things to be doing.”

He swerved out of range just in case one of them decided to go for a punch, and carried on. He wouldn’t admit to feeling guilt about coming full circle when it comes to these three, but something pushed him to mention the food trolley witch to Granger as he passed. The toad was probably long gone by then, anyway.

His friends greeted him somewhat remorsefully, and they spent the rest of the way to Hogwarts playing cards and enjoying his snacks. Not long after sunset the train came to a stop. Draco couldn’t contain his excitement. They followed other first years to the lake shore, where Hagrid packed them into boats. A breathtaking reflection of the stars spread around them on patches of still water. They cut through it, gentle ripples appearing around them like a gathered shimmering silk. It was a real shame only first years got to experience this sight.

“Has someone forgotten a toad?” Hagrid helped an embarrassed Longbottom climb back into the boat. They must have found it on the train, but the amphibian seemed to know what it wanted.

Draco kept to a group of pureblood students and away from the soon to be gryffindors, only slightly preoccupied by a possible continuation of their argument on the train, but Professor McGonagall didn’t make them wait long.

He lost focus, staring at the teacher table. He felt faint, palms sweating, and couldn’t tear his eyes away from Severus Snape and Dumbledore. Here they were, alive and unaware. A song reached him more like wind wailing outside tightly closed doors, he couldn’t join in if his life depended on it. McGonagall repeated his name twice before anything broke Draco out of thought. It was his turn. He pushed past a smaller kid out of his way to the Sorting Hat.

“My, my... this should be the first time we meet, young man. Yet, I see you have already found yourself amongst loyal snakes.”

“Just put me where I belong, it’s been a long day already,” Draco thought, grinding his teeth in frustration.

“Now, let’s not be hasty... It’s true you still have Slytherin on your mind, but is it truly where your heart lies?” The Hat carried on. “Gryffindor could hone your courage and quench a thirst for justice, child. You could make a bigger difference than you ever thought possible.”

Draco looked up at his godfather, at the headmaster, at the faces of all these children doomed to take part in a war they didn’t want. If he could slow Voldemort’s return, maybe they could all be safe. The war could be stopped before it even began. He caught Potter, staring at him with a mixture of worry and disgust.

“Forget it, I wouldn’t be caught dead with that lot. Even Hufflepuff would be better than Gryffindor.”

“Another difficult one, I see. Have it your way...”

The Slytherin table cheered at the Hat’s decision, as Draco took a seat opposite Crabbe and Goyle, who were too busy trying to stare food into existence on the empty plates between them.

The rest of the sorting went as expected. Nott, Theodore and Pansy joined them with a lot less fanfare than Draco or Potter, who ended up causing an uproar by landing in Gryffindor. Weasley followed suit, and finally Zabini, Blaise sat on Draco’s unoccupied side.

“I’m Draco.”

“Blaise. Does the Hat actually listen to us? I thought I saw you talking back to it.”

“It does, when someone is good enough to be in two houses. I hear it’s rare for a real hat stall to happen. It has to take more than five minutes.”

“Sweet! Which house did you turn down for better company?” He asked with a grin.

“... Ravenclaw.”

“Well, then it’s settled Draco. That puts you in charge of making sure we all pass!” Pansy joined in on his other side with a laugh. She gestured with a tilt of her head, pointing out Crabbe and Goyle. “We’ll definitely need a miracle for those two to make it.”

[akariitsuki42]

Spirit Saga

Ch6

Chapter 5

I did everything I could to keep Onyx because Ichigo has never been this demanding before, has he really forgotten that he is now my cousin? So when night arrived, I could not get to sleep because of how he was acting towards me, Alex, Onyx, Mugetsu, Esperanza, and Shiro, when it comes to Orihime, his son, Rukia, and Renji he acts like nothing is wrong. I wonder it has to do with the fact that HIS memories are obscured now, if that's the case, I need to do something about this, I softly called out, "Hey Onyx." "Couldn't sleep?" he asked. I sighed meaning that there was something on my mind, Onyx opened up the closet door like Rukia used to do, "What's on your mind?" "Ichigo has been acting very weird," I said, "Are his memories obscured this time?" "I wish I knew but we need to get everyone back before things get worse," said Onyx, "Thankfully I know on how to get them back. Let's sneak out and find a Karaoke place so we can loose the tension." That is what we exactly did, Onyx was always the one to keep his guard up even when Ichigo was being protective, doesn't matter, Onyx is my brother and guardian. We walked into a place that has a stage but no one was singing, Onyx asked the manager of the place, "Can we take the stage for tonight?" She was the sweetest lady, told us, "Of course you can, darlings." We walked up the stage and we saw Alex again, this time he was with Volaris, he knew exactly on what to play when he saw us, Ignite played first to warm us up, we got no one's attention for some time, which means we got to up our game. The lady who let us was watching us, she was loving us and how in sync we were being, she asked us, "Are you two a couple?" "No, we are brother and sister," said Onyx, "Don't ask, just accept it." She nods, I think she knows on what we are because Carry On from Avenged Sevenfold started to play, got Levy back, because there was someone with a cup of water who watched their drink vanish to thin air, then we heard, "Hey guys!" Onyx shouted, "Aunt Levy!" She waved where the lady was, then Centuries played then started to get some attention with Must Be Nice from Nickelback it was only Onyx this time. Then I noticed that did not got their attention, I felt someone behind me, I turned, Jagaur's back, he was head bobbing to the Nickelback song, "Hey, Jagaur." He looks at me finally, then smiles, "I'm waiting for a hug." I hugged him same with Levy, then I did Immortals from Fall Out Boy, and In The Air Tonight from Phil Collins, I guess that there was a colonel who was supposed at his base because we heard someone who never raised his voice and that colonel was close to harming the lady that let us on stage, then we saw a fist and a few teeth falling into view. Hurricane is back, never lost his chivalry, then we heard him say, "Get out of here, scumbag." The guy ran out, I waved, "Hi, Hurricane!" "Hey, Lady Akari," he said, immediate change of attitude, "Don't mind me I'm just doing my thing." "As we can see, by the way, nice to have you back," said Onyx, "Next song." Not Gonna Die, Out of Hell, and Rise from Skillet played then A Light That Never Comes from Linkin Park played, got Raven and Layla back. Then Thunder played, I felt a shocking feeling and out came Evangeline beginning to dance with her partner Hurricane. A lot of songs later, I got most of them back, my sassiness came back because Jagaur was the source of it all. I was back in bed same with Onyx, everyone else hoped onto Hurricane's back and went straight to the cottage to power up the portal so that the others would come out. I can not wait to see mom and dad after so long of being away from them, morning rises and it was time to handle Hollows, I was energized again, I am now use to my falchion because I did a couple Heart blasts to a few, Ichigo caught up to me, Onyx, and Mugetsu, tells only me, "Let Kazui have his first kill." I rolled my eyes, "He's not old enough, Ichigo Kurosaki." Then I casted a Shadow Ball, threw it at a Hollow who was going after his son, "He has yet to know on what to do." "I'm sorry, what is going on," he asked, "First thing you were scared to even fight with your falchion and now you are using it with no problem, what happened to you?" "Wouldn't you like to know," I sassed, "I'm not telling. Let's go Mugetsu and Onyx." "No, you are not going anywhere until you tell me on what is going on with you," said Ichigo. Then the thought of hate surge through my body and mind, it was unbearable this time, Mugetsu could see this, tapped on the side of my temple, it calmed the being inside, saying, "Keep calm until we get into the cottage." I nodded to what he said, Mugetsu said to Ichigo, "Dude, you are effecting her every action to do anything. She is battling something greater than her and it might kill her." Raven showed up and casted a mental lock key, unlocked his memories again, Ichigo ended up saying, "I didn't know that what I was doing was causing her to be like this." "It's alright you didn't know, Ichigo," said Onyx, "Now, you remember on who she is and her power?" "Yeah," he said, "She's Akari Itsuki, who I took under my care without knowing that she already has a brother but I know that she knows I was trying to prepare her for a world that does not care about her feelings." "Which it won't matter because her inner being won't let anyone say anything evil towards her," said Mugetsu, "Let's just say that you will lose her again and she will never come back from what she was battling." After we separated from Ichigo, I went to Shinji for help, I called, "Hello? Anybody here?" "Ah, Miss Itsuki," said Shinji, "Been a while." "I need your help please," I cried. Hiyori, who didn't like me in the beginning but she still did, walks up into view, asked, "What is it that you need from us?" "I'm battling something and I don't know on what to do," I said, "I came here so I can learn what it is and how to deal with it the best I can." "Well then you came to the right place," said Shinji, "Let's what is within you shall we?" "Go easy on me please," I said. Then everyone heard, including me, "I know on who it is." We looked at who it was, I called out, "Mugetsu, what are you doing here?" "To tell you on what is going on within you," said Mugetsu, "You might've thought that the Elemental Realm was your inner mind, but it is not because I went through it, Akari, something is preventing you to go into your mind." "How do I get there?" I asked.

Mugetsu's POV: I told her that I was going to see on what I will by going into her mind, I went in to her mind, the view before me was unbelievable, there were evil thoughts flowing through harming Nikushimi's power level and hurting her physically, I got to work on destroying each and every one of those evil, mean, and nasty thoughts. I used all my power skills to get the ones that were in my reach, I called out, "Nikushimi! I'm going to come back with back up because this is unacceptable for something like this to happen." "Please, help me, Mugetsu," she said, weakly. Esperanza and Onyx may be the guardians of Akari alone, but I protect Nikushimi, it was my sworn duty to protect that fragile thing until she has her power and strength back. Time to get Denver and Dakota, well it's going to be real easy for me to find Denver because he remembers on who he was, Dakota has no idea on who he is, so I decided to go to the market because that is where they working at, both of them are working at the market, one was a cashier and the other was stocking the shelves. I went to Dakota, who was stocking the shelves, "Hey, I need your help." "Can it wait, Mugetsu?" he asked, "Unless it's very important." "It's Akari," I said. That got his attention, "One moment please, could you finish for me?" "Sure," I said, starting finishing on what he was stocking. Yes I work here too, I'm just the Co-manager of the place, I was told that I didn't have to be here unless it was an emergency, I went to Denver and told him what is happening with Lady Akari. I got the 2, no one said anything back to what I was doing because I like things my way, then Dakota had the nerve to ask, "Is your hair that long yet?" "Shut up, Dakota," I said, "I have yet to say that I have hair extensions." "There is a thing called shampoo," said Denver. I just looked at the 2, I can not believe these 2 are actually seeing through this long ass hair, am I really that easy to get caught? I asked, "Can you act like it's this natural? I don't want to be made fun of as I already am by a Black Panther." "Fine, whatever floats your boat, milady," Dakota joked. I shouted, "Do I really look like a woman?" "No you don't," said a lady behind us. We looked, it was a girl with lavender hair that was wearing an indigo and golden yellow dress, she was also wearing a necklace that has a clock, I asked, "How's it going, Usami?" "Where you are going with these 2?" she asked, "Bring them back because I might need you all to be here since this place is going to be busy in a few hours." "Usami, this is more important," I said to her, "I'll be right back with them, but for right now, they are on their breaks." She nods knowing that I am stubborn, man, I got it from my host, Ichigo Kurosaki, damn you, strawberry, shrug it off, then we see him, Dakota groaned, "Great, here comes the grouch of all grouches." "What happened while he was there?" I asked. Dakota answered, "I kept seeing him saying to Akari to watch on what she eats even though she tells me and Denver that she is naturally that thin, not to mention she has extreme high metabolism." "She does fight a lot and it burns a lot of calories," I said. We went back to where Akari was, I led the 2 into her mind, I asked, "Do you guys know on what power you guys have?" "I have Energy," said Denver. Dakota tells me that he has Void, "Alright guys, see those thoughts, destroy them because they are causing damage to that little fragile girl over there," I said pointing at Nikushimi. They got the memo, Denver looks like Ukitake right? Here is what Dakota looks like, he's the Dangai version, his attire is exactly what you think it is, the right sleeve is always torn and he has to have something wrapped around his entire arm and his hand would always be covered with a black glove with a very long black thick string that he always does to his own clothing. Let's just say that is his Soul form, we are currently breaking his habit within his body because that has got to stop, he almost lost his job to what he almost did to his uniform, I did come up with a compromise that he can wear the black glove with no string attached to it, he's slowly getting there. We got the thought taken care of and we exited the mind of hers, Dakota goes, "Well, that was nerve wrecking, those thoughts were not what I had in mind." "Maybe we need to set her an application to the market so the 3 of us and hopefully Usami can keep an eye out for her," I said to them, "I know for a fact that it's not going to stop until we find out on who is the source of all this nonsense."

[maximelebled]

Growing Pains - Zelda, Tony Hawk, The Sims, games and related memories from my formative years

This blog post is about my personal history with video games, how they influenced me growing up, how they sometimes helped me, and more or less an excuse to write about associated memories with them.

This is a very straightforward intro, because I’ve had this post sitting as a draft for ages, trying to glue all of it cohesively, but I’m not a very good writer, so I never really succeeded. Some of these paragraphs date back at least one year. 

And I figured I should write about a lot of this as long as I still remember clearly, or not too inaccurately. Because I know that I don’t remember my earliest ever memory. I only remember how I remember it. So I might as well help my future self here, and give myself a good memento.

Anyway, the post is a kilometer long, so it’ll be under this cut.

My family got a Windows 95 computer when I was 3 years old. While I don’t remember this personally, I’m told that one of the first things I ever did with it was mess up with the BIOS settings so badly that dad’s computer-expert friend had to be invited to repair it. (He stayed for dinner as a thank you.)

It was that off-white plastic tower, it had a turbo button, and even a 4X CD reader! Wow! And the CRT monitor must have been... I don’t remember what it was, actually. But I do once remember launching a game at a stupidly high resolution: 1280x1024! And despite being a top-down 2D strategy, it ran VERY slowly. Its video card was an ATI Rage. I had no idea what that really meant that at the time, but I do recall that detail nonetheless.

Along with legitimately purchased games, the list of which I can remember:

Tubular Worlds

Descent II

Alone in the Dark I & III

Lost Eden

Formula One (not sure which game exactly)

Heart of Darkness

(and of course the famous Adibou/Adi series of educational games)

... we also had what I realize today were cracked/pirated games, from the work-friend that had set up the family computer. I remember the following:

Age of Empires I (not sure about that one, I think it might have been from a legitimate “Microsoft Plus!” disc)

Nightmare Creatures (yep, there was a PC port of that game)

Earthworm Jim (but without any music)

The Fifth Element

Moto Racer II

There are a few other memorable games, which were memorable in most aspects, except their name. I just cannot remember their name. And believe me, I have looked. Too bad! Anyway, in this list, I can point out a couple games that made a big mark on me.

First, the Alone in the Dark trilogy. It took me a long time to beat them. I still remember the morning I beat the third game. I think it was in 2001 or 2002.

There was a specific death in it which gave me nightmares for a week. You shrink yourself to fit through a crack in a wall, but it’s possible to let a timer run out—or fall down a hole—and this terrifying thing happens (16:03). I remember sometimes struggling to run the game for no reason; something about DOS Extended Memory being too small.

I really like the low-poly flat-shaded 3D + hand-drawn 2D style of the game, and it’d be really cool to see something like that pop up again. After the 8-bit/16-bit trend, there’s now more and more games paying tribute to rough PS1-style 3D, so maybe this will happen? Maybe I’ll have to do it myself? Who knows!

Second, Lost Eden gave me a taste for adventure and good music, and outlandish fantasy universes. Here’s the intro to the game:

A lot of the game is very evocative, especially its gorgeous soundtrack, and you spend a lot of time trekking through somewhat empty renders of landscapes. Despite being very rough early pre-rendered 3D, those places were an incredible journey in my young eyes. If you have some time, I suggest either playing the game (it’s available on Steam) or watching / skimmering through this “longplay” video. Here are some of my personal highlights: 25:35, 38:05, 52:15 (love that landscape), 1:17:20, 1:20:20 (another landscape burned in my neurons), 2:12:10, 2:55:30, 3:01:18. (spoiler warning)

But let’s go a couple years back. Ever since my youngest years, I was very intrigued by creation. I filled entire pocket-sized notebooks with writing—sometimes attempts at fiction, sometimes daily logs like the weather reports from the newspaper, sometimes really bad attempts at drawing. I also filled entire audio tapes over and over and OVER with “fake shows” that my sister and I would act out. The only thing that survived is this picture of 3-year-old me with the tape player/recorder.

It also turns out that the tape recorder AND the shelf have both survived.

(I don’t know if it still works.)

On Wednesday afternoons (school was off) and on the week-ends, I often got to play on the family computer, most of the time with my older brother, who’s the one who introduced me to... well... all of it, really. (Looking back on the games he bought, I can say he had very good tastes.)

Moto Racer II came with a track editor. It was simple but pretty cool to play around with. You just had to make the track path and elevation; all the scenery was generated by the game. You could draw impossible tracks that overlapped themselves, but the editor wouldn’t let you save them. However, I found out there was a way to play/save them no matter what you did, and I got to experiment with crazy glitches. 85 degree inclines that launched the bike so high you couldn’t see the ground anymore? No problem. Tracks that overlapped themselves several times, causing very strange behaviour at the meeting points? You bet. That stuff made me really curious about how video games worked. I think a lot of my initial interest in games can be traced back to that one moment I figured out how to exploit the track editor...

There was also another game—I think it was Tubular Worlds—that came on floppy disks. I don’t remember what exactly lead me to do it, but I managed to edit the text that was displayed by the installer... I think it was the license agreement bit of it. That got me even more curious as to how computers worked.

Up until some time around my 13th or 14th birthday, during summer break (the last days of June to the first days of September for French pupils), my sister and I would always go on vacation at my grandparents’ home.

The very first console game I ever played was The Legend of Zelda: A Link to the Past on my cousin’s Super Nintendo, who also usually stayed with us. Unlike us, he had quite a few consoles available to him, and brought a couple along. My first time watching and playing this game was absolutely mind-blowing to me. An adventure with a huge game world to explore, so many mysterious things at every corner. “Why are you a pink rabbit now?” “I’m looking for the pearl that will help me not be that.”

Growing up and working in the games industry has taken the magic out of many things in video games... and my curiosity for the medium (and its inner workings) definitely hasn’t helped. I know more obscure technical trivia about older games than I care to admit. But I think this is what is shaping my tastes in video games nowadays... part of it is that I crave story-rich experiences that can bring me back to a, for lack of a better term, “child-like” wonderment. And I know how weird this is going to sound, but I don’t really enjoy “pure gameplay” games as much for that reason. Some of the high-concept ones are great, of course (e.g. Tetris), but I usually can’t enjoy others without a good interwoven narrative. I can’t imagine I would have completed The Talos Principle had it consisted purely of the puzzles without any narrative beats, story bits, and all that. What I’m getting at is, thinking about it, I guess I tend to value the “narrative” side of games pretty highly, because, to me, it’s one of the aspects of the medium that, even if distillable to some formulas, is inherently way more “vague” and “ungraspable”. You can do disassembly on game mechanics and figure out even the most obsure bits of weird technical trivia. You can’t do that to a plot, a universe, characters, etc. or at least nowhere near to the same extent.

You can take a good story and weave it into a number of games, but the opposite is not true. It’s easy to figure out the inner working of gameplay mechanics, and take the magic out of them, but it’s a lot harder to do that for a story, unless it’s fundamentally flawed in some way.

Video games back then seemed a lot bigger than they actually were.

I got Heart of Darkness as a gift in 1998 or 1999. We used to celebrate Christmas at my grandparents’, so I had to wait a few days to be back home, and to able to put the CD in the computer. But boy was it worth it! Those animated cutscenes! The amazing pixel art animations! The amazing and somewhat disturbing variety of ways in which you can die, most of which gruesome and mildly graphic! And of course, yet again... a strange and outlandish universe that just scratches my itch for it. Well, one of which that forged my taste for them.

I can’t remember exactly when it happened or what it was, but I do remember that at some point we visited some sort of... exposition? Exhibit? Something along those lines. And it had a board games & computer games section. The two that stick out in my mind were Abalone (of which I still have the box somewhere) and what I think was some sort of 2D isometric (MMO?) RPG. I wanna say it was Ultima Online but I recall it looking more primitive than that (it had small maps whose “void” outside them was a single blueish color). 

In my last two years of elementary school, there was one big field trip per year. They lasted two weeks, away from family. The first one was to the Alps. The second one was... not too far from where I live now, somewhere on the coast of Brittany! I have tried really hard to find out exactly where it was, as I remember the building and facilities really well, but I was never able to find it again. On a couple occasions, we went on a boat with some kind of... algae harvesters? The smell was extremely strong (burning itself into my memory) and made me sick. The reason I bring them up is because quite a few of my classmates had Game Boy consoles, most of them with, you know, all those accessories, especially the little lights. I remember being amazed at the transparent ones. Play was usually during the off-times, and I watched what my friends were up to, with, of course, a bit of jealousy mixed in. The class traveled by bus, and it took off in the middle of the night; something like 3 or 4 in the morning? It seemed like such a huge deal at the time! Now here I am, writing THESE WORDS at 03:00. Anyway, most of my classmates didn’t fall back asleep and those that had a Game Boy just started playing on them. One of my classmates, however, handed me his whole kit and I got to do pretty much what I wanted with it, with the express condition that I would not overwrite any of his save files. I remember getting reasonably far in Pokémon before I had to give it back to him and my progress was wiped.

During the trip to the Alps, I remember seeing older kids paying for computer time; there was a row of five computers in a small room... and they played Counter-Strike. I had absolutely no idea what it was, and I would forget about it until the moment I’m writing these words, but I was watching with much curiosity.

The first time I had my own access to console games was in 2001. The first Harry Potter film had just come out, and at Christmas, I was gifted a Game Boy Advance with the first official game. I just looked it up again and good god, it’s rougher than I remember. The three most memorable GBA games which I then got to play were both Golden Sun(s) and Sword of Mana... especially the latter, with its gorgeous art direction. My dad had a cellphone back then, and I remember sneakily going on there to look up a walkthrough for a tricky part of Golden Sun’s desert bit. Cellphones had access to something called “WAP” internet... very basic stuff, but of course still incredible to me back then.

I eventually got to play another Zelda game on my GBA: Link’s Awakening DX. I have very fond memories of that one because I was bed-ridden with a terrible flu. My fever ran so high that I started having some really funky dreams, delirious half-awake hallucinations/feelings, and one night, I got so hot that I stumbled out of bed and just laid down against the cold tile of the hallway. At 3 in the morning! A crazy time! (Crazy for 11-year-old me.)

(The fever hallucinations were crazy. My bedroom felt like it was three times at big, and I was convinced that a pack of elephants were charging at me from the opposite corner. The “night grain” of my vision felt sharper, amplified. Every touch, my sore body rubbing against the bed covers felt like it was happening twice as much. You know that “Heavy Rain with 300% facial animation” video? Imagine that, but as a feverish feeling. The dreams were on another level entirely. I could spend pages on them, but suffice to say that’s when I had my first dream where I dreamed of dying. There were at least two, actually. The first one was by walking down a strange, blueish metal corridor, then getting in an elevator, and then feeling that intimate convinction that it was leading me to passing over. The second one was in some Myst-like world, straight out of a Roger Dean cover, with some sort of mini-habitat pods floating on a completely undisturbed lake. We were just trapped in them. It just felt like some kind of weird afterlife.)

I also eventually got to play the GBA port of A Link To The Past. My uncle was pretty amused by seeing me play it, as he’d also played the original on SNES before I’d even been born. I asked him for help with a boss (the first Dark World one), but unfortunately, he admitted he didn’t remember much of the game.

We had a skiing holiday around this time. I don’t remember the resort’s or the town’s name, but its sights are burned in my memory. Maybe it’s because, shortly after we arrived, and we went to the ski rental place, I almost fainted and puked on myself, supposedly from the low oxygen. It also turned out that the bedroom my parents had rented unexpectedly came with a SNES in the drawer under the tiny TV. The game: Super Mario World. I got sick at one point and got to stay in and play it. This was also the holiday where I developed a fondness for iced tea, although back then the most common brand left an awful aftertaste in your mouth that just made you even more thirsty.

We got a new PC in December of 2004. Ditching the old Windows 98 SE (yep, the OS had been upgraded in... 2002, I think?). Look at how old-school this looks. The computer office room was in the basement. Even with the blur job that I applied to the monitor for privacy reasons, you can still tell that this is the XP file explorer:

A look at what the old DSLR managed to capture on the shelf reveals some more of the games that were available to me back then: a bunch of educational software, The Sims 2, and SpellForce Gold. 

I might be misremembering but I think they were our Christmas gifts for that year; we both got to pick one game. I had no idea what I wanted, really, but out of all the boxes at (what I think was) the local Fnac store, it was SpellForce that stood out to me the most. Having watched Lord of the Rings the year prior might have been a factor. I somewhat understood Age of Empires years before that, but SpellForce? Man, I loved the hell out of SpellForce. Imagine a top-down RPG that can also be played from a third-person perspective. And with the concept of... hero units... wait a second... now that reminds me of Dota.

Imagine playing a Dota hero with lots of micro-management and being able to build a whole base on new maps. And sometimes visiting very RPG-ish sections (my favorites!) with very little top-down strategy bits, towns, etc. like Siltbreaker. I guess this game was somewhat like an alternate, single-player Dota if you look at it from the right angle. (Not the third-person one.)

I do remember being very excited when I found out that it, too, came with a level editor. I never figured it out, though. I only ever got as far as making a nice landscape for my island, and that was it!

A couple weeks after, it was Christmas; my sister and I got our first modern PC game: The Sims 2. It didn’t run super well—most games didn’t, because the nVidia GeForce FX 5200 wasn’t very good. But that didn’t stop me or my sister from going absolutely nuts with the game. This video has the timestamp of 09 January 2005, and it is the first video I’ve ever made with a computer. Less than two weeks after we got the game, I was already neck-deep in creating stuff.

Not that it was particularly good, of course. This is a video that meets all of the “early YouTube Windows Movie Maker clichés”.

Speaking of YouTube, I did register an account there pretty early on, in August of 2006. I’ve been through all of it. I remember every single layout change. I also started using Sony Vegas around that time. It felt so complex and advanced back then! And I’m still using it today. Besides Windows, Vegas Pro is very likely to be the piece of software that I’ve been using for the longest time.

I don’t have a video on YouTube from before 2009, because I decided to delete all of them out of embarassment. They were mostly Super Mario 64 machinima. It’s as bad as it sounds. The reason I bring that up right now, though, is that it makes the “first” video of my account the last one I made with the Sims 2.

But before I get too far ahead with my early YouTube days, let me go backwards a bit. We got hooked up to the Internet some time in late 2005. It was RTC (dialup), 56 kbps. my first steps into the Internet led me to the Cube engine. Mostly because back then my dad would purchase computer magazines (which were genuinely helpful back then), and came with CDs of common downloadable software for those without Internet connections. One of them linked to Cube. I think it was using either this very same screenshot, or a very similar one, on the same map.

The amazing thing about Cube is not only that it was open-source and moddable, but had map editing built-in the game. The mode was toggled on with a single key press. You could even edit maps cooperatively with other people. Multiplayer mapping! How cool is that?! And the idea of a game that enabled so much creation was amazing to me, so I downloaded it right away. (Over the course of several hours, 30 MiB being large for dialup.)

I made lots of bad maps that never fulfilled the definition of “good level” or “good gameplay”, not having any idea how “game design” meant, or what it even was. But I made places. Places that I could call my own. “Virtual homes”. I still distinctively remember the first map I ever made, even though no trace of it survives to this day. In the second smallest map size possible, I’d made a tower surrounded by a moat and a few smaller cozy towers, with lots of nice colored lighting. This, along with the distinctive skyboxes and intriguing music, made me feel like I’d made my home in a strange new world.

At some point later down the line, I made a kinda-decent singleplayer level. It was very linear, but one of the two lead developers of the game played it and told me he liked it a lot! Of course, half of that statement was probably “to be nice”, but it was really validating and encouraging. And I’m glad they were like that. Because I remember being annoying to some other mappers in the Sauerbraten community (the follow-up to Cube, more advanced technically), who couldn’t wrap their heads around my absolutely god awful texturing work and complete lack of level “design”. Honestly, sometimes, I actually kinda feel like trying to track a couple of them down and being like, “yeah, remember that annoying kid? That was me. Sorry you had to deal with 14-year-old me.”

At some point, I stumbled upon a mod called Cube Legends. It was a heavily Zelda-inspired “total conversion”; a term reserved for mods that are the moddiest mods and try to take away as much of the original foundation as possible. It featured lots of evocative MIDI music by the Norwegian composer Bjørn Lynne. Fun fact: the .mid files are still available officially from his website!

This was at the crossroad of many of my interests. It was yet another piece of the puzzle. As a quick side note, this is why Zelda is the first series that I name in the title of this post, even though I... never really thought of myself as a Zelda fan. It’s not that it’s one of the game series that I like the most, it’s just that, before I started writing this, I’d never realized how far-reaching its influence had been in my life, both in overt and subtle ways, especially during my formative years.

And despite how clearly unfinished, how much of a “draft” Cube Legends was, I could see what it was trying to do. I could see the author’s intent. And I’m still listening to Bjørn Lynne’s music today.

The Cube Engine and its forums were a big part of why I started speaking English so well. Compared to most French people, I mean. We’re notoriously bad with the English language, and so was I up until then. But having this much hands-on practice proved to be immensely valuable. And so, I can say that the game and its community have therefore had long-lasting impacts in my life.

I also tried out a bunch of N64 games via emulation, bringing me right back in that bedroom at my grandparents’ house, with my cousin. Though he did not have either N64 Zelda game back then.

The first online forum I ever joined was a Zelda fan site’s. There are two noteworthy things to say here:

It was managed by a woman who, during my stay in the community, graduated from her animation degree. At this stage I had absolutely no idea that this was going to be the line of work I would eventually pursue!

I recently ran into the former head moderator of the forums. (I don’t know when the community died.) One of the Dota players on my friends list invited him because I was like “hmm, I wanna go as 3, not as 2 players today”. His nickname very vaguely reminded me of something, a weird hunch I couldn’t place. Half an hour into the game, he said “hey Max... this might be a long shot, but did you ever visit [forum]?” and then I immediately yelled “OH MY GOD—IT IS YOU.” The world is a small place.

Access to the computer was sometimes tricky. I didn’t always have good grades, and of course, “punishment” (not sure the word is appropriate, hence the quotes, but you get the idea) often involved locking me out of the computer room. Of course, most times, I ended up trying to find the key instead. I needed my escape from the real world.  (You better believe it’s Tangent Time.)

I was always told I was the “smart kid”, because I “understood things faster” than my classmates. So they made me skip two grades ahead. This made me enter high school at nine years old. The consequences were awful (I was even more of the typical nerdy kid that wouldn’t fit in), and I wish it had never happened. Over the years, I finally understood: I wasn’t more intelligent. I merely had the chance to have been able to grow up with an older brother who’d instilled a sense of curiosity, critical thinking, and taste in books that were ahead of my age and reading level. This situation—and its opposite—is what I believe accounts for the difference in how well kids get to learn. It’s not innate talent, it’s not genetics (as some racists would like you to believe). It’s parenting and privilege.

And that’s why I’ll always be an outspoken proponent for any piece of media that tries to instill critical thinking and curiosity in its viewer, reader, or player.

But I digress.

Well, I’ve been digressing a lot, really, but games aren’t everything and after all, this post is about the context in which I played those games. Otherwise I reckon I would’ve just made a simple list.

I eventually got a Nintendo DS for Christmas, along with Mario Kart DS. My sister had gotten her own just around the time when it released... she had the Nintendogs bundle. We had also upgraded to proper ADSL, what I think was about a ~5 megabits download speed. The Nintendo DS supported wi-fi, which was still relatively rare compared to today. In fact, Nintendo sold a USB wireless adapter to help with that issue—our ISP-supplied modem-router did not have any wireless capabilities. I couldn’t get it the adapter work and I remember I got help from a really kind stranger who knew a lot about networking—to a point that it seemed like wizardry to me.

I remember I got a “discman” as a gift some time around that point. In fact, I still have it. Check out the stickers I put on it! I think those came from the Sims 2 DVD box and/or one of its add-ons.

I burned a lot of discs. In fact, in the stack of burned CDs/DVDs that I found (with the really bad Sims movies somewhere in there), I found at least three discs that had the Zelda album Hyrule Symphony burned in, each with different additional tracks. Some were straight-up MIDI files from vgmusic.com...! And speaking (again) of Zelda, when the Wii came out, Twilight Princess utterly blew my mind. I never got the game or the console, but damn did I yearn badly for it. I listened to the main theme of the game a lot, which didn’t help. I eventually got to play the first few hours at a friend’s place.

At some point, we’d upgraded the family computer to something with a bit more horsepower. It had a GeForce 8500 GT inside, which was eventually upgraded to a 9600 GT after the card failed for some reason. It could also dual-boot between XP and Vista. I stuck with that computer until 2011.

We moved to where I currently live in 2007. I’ve been here over a decade! And before we’d even fully finished unpacking, I was on the floor of the room that is now my office, with the computer on the ground and the monitor on a cardboard box, playing a pirated copy of... Half-Life! It was given to me by my cousin. It took me that long to find out about the series. It’s the first Valve game I played. I also later heard about the Orange Box, but mostly about Portal. Which I also pirated and played. I distinctly remember being very puzzled by the options menu: I thought it was glitched or broken, as changing settings froze the game. Turns out the Source engine had to chug for a little while, like a city car in countryside mud, as it reloaded a bunch of stuff. Patience is a virtue...

But then, something serious happened.

In the afternoon of 25 December 2007, I started having a bit of a dull stomach pain. I didn’t think much of it. Figured maybe I’d eaten too many Christmas chocolates and it’d go away. It didn’t. It progressively deteriorated into a high fever where I had trouble walking and my tummy really hurt; especially if you pressed on it. My parents tried to gently get me to eat something nice on New Year’s Eve, but it didn’t stay in very long. I could only feed myself with lemonade and painkiller. Eventually, the doctor decided I should get blood tests done as soon as possible. And I remember that day very clearly.

I was already up at 6:30 in the morning. Back then, The Daily Show aired on the French TV channel Canal+, so I was watching that, lying in the couch while waiting for my mom to get up and drive me to my appointment, at 7:00. It was just two streets away, but there was no way I could walk there. At around noon, the doctor called and told my mom: “get your son to the emergency room now.”

Long story short, part of my intestines nuked themselves into oblivion, causing acute peritonitis. To give you an idea, that’s something with a double-digit fatality rate. Had we waited maybe a day or two more, I would not be here writing this. They kind of blew up. I had an enormous abcess attached to a bunch of my organs. I had to be operated on with only weak local anaesthetics as they tried to start draining the abscess. It is, to date, by far the most painful thing that has ever happened to me. It was bad enough that the hospital doctor that was on my case told me that I was pretty much a case worthy to be in textbooks. I even had medical students come into my hospital room about it! They were very nice.

This whole affair lasted over a month. I became intimately familiar with TV schedules. And thankfully, I had my DS to keep me company. At the time, I was pretty big into the Tony Hawk DS games. They were genuinely good. They had extensive customization, really great replayability, etc. you get the idea. I think I even got pretty high on the online leaderboards at some point. I didn’t have much to do on some days besides lying down in pain while perfecting my scoring and combo strategies. I think Downhill Jam might’ve been my favorite.

My case was bad enough that they were unable to do something due to the sad state of my insides during the last surgery of my stay. I was told that I could come back in a few months for a checkup, and potentially a “cleanup” operation that would fix me up for good. I came back in late June of 2008, got the operation, and... woke up in my hospital room surrounded by, like, nine doctors, and hooked up to a morphine machine that I could trigger on command. Apparently something had gone wrong during the operation, but they never told me what. I wasn’t legally an adult, so they didn’t have to tell me. I suspect it’s somewhere in some medical files, but I never bothered to dig up through my parents’ archives, or ask the hospital. And I think I would rather not know. But anyway, that was almost three more weeks in the hospital. And it sucked even more that time because, you see, hospital beds do not “breathe” like regular beds do. The air can’t go through. Let’s say I’m intimately familiar with the smell of back sweat forever.

When I got out, my mom stopped by a supermarket on the way home. And that is when I bought The Orange Box, completely on a whim, and made my Steam account. Why? Because it was orange and stood out on the shelf.

(As a side note, that was the whole bit I started writing first, and that made me initially title this post “growing pains”. First, because I’m bad at titles. Second, because not that I didn’t have them otherwise (ow oof ouch my knees), but that was literally the most painful episode of my entire life thus far and it ended in a comically-unrelated, high-impact, life-changing decision. Just me picking up The Orange Box after two awful hospital stays... led me to where I am today.)

While I was recovering, I also started playing EarthBound! Another bit of a life-changer, that one. To a lesser extent, but still. I was immediately enamored by its unique tone. Giygas really really really creeped me out for a while afterwards though. I still get unsettled if I hear its noises sometimes.

I later bought Garry’s Mod (after convincing my mom that it was a “great creative toolbox that only cost ten bucks!”), and, well, the rest is history. By which I mean, a lot of my work and gaming activity since 2009 is still up and browsable. But there are still a few things to talk about.

In 2009, I bought my first computer with YouTube ad money: the Asus eee PC 1005HA-H. By modern standards, it’s... not very powerful. The processor in my current desktop machine is nearly 50 times as fast as its Atom N280. It had only one gigabyte of RAM, Windows 7 Basic Edition, and an integrated GPU barely worthy of the name; Intel didn’t care much for 3D in their chips back then. The GMA 945 didn’t even have hardware support for Transform & Lighting.

But I made it work, damn it. I made that machine run so much stuff. I played countless Half-Life and Half-Life 2 mods on it—though, due to the CPU overhead on geometry, some of those were trickier. I think one of the most memorable ones I played was Mistake of Pythagoras; very surreal, very rough, but I still remember it so clearly. I later played The Longest Journey on it, in the middle of winter. It was a very cozy and memorable experience. (And another one that’s an adventure wonderful outlandish alien universe. LOVE THOSE.)

I did more than playing games on it, though...

This is me sitting, sunburned on the nose, in an apartment room, on 06 August 2010. This was in the Pyr��nées, at the border between France and Spain. We had a vacation with daily hiking. Some of the landscapes we visited reminded me very strongly of those from Lost Eden, way up the page...

So, you see, I had 3ds Max running on that machine. The Source SDK as well. Sony Vegas. All of it was slow; you bet I had to use some workarounds to squeeze performance out of software, and that I had to keep a close, watchful eye on RAM usage. But I worked on this thing. I really did! I animated this video’s facial animation bits (warning: this is old & bad) on the eee PC, during the evenings of the trip, when we were back at our accomodation. The Faceposer tool in the Source SDK really worked well on that machine.

I also animated an entire video solely on the machine (warning: also old and bad). It had to be rendered on the desktop computer... but every single bit of the animation was crafted on the eee PC.

I made it work.

Speaking of software that did not run well: around that time, I also played the original Crysis. The “but can it run Crysis?” joke was very much justified back then. I had to edit configuration files by hand so that I could run the game in 640x480... because I wanted to keep most of the high-end settings enabled. The motion blur was delicious, and it blew my mind that the effect made the game feel this smooth, despite wobbling around in the 20 to 30 fps range.

Alright. It’s time to finish writing this damn post and publish it at last, so I’m going to close it out by listing some more memories and games that I couldn’t work in up there.

Advance Wars. Strategy game on GBA with a top-down level editor. You better believe I was all over the editor right away.

BioShock. When we got the 2007 desktop computer, it was one of the first games I tried. Well, its demo, to be precise. Its tech and graphics blew my mind, enough that I saved up to buy the full game. This was before I had a Steam account; I got a boxed copy! I think it might have been the last boxed game I ever bought? It had a really nice metal case. The themes and political messages of the game flew way over my head, though.

Mirror’s Edge. The art direction was completely fascinating to me, and it introduced me to Solar Fields’ music; my most listened artist this decade, by a long shot.

L.A. Noire. I lost myself in its stories and investigations, and then, I did it all again, with my sister at the helm. I very rarely play games twice (directly or indirectly), which I figure is worth mentioning.

Zeno Clash. It was weird and full of soul, had cool music, and cool cutscenes. It inspired me a lot in my early animation days.

Skyward Sword. Yep, going back to Zelda on that one. The whole game was pretty good, and I’m still thinking about how amazing its art direction was. Look up screenshots of it running in HD on an emulator... it’s outstanding. But there’s a portion of the game that stands tall above the rest: the Lanayru Sand Sea. It managed to create a really striking atmosphere in many aspects, through and through. I still think about it from time to time, especially when its music comes on in shuffle mode.

Wandersong. A very recent pick, but it was absolutely a life-changing one. That game is an anti-depressant, a vaccine against cynicism, a lone bright and optimist voice.

I realize now this is basically a “flawed but interesting and impactful games” list. With “can establish its atmosphere very well” as a big criteria. (A segment of video games that is absolutely worth exploring.)

I don’t know if I’ll ever make my own video game. I have a few ideas floating around and I tried prototyping some stuff, though my limited programming abilities stood in my way. But either way, if it happens one day, I hope I’ll manage to channel all those years of games into the CULMINATION OF WHAT I LIKE. Something along those lines, I reckon.

[hookaroo]

A Captain’s Heart (9 of 34?)

Chapter 1 Chapter 8

Rated T for language and graphic descriptions of injuries.

Also on FF.net: https://www.fanfiction.net/s/12937105/1/A-Captain-s-Heart

Tagging @therooksshiningknight & @killian-whump by request :)

The unusual duo earned scathing stares from the fortunately sparse number of patients in the ED waiting area. The receptionist, too, appeared suitably alarmed as she stood to assess the incoming situation.

“Please; don’t come any further. Have a seat, and I’ll come to you.”

Killian guided an increasingly-jumpy Marvel to a pair of chairs near the window, virtually falling into one himself with a grateful groan. He steered his companion into the one beside him - on the right, this time, just in case. Marvel slunk sideways into the seat so that she could keep the outside in view.

The pirate grimaced a nod at the receptionist, who was approaching with clipboard in hand. “Are you two all right? What happened?”

Killian waved his hand dismissively, brushing off her concern. “Boating mishap. We’re fine; merely cold and a bit wet. Thirsty. But we’re awaiting transport home, and could do with shelter until it arrives.”

The woman was scribbling notes. “What sort of mishap?”

“Er…” Killian sought desperately to make up a believable story on the spot. “We got blown off-course. Struck a reef.”

“And your leg?”

Killian tugged at the cuff with his other foot, trying to cover the extent of the injury with what was left of the denim. This had the unfortunate side effect of painful friction against the blisters, and he couldn’t stop a wince.

“Pro...peller?” he said slowly with an attempt at a disarming smile. She winced in sympathy and made more notations. Killian’s gaze roamed her uniform until it lit on the nametag pinned to her chest. “Listen, Sara; there’s no need to go to any bother. Perhaps just a quiet place to rest, some sustenance; we’ll pay for it all as soon as my wife arrives.”

Sara’s eyes flicked to Marvel shivering at Killian’s side. “Your wife?”

“Aye,” he replied firmly. “She’ll be here in approximately four and a half hours.”

“I see.” Her body language was making it clear that she didn’t. “Well, sir, here’s the deal. We aren’t exactly a homeless shelter, or even a rest stop. But we are required to provide initial assessment and stabilization of emergent medical conditions, which you clearly have. So… you allow us to take care of that leg for you, and you’ll get the rest along with it. Sound fair?”

Exasperated, Killian let his gaze drift to the tangible soul of his ship. Human, in need of basic necessities, with no clue how to go about seeking them for herself. He sighed.

“And my cousin?”

“We’ll check you both out and make sure your accident didn’t cause any hidden injuries.” Sara’s demeanor softened, a hint of appeasement creeping into her voice. “You’ll both be well-treated, despite any ability or inability to pay. Okay? Trust me.”

How could Killian say no? Without the explanation of magic, which the lass was unlikely to believe anyway, he would seem a fool to refuse that which he had expressly been seeking. He had no choice.

“Fine. But can we be allowed to remain together? I fear… well, let’s just say she’s not all here, mentally. It would be best if I could provide a familiar face for her.”    

Sara looked from one to the other, saying,

“I’ll do my best.” She passed the clipboard to the pirate, adding, “Fill out these forms. We’ll have a room available for you as soon as we can.”

Killian made a face as he balanced the paperwork on his uninjured leg.  It would be a challenge, trying to create a believable profile for Marvel. His own history was complicated enough, although he and Emma had previously worked together to translate everything into a non-magical context.

He had not nearly finished the forms when a transporter approached them, pushing a wheelchair and announcing,

“We’re ready for you in the back. Here, let me take that for you.”

The man set aside clipboard and pen, then offered Killian his hand. Grumbling quietly, Killian allowed himself to be maneuvered into the chair. After the paperwork was settled back on his lap, he held out his hand toward a skeptically watching Marvel.

“Come along, lass.”

She quietly got down and took his hand, and the three of them made their way into an exam room, where a nurse was busy setting up. Killian was deposited onto a cheap, plastic chair in the corner before the wheelchair man whisked out of the room. Marvel perched on the edge of another, but as soon as the door closed, she leapt up, pulling her hand away from Killian’s as she paced restlessly.

“Good morning, Mr…” The nurse trailed off.

“Jones,” supplied Killian. “Killian Jones. And my cousin, Marvel.”

“Mr. Jones. I’m Tracy. Let’s get both of you into gowns, and then I’ll take your vital signs.”

“I haven’t yet finished the paperwork,” Killian stated sheepishly, but the nurse waved off his concern.

“There will be time while you wait for a doc.” She lifted a folded garment and shook it open, turning toward Marvel; Killian eyed the distasteful thing with disdain. “Come here, sweetie. Let’s get you out of that wet coat.”

Marvel shrank back into the corner, all traces of rationality lost in stormy fear. Killian pushed himself painfully to his feet, picturing the chaos that would ensue from an accidental portal appearing in the middle of the room.

“Better demonstrate on me, first,” he said calmly. “Sometimes she can’t deal with the unknown.”

Tracy nodded, bringing the gown over to where Killian stood with his blunted arm resting on the exam table for balance. They worked together to remove the torn, bloodstained remains of his shirt, as well as the straps securing his brace. Then, after helping him get his arms through the short sleeves of the gown, Tracy went around behind her patient to secure the ties, while he wore a contrived smile of serenity for Marvel’s sake. The nurse bustled back to his front, saying,

“We’ll need those jeans off; I’m thinking I’ll have you stand just in front of the chair while we unbutton and slide them down, then sit so you don’t have to put weight on the leg. Make sense?”

Killian nodded once, and the nurse assisted him into position. She held a hand on his arm to help support him, then lifted the front of the gown to give him access to the snap and zipper. He made quick work of the fastenings, not particularly eager to shed the garment and potentially brush the denim along the painful blisters, but knowing it would be best to get it over with as quickly as possible. Thankfully, Tracy was very careful to hold the fabric up in multiple places to prevent inadvertent contact. Killian released a tense breath when the jeans were safely down around his ankles.

“Sit,” commanded Tracy, and Killian obeyed stiffly, wincing. The nurse allowed him to arrange the gown so that it would not be resting atop his thigh. After pulling each leg of denim out from under his feet in turn, she removed his sodden and stained socks for good measure, replacing them with a hospital-issue pair that had rubber grips on the bottoms. Killian felt an immediate improvement in comfort as his toes reveled in the new source of warmth. Flashing a silly grin at Marvel, he tried to reflect contentment and well-being as the nurse turned away.

“Next.”

Tracy retrieved the second gown and opened it up. Concerned for the welfare of his companion, Killian asked,

“Don’t you have anything a bit warmer for her? These aren’t exactly fur coats, here.”

“I have a blanket she can put on over it,” Tracy assured him. “Once the doc clears her, maybe we can rustle up some scrubs.”

Tracy approached Marvel cautiously, as if trying to avoid spooking a wild animal. Still the woman backed away, arms folded around herself protectively. Both the nurse and Killian spoke soothingly, trying different tactics to calm and pacify her - to no avail. Finally, Killian got to his feet.

“Let me have a go?”

The nurse seemed less than pleased with the idea, especially once Killian started limping forward, pain clear on his face. But she passed the gown over to him; either she saw his determination, or she had reached the point of willingness to try anything to get the task accomplished.

Killian stopped when he got within a few feet of Marvel, hating the terror and confusion apparent in her eyes. In a low, compassionate tone, he murmured,

“Everything is fine, Marvel. Shipshape, aye?”

There may have been the briefest flicker of recognition then; he couldn’t be sure. So he continued.

“I promise you’ll be more comfortable in this ridiculous thing. There’s nothing to fear.” He took one step closer. “Do you think you can allow it? On captain’s orders?” He gave a teasing wink as he took another hobbling step. She seemed about to submit as he reached out for her arm… but then she whimpered and stepped back. Killian didn’t give up.

“What is it, love? How can I help you?”

She looked at him out of the corner of her eye, just for a second, before her gaze jumped away again. In the smallest voice, barely audible even to Killian, she whispered,

“The sky is gone.”

“The sky?” In much the same tone and volume: “Darling, the sky is still there. We’ve just… lost sight of it for the moment. Like when clouds obscure our view of the stars.”

She had no frame of reference for this. That was the problem. All her life - if it could be called such - she’d been outdoors, the vast expanse above her a constant companion. It must feel so small, so confined in comparison. Killian watched her for a moment, heart breaking for the panic she was experiencing. Then he turned to face Tracy, who was occupied with other tasks even as she watched the interaction.

“I… think she’s claustrophobic,” explained the pirate, tossing the gown onto the exam table and heading back toward his uncomfortable chair. “Is there a room with a window, by chance? I think that could be a help.”

“I’ll see what I can do,” promised Tracy, her expression unreadable. “I suppose she can stay in the jacket, if that’s what she wants. Let’s just focus on you for the time being.”

Killian rolled his eyes with a less-than-eager nod. He allowed the nurse to measure his vitals while he watched Marvel in concern. When she’d finished, Tracy set aside her equipment, asking,

“So… how did she lose her clothing?”

Killian froze, staring blatantly at the nurse while his brain scrambled to keep up. “Pardon?”

“You had a boating accident; ran aground, I heard. Where are her clothes?”

All Killian could think of was: “She… fancied a bit of a swim. While I tried to salvage the situation.”

“Skinny dipping? In this weather?”

Killian ran his fingers through his scalp. “There’s… sometimes no accounting for her actions, I’ve discovered.” He attempted a wan smile, the excuse sounding as lame to him as he was sure it did to her.

“And then you hurt your leg. On the propeller.”

“That’s right.” Trying to diffuse the situation with a bit of self-deprecation, he held up his stump with a shrug. “You’d think I would have learned from the last time. Folly must be genetic.”

“Hmm.” Tracy was writing in his chart, a serious expression on her face. She glanced again at his wound, though she’d had plenty of time to ogle it while she took his vitals. “And you, what, decided to cauterize it yourself?”

Responding to her suspiciously accusatory tone, Killian drew himself up and hardened his demeanor. “Well I could hardly make it to shore while trailing an invitation to the sharks, now could I?” He cocked his head, watching her scribble, trying in vain to decipher her pen strokes. “What exactly are you getting at, love?”

Calmly, the nurse met his eyes; she didn’t seem intimidated in the slightest. “I’m just trying to get the whole story, Mr. Jones. We try to track as many details as we can, both so we can treat you to the best of our ability, and also for correct statistics keeping.”

“Statistics?”

“Yeah. You know: ‘1 in 20 Americans are affected by XYZ.’”

He scoffed; the made-up story was so unlikely that he doubted even 1 in 1 million people would share any similarities. “Well, that’s all there is to it. I’ve no cause to conceal anything from you.”

Killian’s centuries as a villain had given him plenty of experience in deception… but his recent reformation had left him a bit out of practice. Which was a good thing, of course, except he could tell that Tracy was not convinced. But she didn’t grill him any further. Instead, she moved to where a phone hung from the wall, picking it up and saying,

“Ben, it’s Tracy. Could you let Dr. Stevens know there’s a patient waiting in Room 7, please? I’ll be here until then. Thanks.”

She gave Killian a professional smile. “It will just be a few moments. What say we save some time while we’re waiting? I’m about 99.9% sure you’ll be getting IV antibiotics for your leg. Let’s go ahead and get you set up; that way, we can start them as soon as the doctor puts in the order.”

Not surprised in the least, Killian donned his most polite smile as he objected. “That won’t be necessary - we’ll be heading home shortly, and I’ll seek treatment there.”

Tracy was already gathering the supplies she would need. “That’s no reason not to get started here. You can keep the catheter in place, if you’re careful, and they can use it wherever you transfer to.” She pulled an equipment stand near his chair, adding, “Given your slightly elevated temperature, I would guess you’re already developing an infection, and it’s always better to start treatment as soon as possible.”

And again, Killian had no rational grounds to object, short of saying how pointless it would all be, because his wife would magically heal the injury and all trace of infection within a few hours. He would never be believed, and Tracy would have even more reason to question his story… and his sanity. Plus, further protest could add to Marvel’s distress, especially when it came to her own examination, and Killian didn’t want to be responsible for that. So he swallowed his displeasure and showed a fake grin.

“Have at it, lass; my veins are yours.”

It was more an annoyance than anything; the momentary sting of the needle in his forearm was nothing compared to the pain still afflicting his leg. He caught Marvel watching anxiously, and winked in reassurance. In no time, the catheter was secured in place, a couple of tubes of blood drawn, and the extension line plugged for later use.

“There we go,” announced Tracy cheerily. “All set.”  

Saving her from an insincere reply, at that moment, there was a knock at the door, followed by the entrance of a white-coated physician. Tracy quickly cleared away her supplies as Dr. Stevens perused the notes in Killian’s chart. Killian noted Marvel trying to shrink even further into the back corner of the room.

“Mr. Jones, I’m Dr. Stevens. Mind if I take a look at your leg?”

“Suppose you’d better.” Killian had decided to just play along from now on, and only refuse major intervention. A mere few hours and he could be done with it all.

“Let’s get you up on the table, where the light’s better,” suggested Stevens.

This was a tricky proposition and caused no small amount of pain. Once Killian was situated, Tracy said,

“I’ll be right back; just something quick to take care of.”

“How about that window?” Killian reminded her, and she nodded evasively.

“Right. That too.” She scurried outside, pulling the door firmly closed behind her.

Dr. Stevens had been adjusting the overhead light, and now began his examination of the bruised, blistered scar along Killian’s thigh. The pirate leaned back against the elevated head of the bed, fidgeting with the gown at his side to try and distract himself.

The physician rehashed the details of the injury; Killian continued to insist that the gash had been caused by the boat propeller, and that he had used a bit of fishing equipment heated on the engine to cauterize it and stop the bleeding. His expanding knowledge of this world’s technology provided that piece of the story, although he had no idea if boat engines would get that hot, or if it was even possible to transfer the energy to said metal. But the doctor seemed to accept his word.

To Killian’s relief, little probing of the wound itself was required. Stevens merely observed the extent of the swelling, discoloration, and blistering, then moved on to a brief check of the pirate’s general health after the alleged accident.

Not once did the subject of the cowering, half-naked woman come up.

Tracy returned just as Dr. Stevens was finishing. She carried a bag of saline, still in its plastic pouch, along with a separately-sealed bag of tubing. The physician exchanged a glance with her, nodded, and addressed Killian.

“Looks like you escaped major injury apart from that leg.  My recommendation is definitely going to be IV fluids and antibiotics, and we’ll give you something to take the edge off the pain, as well. I’ll put in a referral for a consultation with an orthopedic surgeon, which you can take to your facility at home. They’ll determine whether it would be prudent to consider surgical intervention, to prevent some of the scarring that will likely develop. For now, though, I would like to do a CT scan of the wound to rule out bone or blood vessel involvement.”

Killian bit his tongue firmly for a moment until he could regain the patience that was quickly slipping out of his grasp. “That’s all well and good, but what of my cousin? She hasn’t had anything to eat or drink for hours; is there a reason for depriving her of basic necessities? Surely she could have a cup of water without undergoing every single protocol first.”

Stevens and Tracy exchanged another look... one that set the pirate’s teeth on edge. They were keeping something from him; he was sure of it.

“It’s… always better to know exactly what’s going on first,” explained Dr. Stevens carefully. “For example, if she were to have an internal injury and required urgent surgery, we would want her stomach as empty as possible.”

“Bloody hell,” hissed Killian. He was fairly certain that she was fine and wouldn’t need any sort of medical intervention if they would just allow her to have a measly drink. But on the other hand… he had obviously been unconscious when they went through the first portal, and couldn’t remember the moments leading up to it. There was the possibility, however slight, that she did have something ailing her and didn’t know how to express it. “Any progress on the window, then?”

“Just waiting for a room to clear,” chirped Tracy, a bit too quickly. “It shouldn’t be long.”

The nurse began to set up the IV bag while Dr. Stevens wrote his orders in the chart. Then the physician stated,

“I have other patients to see, but once the lady is calm, I’ll be back to check her out. All right?” He turned to Marvel with a gentle smile, apparently trying to win her trust, but she wouldn’t have it. Her arms remained folded firmly around herself, her eyes wild.

Unoffended, Stevens took his leave. Tracy skillfully attached the IV to the extension and got it flowing into Killian’s vein at a high rate. She used only the clamping mechanism to control it, no pump for the time being. It was hanging from a pole near the exam table, and Killian thought the line would reach if he wanted to return to his chair. But for now, his leg was more comfortable in its current position, and moving for no reason seemed like a bad idea. So he settled back.

“If you’ll pass me the clipboard, I’ll use this time to complete the paperwork,” offered Killian, and Tracy got it for him. He expected the nurse to leave then. But she stayed, slowly cleaning up and then meandering aimlessly through the room, opening drawers and cupboards, seeming at loose ends. Killian completed a few blanks on the forms and then stopped to watch her, finally saying,

“You know, if you’ve better things to do, you can go. Neither of us is likely to drop dead in the near future.”

Tracy made a noticeable effort to appear busy. “No, it’s fine. This… counter needs disinfecting. And as soon as I leave, it will be time to move you; that’s just how it usually turns out.”

Killian shrugged and returned to the paperwork. But again, he didn’t get very far before getting distracted, this time by Marvel as she shifted her weight on what must have been very tired and sore feet.

“Marvel, darling; would you like to join me?” called Killian softly. “There’s room.”

Marvel sidled closer in single steps, pausing after each. But she stopped once she was within reach of the table. Killian sighed.

“Perhaps you could visualize the sky. Imagine it there, just above the filthy ceiling tiles.” A beat. “Do you know that word, love? Imagine?”

“I’ve heard it,” whispered the ship incarnate, timid. Killian tried to think of it from her perspective.

“What does it look like to you, the sky? Can you see it in your mind?”

She was instantly shaking her head; perhaps she hadn’t yet conceptualized what a mind was. He tried again.

“Close your eyes. It’s all right; no one will come near. I promise.”

The length of her blinks increased until she was holding her eyes closed for at least a few seconds at a time. It would have to do.

“Imagination is sight without using your eyes. The ability to paint a picture in your head of something that isn’t really there.”

Marvel turned her gaze on him for an instant before staring at her feet again. “I see now. Like when you’ve gone to be with your wife, but I can still feel you within.”

Killian felt a pang at the loneliness expressed in her words, though that was not her intent. “Aye, love. Just like that.”

All progress was lost when the same transport staff member came through the door with the same wheelchair in hand. Marvel scurried back to her corner retreat, closed off once more. Tracy’s tone was still too bright as she exclaimed,

“Ah, the room must be ready!”

She made quick work of transferring the IV onto the wheelchair’s pole, following which the two of them assisted Killian into the seat. While he recovered his breath, Tracy settled the clipboard onto his uninjured leg.

“Ready?”

Killian beckoned at Marvel. “Follow us, lass. We’re going to see the sky for real now.”

In their new room, Marvel immediately made her way to the window, which had the lower shades drawn for privacy but contained upper panels through which clouds and drizzle were clearly visible. Killian saw her relax dramatically, though she still clutched at the coat with both hands.

Two vials were waiting for Tracy on the counter; she checked the labels and drew differing amounts into two syringes, which she then injected into the IV bag above Killian’s head. The nameless transporter was gone, having left him in the wheelchair - probably as an efficient way to take him for the useless imaging of his leg when the time came. And again, Tracy remained.

Killian finally had enough uninterrupted time to finish the forms, which he handed off to the nurse. Then he trained his attention back on Marvel. She was staring outside, swaying slightly, a much more serene look on her face. And it gladdened his heart.

He had expected a significantly longer wait before they were ready for him in Radiology - wasn’t that usually how things worked in hospitals? Even small ones like this? But the transporter was back already, and Tracy was making no move to follow them out the door, and suddenly he realized that Marvel would be left behind. Of course she would; she couldn’t come with him even if she didn’t require a window, but the obvious fact had not crossed his mind before.

“Hold on, wait,” he implored the man pushing his chair, who slowed briefly but didn’t stop. “Marvel, love; I’ll be back in a bit. Don’t worry, okay? Stay with this nice lady, and perhaps she’ll finally bring you some water.”

“Water,” repeated Marvel dreamily, not seeming too upset with his leaving. Killian hoped it would remain that way once he was out of sight.

He could trust the staff to treat her well, couldn’t he?

The door shut behind them with a final click, and his mind inevitably returned to his own first encounter with the medicine of this realm. He remembered the pain and the fear, how everything looked and sounded and smelled threatening and unfamiliar, and how the only thing that had helped him stay sane was the thought that someone he knew - someone he trusted, even if she didn’t quite feel the same yet - was looking out for him. Making sure he was taken care of, hidden from the demon who would have gladly killed him. Coming to see him afterwards, if only to pepper him with questions for which he had no answer.

In any situation, a friendly face is irreplaceable. Killian hoped they would hurry up with their scan and let him get back as soon as possible.

[imagineclaireandjamie]

What if the reunion (Print shop) was for both of them absolutely surprise? Claire was not prepared.

The Reunion. 

Nursing her second glass of whisky, Claire fumbled through the loose change she had left in her pocket. It wasn’t much considering she’d been living off the spoils of Roger’s finds for the past month - without a job, however, she would soon run out.

Claire had no plans save for coming through the stones and living out the last of her days in the relative comfort of the eighteenth century. She missed it. The simplicity of her life -before- had called to her on the most basic and primal level and even without…Jamie.

Her chest throbbed.

She had meant to come through the stones at Craigh na Dunn and head straight for Lallybroch and Jenny and Ian.

That’s what she had *meant* to do.

But on her arrival, she’d found herself unable to push herself in the direction of Broch Tuarach. Maybe it was the fear that Jenny would be angry with her for disappearing and leaving no word. Maybe not. But either way, she’d found herself in a carriage making its way towards Edinburgh and she hadn’t had the energy to argue with herself.

“Another?” The kind barmaid asked, hovering the full bottle over Claire’s empty glass, “on me, lass. Ye look like you could do wi’ it.”

Claire nodded, opting not to use words lest she be judged for her English accent.

Sipping slowly, she let the amber liquid flow into her veins as she curled herself around the glass.

What she was thinking she was going to achieve here, she couldn’t quiet be sure. But her heart told her it was where she needed to be.

–

A quick flash here and there made Jamie feel like he was slowly losing his mind. The last few days had been hectic to say the least. He had hundreds of leaflets to press and Geordie had come down with a mystery illness that had him wrapped up in bed being nursed by his terse wife.

Instead of being focused to his task, Jamie had been chasing a ghost through the city.

He’d caught sight of the lass once before, only a few weeks previously and she’d been so similar to…

No. He stopped himself from going into the tavern, holding himself back from the disappointment. Having been here before, he knew the abject emptiness that awaited him should he get his hopes up again. One time was enough.

Turning rapidly on his heel, he hightailed it back to the shop, slamming the door behind him and setting himself to his task as his mind emptied of everything other than the myriad of leaflets at his fingertips.

–

Sitting in front of the small mirror, Claire brushed the tangles out of her hair. Since arriving back she’d stopped trying to control it, and had opted, again, to let nature take its course. The distinct curls pinged back to form the moment the hairbrush left them and Claire quirked her head to the side as she admired their tenacity.

Sighing, she eyed the window of her rented rooms with some trepidation. The street below was still alive, the drunks stumbling out of the inn below and tumbling onto the rain drenched cobbles as they sauntered home. She would only be able to afford a few more nights here and then she would have to make an important choice.

Daylight streamed through the lace netting, waking Claire at dawn as the sounds of tweeting birds pulled her from her slumber. The days just seemed to be slipping by and she was no closer to pulling together the bravery she needed to leave for Lallybroch. Something was keeping her in Edinburgh, but she couldn’t quite figure out what.

“Morning, mistress,” the chirpy daughter of the innkeeper piped up as Claire rose for the day and wandered down to breakfast. “Can I interest ye in a kipper this morn? Fresh off the boats, aye?”

Claire shook her head and smiled. “No, thank you.”

“Yer very quiet, mistress Claire,” the young lass continued, an eyebrow quirked in Claire’s direction. “Do ye want to talk about it? I have a canny ear and I willna gossip.”

She had an honest face, and Claire slumped into one of the stools, her chest expanding as she breathed in deeply. The bar area of inn was relatively quiet, it only being just after sunup and Claire felt as if unloading the burden of her choices might make it easier to leave Edinburgh and continue on with her journey.

“I’m…” Claire began, her eyes catching the lass’s as she stumbled over her words. She hadn’t spoke of her extended family to anyone. Jamie, yes. But only to Joe, Brianna and Roger and only very recently. Since her decision to come home she hadn’t discussed Jenny, Ian or Fergus with anyone.

“Dinna werrit, mistress, I think ye need a kindly ear.” Pulling the chair besides Claire out, the waitress (of sorts) placed her water jug on the table and put her hands gently around it. She waited patiently for Claire to recentre herself, a kind smile pulling at her mouth.

“I lost my husband. A long time ago now, but before…he made me promise to leave. Scotland wasn’t safe and I was pregnant. So I went, no word to anyone of why. But now –my daughter is grown and I felt…compelled to return. I don’t even know what my sister-in-law will -might- say. If I go.”

“And yer torn? Ye dinna want to go back now yer here?”

“No.” Claire’s cheeks heated at the mere mention of Jenny. “I do. But…I fear I might not be all that welcome. Having vanished all those years ago without even a letter to explain why. And adding to that the loss of her brother, it might just drag up a lot of buried hurt.”

“After you’ve travelled such a way, mistress, ye’d think of no’ just squaring yer shoulders and marching over there. Maybe you’ll find it happier than ye think? Wi’ the pair of you finding comfort in one another…even after such a long while.”

“You don’t know Janet Fraser Murray…” Claire mumbled under her breath, hopefully too low for the lass to hear. No recognition at the name showed in her eyes (if she had heard) and Claire heaved a sigh of relief. Licking her dry lips she choked back a sob at the last memories she had of Lallybroch and its inhabitants. “I wish I could believe you.”

“Then, if I may be so bold mistress, why did ye come if you didna think it a good idea?”

“Because this is home. More than any other place,” Claire returned without pausing for breath. “…and I thought they might like to know their niece, in portrait form anyway.”

“Then I think ye ken what you have to do, mistress Claire. Sup up and get ye gone! I dinna think ye’ll regret it.” Patting her hand, the lass got up to leave, pausing to top Claire’s glass with a wee morning dram before winking and sashaying away.

–

In the corner, awaiting Fiona’s attentions, Ian sat with his ears pricked. The strange English lass had mentioned ‘Janet Murray’. He couldn’t stop staring as he hid cautiously behind a bollard at the end of the long bar.

“Who’s that?” He whispered covertly to Fiona, as she walked towards him, pointing suspiciously to her abandoned table companion.

Fiona turned and then twisted back to face Ian, a look of trepidation on her face. “Who? Mistress Claire? She’s just a guest is all,” she replied, with the nonchalant twitch of a shoulder as she slid Ian his own glass. “Naybody fer yer young ears to be concerned with, aye?”

“Maybe,” he returned, waiting for the lass to leave before whispering over the rim of his tumbler, “but maybe so…if she kens my mam…”

–

It was the intricate filigree that caught her eye first. Masonic symbols were strewn throughout the sign but it wasn’t that that captured her attention. In between the complex metal work sat two (heavily obscured - but still there nonetheless) jagged letters. Slightly separated from one another, but to her there was a definite ‘J’ and ‘C’.

Claire’s heart stopped, and then proceeded to pound so hard that she felt as though her chest might implode.

The very clear name hanging beneath the swinging metal read simply - A. Malcolm; Printer.

Claire shook her head of the myriad thoughts that rolled through her brain at that precise moment. She castigated herself for being so foolhardy as she quickly strolled away, her eyes not catching the young lad as he watched from the window above.

Not possible, she said to herself over and over. Yes, A *could*, might…but probably not stand for ‘Alexander’. That would make the ‘J’ and ‘C’ investment *Jamie* and *Claire*.

But Jamie was dead. Buried (probably) with the rest of his regiment on that damnable moor. There was nothing to suggest that he’d lived, and she hadn’t stuck around long enough for Roger or Bree to unearth any concrete facts.

Claire had simply needed to vanish back into the past. Frank’s death had taught her one important lesson; never settle for less that you’re worth. Claire knew, wholeheartedly, that this was where she was supposed to be. And even though it had taken her just over twenty years to come to that - rather sane - conclusion, she wasn’t sorry for it.

But James Fraser was still a ghost, he was still as elusive as ever and not a sign nor some intangible facts could sway her to think otherwise.

Pulling her cloak up around her face, Claire quickly darted away from the small close, the thick wool catching the heavy droplets of Scottish mist as she turned the corner, not looking back.

–

Fergus held his breath for a moment longer than strictly necessary causing Ian to slap him squarely on the back.

“Who is she, man?” Ian whispered in his ear, his back studiously turned from Jamie who was hovering of the press. The noise from the machine kept him blissfully unaware of the conversation going on right under his nose. Too distracted by his nephew’s sudden appearance, he was working on a way to get the lad back to his mother - and quickly.

“Fils de pute…Ian, where did you see her first?”

Ian, confused as to Fergus’ obtuse answer tilted his head to the side as he surveyed his adopted cousin. Something was amiss, of that he was certain. Fergus had gone extremely pale, his grip increasing exponentially against the wooden window frame.

“Ye ken her then? How does she know my mam, Fergus?”

“Ian!” Fergus retorted, a stern edge to his hushed tones as he twisted and grabbed young Ian by his collar, “I asked for you to tell me. Where. Did. You. See. Her. First?”

“A-at the inn, the one where Uncle Jamie always rescues the Chinaman from.”

Nodding, Fergus looked back at Jamie, watching with caution as his adopted father scratched his scalp and went back to rearranging the letters on his press. “Whatever happens, Ian. We cannot let her leave the city. You,” he said with a forceful prod to the chest, “must ensure she stays at that inn - just for a day or so. Yes?”

“Alright,” Ian agreed, nodding vigorously as he stumbled from Fergus’s firm grip. “I’ll see to it that Fiona keeps her occupied. But seriously, man. Who is she?”

“She is Claire, mon petit frere. Or Aunty Claire to you.”

Ian’s jaw dropped at the title. He *had* heard, in the dark recesses of Lallybroch and on odd occasions in Jamie’s dreams when he’d snuck in to see his uncle safe, the name ‘Claire’. But he had been young and it had been infrequent. Now, however, the full force of understanding plowed through him.

“But the most important thing is that we *make sure* they meet, yes?”

“Aye,” Ian whispered, his eyes glistening with unshed tears as he peeked back at his uncle. “I agree.”

–

All packed and prepared to leave, Claire had collected her sparse collection of belongings and trekked downstairs within a day of her ridiculous musings out in Edinburgh. The city was starting to get under her skin and her mind was playing tricks on her. The sooner she made the trip to Lallybroch, the sooner she could quiet her demons.

But Fiona, her new confidant, had pulled her aside at the last minute, a jaunty glint in her eyes and a tall tale on her lips. Nevertheless, it had been an interesting tale and it had caused Claire to delay her plans for just a wee while.

Fiona had told Claire that the Murray’s intended to visit Edinburgh in the next few days on business, and that she was better off awaiting their arrival here - neutral ground - rather than travelling all that way back towards Inverness to be disappointed.

Claire was only a little dubious, after all, Jenny had never left Lallybroch whilst she had been around, even when Jamie had been taken to Fort William and flogged in the early days. But Fiona, she had found out, seemed to have credible information on the comings and goings of the city.

So she let her shoulders flop, turned on her heel, and returned to her rooms.

–

Ian waited below, sneaking to the bottom of the stairwell so that he could hear the conversation between the two ladies. Fergus had brandished him with some coins and bid him to pay for Claire’s suite to make doubly sure that she didn’t leave.

“She’s staying then, aye?” He whispered to Fiona as she moseyed back into the bar area.

“Aye, yer lassie isna going anywhere.” She winked, pocketing the silver bobbies Ian handed to her.

–

The sun had only just set as Claire made her way down to supper. It was late, but not late enough that the tap room would be full of drunks. She had discovered this was the perfect time to eat and nobody bothered her if she stowed away up a corner somewhere out of sight.

“Mistress!” Fiona shouted on her entrance into the small, but overrun room. The extravagant gesture caught her eye immediately. “I have something special for ye tonight, come and sit here.” Patting a stool close to the doorway, she placed a full ale-pot against the wooden tabletop and winked suspiciously.

Taking a step backwards, Claire shook her head infinitesimally. “I-I’d prefer somewhere…quieter. If you don’t mind?” She posed the reply as a question, but really she didn’t want to cause a scene.

Tipping her head to the side, a canny grin plastered on her face, Fiona shook her head, her tight (perfectly circular, Claire noted with some jealousy) curls bobbing against her pinked cheeks as she patted the chair with more vigor now. “Ach. No, Claire. Ye canna hide yersel’ away. Come, sit here and chat wi’ me. Please…”

Rolling her eyes, Claire acquiesced with a slight sense of grim acceptance. She could do worse than making friends with a kindly young woman - especially since Claire *assumed* it was her who’d placed down the fee for Claire’s extra nights when her coins had run down. Pulling her knitted shawl tightly around her shoulders, she pulled the final few bobby pins from her updo and let her damp curls fall around her shoulders. She’d twisted it up into a rough bun in preparation for her trip back across rugged Scotland and had forgotten to pull it back down in the hours since. But she felt happier shielding her face as the space began to fill with more and more workers as their days ended.

It was beginning to heat up as Fiona brought Claire a nice, large bowl a stew. The broth looked inviting and before long Claire had cleared the whole dish, her stomach growling happily at the warm food as its nourishment began to course through her veins.

Suddenly her spine began to prickle and she swept her curls aside. She had the uncanny feeling that someone’s eyes were upon her and, although she couldn’t yet see who that was, her gaze began to float around the bustling tavern.

Her heart thudded evenly in her chest as she took in one happy, tipsy Scotsman after another. But nothing out of the ordinary piqued her interest.

Out of the corner of her eye a flash of red caught her attention, and she swivelled (in a *very* unladylike manner) to try and catch a glimpse. The crowd though, jolly and in deep (loud) conversation with one another, seemed to swallow up the sight and Claire placed her hand over her heart as if to calm herself.

‘It’s nothing, just your imagination,’ she self-flagellated, her bottom coming to rest back in the stool once more. In her momentary haze she’d tensed her legs and ended up half-squatting over the chair like a lioness waiting to strike her prey.

Without warning a scrawny blonde lad came darting through the inn, his limbs flailing in some cartoonish moves as he darted this way and that, trying to avoid the grumbling cliental of the lively alehouse.

“Ian! Ye wee fiend…” came a familiar cry, his deep Scots burr ringing in Claire’s ears as she clung to the table for dear life. “…get BACK HERE!”

Claire’s palms sweat; the dampness seeping into the wood that seemed to grow up and around her fingers as the world flipped on its axis. She knew that voice, she was certain. But the knowledge that had haunted her of his death all of these years was deeply ingrained and the more rational part of her was certain she’d concocted this whole sordid evening out of pure want.

Certain that she would turn and see a stranger, Claire slammed her eyes shut and inhaled one really deep breath. Stale ale filled her nostrils as she gasped and re-opened her eyes. Persistent chatter surrounded her, the white noise dissipating as her head stopped spinning. The argument between the lad -named Ian- and his soon-to-be-captor seemed to have petered away in the time that Claire had been semi-unconscious and she could no longer hear the voice she so desperately wished was real.

Considering herself safe for the time being, Claire turned on her chair to survey the room once more, her skin still flickering with the latent feeling of being watched.

It was then her heart stopped dead in her chest, its beat pumping out one intense thump before ceasing…or so she felt.

His eyes were directly on hers; those blue pools that had captivated and enslaved her all those years ago. She recalled the subtle flecks of yellow that curled around his pupils, only visible when in certain flickering candlelight, her instinct picking up the most redundant details as the rest of her body shut down and then restarted once more, shock filling every inch of her.

Her throat dried and her eyes watered as she stood, without consciously thinking of her actions, and stepped (in time with him) forwards.

Claire blinked for the first time in what felt like forever, her vision blurring and then righting itself in the candlelit room as the tears began to cascade down her face. His cheeks were already wet, the moisture collecting at the corners of his twitching mouth as he tried to decide whether to laugh, cry more or faint…ineloquently (of course).

It was a dream.

It *had* to be a dream, she told herself, her mouth moving as she soundlessly muttered the words over and over.

Finally, face to face, the slight lines of age marring their faces, Claire allowed herself the courage to speak. Lifting her fingers in time with his, she reached out hesitantly, her hand jerking back on contact with his heated flesh.

“Jamie…”

“Claire…”

They spoke at the same time, the crackle in each of their voices sounding exceptionally loud even though they were only talking in hushed whispers in the middle of the extremely busy taproom.

“…you’re alive!”

“…you’re here!”

[northcountryprimitive]

“You Can Hear Someone’s World View Through Their Guitar.” An Interview with Josh Rosenthal of Tompkins Square Records

This interview originally appeared at North Country Primitive on 11th March 2016

Josh Rosenthal’s Tompkins Square Records, which has recently celebrated its tenth anniversary, has become somewhat of an institution for music fans, thanks to Josh’s consistent championing of American Primitive guitar, the old, weird America and various other must-hear obscurities he has managed to pluck from the ether. Not content with running one of the best record labels on the planet, he is now also an author, and about to go out on tour with various musicians from the wider Tompkins Square family in support of his new book, The Record Store of the Mind. We caught up with him this week and pestered him with a heap of questions - our thanks to Josh for putting up with us.

Congratulations on The Record Store of the Mind – it’s an absorbing and entertaining read. Has this project had a long gestation period? How easily does writing come to you - and is it something you enjoy doing? It certainly comes across that way…

Thanks for the kind words. I don’t consider myself a writer. I started the book in November 2014 and finished in May 2015, but a lot of that time was spent procrastinating, working on my label, or getting really down on myself for not writing. I could have done more with the prose, made it more artful. I can’t spin yarn like, say, your average MOJO writer. So I decided early on to just tell it straight, just tell the story and don’t labour over the prose.

I particularly like how you mix up memoir, pen portraits of musicians, and snippets of crate digger philosophy… was the book crafted and planned this way or was there an element of improvisation - seeing where your muse took you? And is there more writing to follow?

If I write another book, it’d have to be based around a big idea or theme. This one is a collection of essays. As I went on, I realised that there’s this undercurrent of sadness and tragedy in most of the stories, so a theme emerged. I guess it’s one reflective of life, just in a musical context. We all have things we leave undone, or we feel under-appreciated at times. I wasn’t even planning to write about myself, but then some folks close to me convinced me I should do. So you read about six chapters and then you find out something about the guy who’s writing this stuff. I intersperse a few chapters about my personal experience, from growing up on Long Island in love with Lou Reed to college radio days to SONY and all the fun things I did there. Threading those chapters in gives the book a lift, I think.

Tell us a bit about the planned book tour. You’ve got a mighty fine selection of musicians joining you on the various dates. I imagine there was no shortage of takers?

I’m really grateful to them all. I selected some folks in each city I’m visiting, and they all are in the Tompkins Square orbit. Folks will see the early guitar heroes like Peter Walker, Max Ochs and Harry Taussig and the youngsters like Diane Cluck, one of my favourite vocalists. You can’t read for more than ten minutes. People zone out. So having music rounds out the event and ties back to the whole purpose of my book and my label.

It’s clear from the book that you haven’t lost your excitement about uncovering hidden musical gems. Any recent discoveries that have particularly floated your boat?

I’m working with a couple of guys on a compilation of private press guitar stuff. They are finding the most fascinating and beautiful stuff from decades ago. I’ve never heard of any of the players. Most are still alive, and they are sending me fantastic photos and stories. I have been listening to a lot of new music now that Spotify is connected to my stereo system! I love Kaitlyn Aurelia Smith. Her new one is out soon. I like Charlie Hilton’s new album too.

Any thoughts on the vinyl resurgence and the re-emergence of the humble cassette tape?

Vinyl has kept a lot of indie record stores in business, which is a great development. As a label, it’s a low margin product, so that’s kind of frustrating. If you’re not selling it hand over fist, it can be a liability. The model seems to be - make your physical goods, sell them as best you can within the first four months, and then let the digital sphere be your warehouse. I never bought cassettes and have no affinity for them, or the machines that play them.

Turning to Tompkins Square, did your years working for major labels serve as a good apprenticeship for running your own label? Did you have a clear idea of what you wanted the label to look like from the outset or has the direction its taken developed organically over time?

Working for PolyGram as a teenager and then SONY for 15 years straight out of college was formative. I like taking on projects. My interests and the marketplace dictate what I do. I’ve always felt like the label does me instead of vice versa. For example, the idea of releasing two, three or four disc sets of a particular genre served me well, but now it feels like a very 2009 concept. It doesn’t interest me much, and the commercial viability of that has diminished because it seems the appetite for those types of products has diminished.

Working in relatively niche genres in the current music industry climate can’t be the safest or easiest way to make a living. Is there a sense sometimes that you’re flying by the seat of your pants?

We’re becoming a two-format industry - streaming and vinyl. The CD is really waning and so is the mp3. The streaming pie is growing but it’s modest in terms of income when you compare it to CD or download margins at their height. I don’t really pay much mind to the macro aspects of the business. I just try to release quality, sell a few thousand, move on to the next thing, while continuing to goose the catalogue. The business is becoming very much about getting on the right playlists that will drive hundreds of thousands of streams. It’s the new payola.

American Primitive and fingerstyle guitar makes up a significant percentage of Tompkins Square releases, going right back to the early days of the label – indeed, it could be said that you’ve played a pivotal role in reviving interest in the genre. Is this a style that is particularly close to your heart? What draws you to it?

Interest in guitar flows in and out of favour. There are only a small number of guitarists I actually like, and a much longer list of guitarists I’m told I’m SUPPOSED to like. Most leave me cold, even if they’re technically great. But I respect anyone who plays their instrument well. Certain players like Harry Taussig or Michael Chapman really reach me - their music really gets under my skin and touches my soul. It’s hard to describe, but it has something to do with melody and repetition. It’s not about technique per se. You can hear someone’s world view through their guitar, and you can hear it reflecting your own.

You’ve reintroduced some wonderful lost American Primitive classics to the world – by Mark Fosson, Peter Walker, Don Bikoff, Richard Crandell and so on. How have these reissues come about? Painstaking research? Happy cratedigging accidents? Serendipity? Are there any reissues you’re particularly proud of?

They came about in all different ways. A lot of the time I can’t remember how I got turned on to something, or started working with someone. Peter was among the first musicians I hunted down in 2005, and we made his first album in 40 years. I think Mark’s cousin told me about his lost tapes in the attic. Bikoff came to me via WFMU. Crandell - I’m not sure, but In The Flower of My Youth is one of the greatest solo guitar albums of all time. I’m proud of all of them !

Are there any ‘ones that got away’ that you particularly regret, where red tape, copyright issues, cost or recalcitrant musicians have prevented a reissue from happening? Any further American Primitive reissues in the pipeline you can tell us about – the supply of lost albums doesn’t seem to be showing signs of drying up yet…

Like I said, this new compilation I’m working on is going to be a revelation. So much fantastic, unknown, unheard private press guitar music. It makes you realise how deep the well actually is. There are things I’ve wanted to do that didn’t materialise. Usually these are due to uncooperative copyright owners or murky provenance in a recording that makes it unfit to release legitimately.

You’ve also released a slew of albums by contemporary guitarists working in the fingerstyle tradition. How do you decide who gets the Tompkins Square treatment?  What are you looking for in a guitarist when you’re deciding who to work with? And what’s the score with the zillions of James Blackshaw albums? Has he got dirt on you!?

It takes a lot for me to sign someone. I feel good about the people I’ve signed, and most of them have actual careers, insofar as they can go play in any US or European city and people will pay to see them. I hope I’ve had a hand in that. I did six albums with Blackshaw because he’s one of the most gifted composers and guitarist of the past 50 years. He should be scoring films. He really should be a superstar by now, like Philip Glass. I think he’s not had the right breaks or the best representation to develop his career to its full potential. But he’s still young.

Imaginational Anthems has been a flagship series for Tompkins Square from the beginning. The focus of the series seems to have shifted a couple of times – from the original mixture of old and new recordings to themed releases to releases with outside curators. Has this variation in approach been a means by which to mix it up and keep the series fresh? Are you surprised at the iconic status the series has achieved?

I don’t know about iconic. I think the comps have served their purpose, bringing unknowns into the light via the first three volumes and introducing some young players along the way. Cian Nugent was on the cover of volume 3 as a teenager. Daniel Bachman came to my attention on volume 5, which Sam Moss compiled. Sam Moss’ new album is featured on NPR just today! Steve Gunn was relatively unknown when he appeared on volume 5. There are lots more examples of that. I like handing over the curation to someone who can turn me on to new players, just as a listener gets turned on. It’s been an amazing experience learning about these players. And I’m going to see a number of IA alums play on my book tour : Mike Vallera, Sam Moss, Wes Tirey - and I invited Jordan Norton out in Portland. Never met him or saw him play. He was fantastic. Plays this Frippy stuff.

What’s next for you and Tompkins Square?

I signed a young lady from Ireland. Very excited about her debut album, due in June. I’m reissuing two early 70’s records by Bob Brown, both produced by Richie Havens. Beautiful records, barely anyone has heard them.

[therionsymphonicmetalmasters]

VINYL SUNDAY

After having listened to obscure old forgotten albums two Sundays in a row, I thought I’d be up for some old classic again. But no, I went though the collection and saw ”Hazzard”, another record I didn’t listen to since back in the days.

First of all, don’t confuse this with some embarrassing American glam band from the 90’s that had the same name. This is German steel. After Herman Frank was fired from Accept in 1982, he started this new band. Back then (it must have been 1986), I bought the record because of that, I was (and still am) a huge Accept fan and the sticker on the front caught my interest. This was another bargain purchase where I paid virtually nothing for the album. But this time I was in a for a win. I wouldn’t say this album is underrated, because it’s not rated at all, it’s totally forgotten by all but a bunch of old geezers with big record collections like me, 95% of them probably living in Germany.

This was not a first class band, they played in the second league of bands, lacking that special spark/skills/songwriting that made a band legendary (like Accept). BUT, that doesn’t mean it can’t be a good album in its own league and offer some enjoyable music. Not everyone can be Iron Maiden.

Over the years there has been a bunch of bands that I really enjoyed that was lacking one of the main ingredients to make it big. Maybe they had great songs but were poor musicians. Or the albums were poorly produced. Or they had a weird singer or something (got a few of those in my collection). In the case of Hazzard, they are decent in all aspects. Production is a bit flat, but professional. Playing is not masterly, but totally fine. Singer is OK (though he must have had a bad time, he did much better in the future with other bands). And songwriting is good - but they lack the hit songs. And I think this is what made them miss the boat. If they would have had one really good heavy metal anthem, made a video clip out of it and the label would have paid (how else did you think it worked?) for rotation on MTV, then it would have been a band and an album you all would have at least heard of. But now it didn’t and the band gave up after this album, so they never got the chance to rub them selves into the metal history by making a couple of more albums, play festivals and do support tours. So instead they just fell into oblivion. Fact is that already back then, I never heard the band name. I just bumped into the album by chance and bought it on discount upon reading ”Herman Frank, ex Accept” on the sticker. Back then none of my friends had even heard the name of the band. I don’t know anyone else who have this record, but I would suspect that Oscar and Joacim from HammerFall have it - they have a strong and passionate taste for the B-team of 80’s metal bands. Which is kind of cool, I should invite them over for a drink some some day and have a whole evening of listening to forgotten jewels (and forgotten crap).

After the band split up, Herman would form Victory that did a lot better and the singer Malcolm McNulty would join legendary Sweet and later another legendary band, Slade, which he is still in today. They did a video clip (by some reason done on one of the least good songs). The drummer looks like a cousin from the countryside that was in the band because Herman’s mom said so.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=_jGlOUkMNDM

At the time of buying this record I listened a lot to it, but when CD took over and I repurchased all my fave records again, this fell into oblivion in the vinyl collection. I haven’t heard it since early 90’s. If you are a big fan of 80’s metal and want something new (old) to listen to, this could be it.

———

Do you like this sort of personal posts from Christofer? Then you should sign up to the Therion Newsletter, where you besides news about coming releases and tours also will be getting personal tour diary posts, studio reports and exclusive reports from inside the band camp.

On top on that you will also get some news from the store occasionally with special offers and discounts, including the first notification when limited rarities that sell out fast are added to the store. https://www.therion.se/news

[sevralships]

“Just Because You Can” Part 1 of 7, Chapters 1-4

[1] [2] [3] [4] [5] [6] [7 FIN]

The Pines triplets, Mabel, Dipper, and Jolene, have always been best friends. But lately, there’s been some distance growing between the Mystery Kids, due in part to the forbidden feelings with which they are each struggling. How will they manage to see eye to eye, when torn between wanting each other and craving adventure?

(This is a new AU that I’ve been calling Jolene AU, devised by myself and @handleonthescandal​ after one of us asked the question “What if Mabel and Dipper were triplets but with another sister?”. Although this AU is similar, it is not connected to Double Dippin’ AU, and Jolene is in no way connected to Tyrone.)

Shoutout to @sirwaddlesesquire for being the trustiest squire and an insightful, helpful, and supportive beta.

Mostly SFW, mostly angst with some action/adventure and a little bit of fluff, tw incest 

Fic under the cut, enjoy!

Chapter 1: Viola & Sebastian

Cut it out, Mabel-girl, Mabel chastised herself impatiently as she squeezed a dollop of hot glue onto the back of a rhinestone and carefully pressed it against the fabric. Years of practice had left her a very quick and efficient rhinestone-gluer, and it was hard to keep her mind from wandering. And as always it kept creeping back to Dipper, like a tongue to a missing tooth. No, none of that skeevy stuff, quit it!

Think about the play, she told herself desperately. She continued gluing one rhinestone after another, thoroughly bedazzling a doublet for Duke Orsino. Mr. McMahon, the music teacher and director of the play, had warned her not to “mabelify” the costumes too much. He’d reminded her that ‘less is more’ and that they didn’t want a repeat of last year’s production of ‘Oklahoma!’. Well, Mabel huffed to herself, Less is not more. Obviously more is more or it wouldn’t be called ‘more’! And ‘Oklahoma!’ was fabulous! Maybe Jud wouldn’t have been such a jerkface if he’d sewn sequins onto his overalls!

Mabel smiled to herself at the memory of some of her best and sparkliest work, but turned her attention back to ‘Twelfth Night’. She glanced over at the matching outfits she had made for Viola and Sebastian’s respective first scenes. She liked to think that they had worn matching outfits onto the boat together before getting shipwrecked and cross-dressing got them all mixed up. They were her favorite costumes for the play, and had been since the drawing board. In her first sketch, on a silly impulse, she had drawn Dipper’s old pine tree hat onto the faceless little dude she’d drawn and giggled at the thought of her level-headed, anxious, generous brother as Sebastian, who in her opinion was kind of a butt.

It’s still nice to think about, she admitted, gazing at the blue dress and the blue trouser and jacket set, laid out next to each other on the floor, if it were me and Dip. In those sparkly matching outfits, lying side by side on the floor like that, just us. Like maybe while she was taking a break from all this bedazzling and sewing, when Dip told her she was working too hard. It was so easy to picture, just the two of them, lying on the floor in those pretty clothes. They’d be laughing and talking, while she twisted some of the pretty black lace from one of Olivia’s gowns between her fingers, and Dipper would lean over and kiss her--

���Ugh!” Mabel threw down the glue gun on the table in frustration. She squeezed her eyes shut, trying to fight back the angry tears that were threatening to fall. Her eyes hurt, she realized, badly. Probably from staring at too close a distance at little rhinestones and beads and stitches for hours. Sure, yeah, that’s it. Just working too hard. She opened her eyes and picked up the glue gun, wiping off the heated tip with a scrap of fabric, unplugging it, and wrapping the cord around the handle. She hastily cleaned up, scooping handfuls of sequins and spools of thread into little baggies and bins. There were finished and unfinished costumes lying all around her little craft corner in the basement den, and she set about picking them up. Mabel didn’t want to touch those pretty blue costumes for Viola and Sebastian, though she loved them. When all the others were picked up, she glared down at them for a moment, with her hands on her hips.

It could never be like that, Mabesy, she told herself resignedly, There’d be another blue dress, and someone in it. There would have to be one for Jo. Mabel felt a painful stab of guilt in her heart. She loved her sister and she loved having a sister. But the idea of being twins instead of triplets, of being Dipper’s only sister, his special sister, it appealed to some deep dark part of her that she hated.

Jo wouldn’t even wear a dress. She thought about when mom had made Jolene wear a dress to their cousin Alan’s wedding, and how she had fought tooth and nail to get out of it. And how self-conscious she was in it, tugging it down to cover her scabby knees and pulling it up to contain her generous cleavage. Mabel had loved her own dress, a frothy green number that came with a dreamy sea green shawl. She remembered how she’d lent the shawl to Jo and how gratefully she had wrapped it around herself, instantly more at ease by covering up a little. “Thanks, Miss-Sis,” she’d said, with a kiss to Mabel’s nose, “You’re the bestest.” Her emerald green eyes had been so big with gratitude behind her glasses, the green so beautifully complimented by the shawl.

Mabel left the Viola and Sebastian costumes on the ground and walked up the creaky stairs out of the den, turning off the light switch at the top of the stair without a glance behind her. She went right up the other staircase to the bedrooms upstairs, without stopping in the kitchen for a bite to eat. There was a bag of gummy koalas in her backpack with her name on it. As she reached the top of the stairs, she heard her siblings talking and followed the sound. I could use some normal good trip times, Mabel decided. She reached Dipper’s bedroom door and halted.

Dipper was sitting on his bed, in pajama pants and an old Mystery Shack tee shirt, holding a ragged dog-eared book in his hand, a pen sticking out of his mouth. His hair was wet, so he must have already showered. He had learned to shower at night so as to avoid fighting over the bathroom with his sisters in the morning. He was reading aloud a passage about some mysterious urban legend or crop circle or something, his speech hardly impeded by the pen after years of practice. Jolene was lying on the bed, still in her jeans (the cute ones that hadn’t been too torn and stained on hikes and mystery hunts yet) and a green tank top. Her head rested  in Dipper’s lap and she was jotting down notes on what he was saying in a spiral-bound notebook. She held the notebook too close to her face, allowing her to see it without her glasses. As always, the two looked wonderfully relaxed with each other.

In whatever bonkers universe Dipstick ever decides to lean over and kiss his sister, Mabel realized with stinging clarity, it’s not going to be me.

Chapter 2: Adventure Awaits

“This is really no time to be playing it safe, Dip-man,” Jolene said, dropping her notebook on the bed to the left of her and looking up at her brother, “Go big or go home.”

“You know I think that phrase is dumb, Jo,” Dipper said, his face still obscured by his book, “Like yeah, you could go small and get to go home afterwards oooor you could go big, die at the talons of some monster you can’t take, and not come home again. But like you went big, so, somehow that’s better? Like surviving to go home is part of the goal?”

“Yeah, yeah, I’ve heard it a zillion times, Dipper,” Jo rolled her eyes exaggeratedly although he wasn’t looking. Triplet sense would fill him in.

It did. He dropped his thoroughly dog-eared and annotated copy of William Thomas Cox’s ‘Fearsome Creatures of the Lumberwoods’ (a seminal text for them that nearly rivaled Uncle Ford’s journals) and looked down at his sister, frowning up at him from his lap, “I know, sis,” he said, in a wearily sympathetic tone, “But it’s just a stupid competition! It doesn’t even have a cash prize or anything. It’s not worth risking our necks.”

Jo rolled her eyes again, even harder than before, as she pulled herself into a sitting position and locked eyes with her brother, “C’mon, Dip, no risk, no gain! Think about what Grunkle Stan always says, you gotta spend money to make money!” Dipper gave a dismissive laugh, “Sure, yeah, but he always follows it with whispering ‘or you could just make it look like you spent money’. Forgot that part, Jo.”

“Okay, okay, not my point!” Jo explained, exasperated but grudgingly amused by the thought of her Grunkle’s antics, “My point… Adventure, Dipper!” she said, wide-eyed and grinning, fanning out her hands, “It’s not about the contest, or any cash prize, or just making it look like we took a chance… it’s about adventure! I know you wanna see the crazy stuff that’s out there with your own eyes, just as bad as I do!”

She made a good case for it, she always does, Dipper noted, but he was cautious. He was the cautious one of them, it was his job. He had to be. If he wasn’t, he and his sister would have recklessly walked into the nightmare jaws of something before they’d ever reached puberty. And she had that look in her eyes that he knew so well. It was at times like this she looked least like Mabel, who, though she absolutely had her own brand of impulsive craziness, did not have Jo’s taste for danger. Her green eyes twinkled with a zealous light that always reminded him more of Wendy than of his sister. Dipper’s stomach did an uneasy somersault at the comparison to his first major crush, and pushed the thought away, “Jo, listen…”

“Jo, listen,” Jo mimicked with an impatient ‘blah-blah-blah’ hand gesture.

“Ha ha, I know, I’m a total lame stick in the mud, my feelings are so hurt,” it was his turn to roll his eyes, “Will you just hear me out, please?” Jo gave an overblown sigh, before giving him a ‘go on’ signal, “I hear what you’re saying. Of course I wanna go after adventure, of course I want to see some cool stuff. I know that’s not actually in question at all and you’re just trying to prod me into doing something dumb,” Jolene shrugged but couldn’t suppress a mischievous ‘you got me’ smile, “I want to track and find some weirdo thing that’s never been proven, I wanna win that contest and be in ‘Mystery Monthly’…”

“But…?” Jo offered.

“But…” Dipper picked up, nodding, “I just think the Lone Pine Mountain Devils are biting off more than we can chew.”

“But Dip!” Jo insisted, “They’ve never been photographed! They still haven’t figured out what happened to those kids that went missing in 2010! They might be surviving dinosaurs! Or, or, they might be--”

“I know, Jo-jo, I know, I know, okay?” she quieted, but crossed her arms stubbornly, “I know everything about them there is to know, just like you.” He sighed, “But by every account there is, they’re ruthless and there’s a lot of them! We go out there, ill-equipped, without backup, we end up just like those Spanish settlers in 1878 or those stupid high school kids.”

Dipper hated seeing the way his sister’s shoulders slumped when she lost an argument, but better disappointed now than devoured by Lone Pine Mountain Devils later, he reminded himself. If they actually found something, and actually won, and actually got their findings published, they could maybe gain the support to think about something like looking for the Devils. It was a lot of ifs, but playing it safe now could pay off later. He knew Jo would sooner dive headlong into it, but not on his watch.

“Well, Mr. Smarty-pants-know-it-all,” Jo said, her frown curling up slightly, “What considerably less cool thing do you want to look for instead of the way cooler thing I suggested?”

“How about Tessie?” Dipper suggested, grabbing his book again and opening it to the page for Tahoe Tessie, California’s very own beloved Loch Ness Monster, “I know it’s been done, but there hasn’t been a serious investigation in like forty years, by all accounts the creature isn’t actually aggressive, and we know from experience to bring more than seventeen disposable cameras.”

Jolene forced a smile, is that reminder supposed to make me feel better or shut me up? She wondered, studying her brother’s expectant face, as always, Dip’s the authority, because what do I know? It’s not like I’ve been on a real adventure. But, whatever he had meant by it, Dipper was waiting for an answer, waiting for her to concede like she always did. It was hard to say no to her best friend, and although the Lone Pine Mountain Devils were undeniably the cooler option, it wasn’t as if she didn’t want to see ole Tessie too. That uncanny triplet sense was kicking in again because Dipper’s smile broadened a second after she changed her mind, and she couldn’t help but smile back, “Alright, bro-tective, you win,” she said, “Tessie it is.”

“Mystery Kids?” Dip said, offering a fistbump.

Ya can’t leave a fistbump truce hanging, Jo thought, bumping her fist to his, “Mystery Kids.”

Chapter 3: The Power of Mabel

It was almost two in the morning when Jolene crept from Dipper’s room across the hall to the room she shared with her sister. She was careful to open the door quietly, but found the light still on, Mabel sitting up in bed going over her ‘Twelfth Night’ script, apparently taking down notes about props and costumes that weren’t finished. She popped a couple of gummy koalas into her mouth and gave a wave without looking up at the door, “‘Sup, Jo-jo?”

“Not much, Mabey,” Jo said, walking over to her dresser and opening her pajama drawer, “Just hanging with that dumb brother of ours.”

“Ha!” Mabel closed her script, “I think I know the one.” She was quiet for a sec, watching her sister change into an old pair of sweats and tee shirt, how does she make a ratty old tee shirt look so hot?  “Sooo…” she said, “You guys settle on a critter to stalk for that contest thinger?”

Jo knew she was asking to be polite, but appreciated it anyway. Although Mabel had accompanied her trusty wombmates on countless forays into the unexplained, it had been established years ago that she did not have Dipper or Jo’s penchant for it. But she was a good sister and a good friend, and always showed the most genuine interest she could in their many schemes. And yet, Jo bemoaned for the zillionth time, she was there that summer while I was stuck in summer school here. Although she was just as bright as her triplets, and comfortably smug about it, she’d never gotten consistently good grades like them. School was reductive, and no one liked her, and worst of all, it was boring. Jolene had never done well with rules, and she did even worse with boredom. I’m a woman of action, I wasn’t meant to sit in a classroom with a bunch of Neanderthals, listening to a teacher drone on about some shit I already know. But how many times had she wished, that fateful summer and since, that she had just sucked it up and done her work in seventh grade? While they were in Oregon, saving the world and coming to terms with their strengths and stuff, I was sitting in a classroom that smelled like B.O. and redoing work that I should have just done the first time.

“Earth to Joleeene,” Mabel sang.

“Huh?” Jo withdrew from her memory, “Oh, yeah, we’re going to look for Tahoe Tessie.”

“Ah! A fine choice, mademoiselle,” Mabel said with a flourish, imitating a smarmy French waiter.

“Merci, merci,” Jo joked back, hopping into her bed adjacent to her sister’s. Mabel’s phone announced the receipt of a text with the oink of a pig and she picked it up at once to read and respond. Jo casually studied Mabel, as she had every day for almost seventeen years. As usual, she marvelled at Mabel’s effortless femininity. The girls had always had a striking resemblance, and they still did, but to Jolene the difference was like night and day. Mabel was ever the vision of girliness, her quirky touches not detracting from it at all. Petite and slender and lithe, her curves were modest and lovely, never demanding undue attention. Her long curly hair fell halfway down her back, in ever-perfect waves, her fingernails and toes were always painted in bright colors, and one couldn’t look at her without being drawn into her big brown doe eyes. Even her PJs had frills and bows and a pattern with silly little pink watermelon slices. Those flouncy little pink pajama shorts made it impossible not to admire the graceful line of her leg, the pale flawless skin that disappeared beneath the ruffled trim--

Stop it, freak! Jolene threw her gaze angrily to the opposite side of the room from Mabel, kicking herself for letting her thoughts wander into that weird stupid gross place that they so loved to visit. She’s your sister, dammit, and besides that she’s way out of your league! Jo knew the voice in her head was telling the truth about this. Of course they were fraternal, but people often mistook them for identical twins, and it took so much willpower not to laugh in their face. Obviously they were only being polite. Where girliness and cuteness came naturally to Mabel, things like memorizing trivia and starting a campfire came naturally to Jo. Not that she didn’t value those things or whatever, but sister or not, she was no kind of match for a girl like Mabel. Where Mabel was slim, Jo fought always with a pudgy midsection and curves she’d just as soon conceal. Where Mabel’s hair shone and curled in pretty nut-brown waves, Jo’s was brassy and frizzed in the presence of the slightest humidity. And it wasn’t just looks, Jolene figured she’d looked fine despite her complaints, but Mabel was a people magnet! Charming and silly and thoughtful, she could make friends with anyone in a minute flat. She remembered people’s birthdays and made them laugh and helped transfer students find their lockers and homerooms without being asked. And I’m a cranky jerk with a chronic need of an attitude adjustment.

Mabel finished responding to the text and replaced her phone on her bedside table. She rolled onto her side to face Jo and rested her head on her hand, “So, that was Brandon Cooper. Dude wants me to do his measurements again.”

Jo laughed, “Seriously? What is this, like the fifth time he’s asked?”

“Well, only third, but honestly,” Mabel continued, “At first I thought he was like insecure or whatnot, that like he didn’t want me to think he was fat or wanted his costume to not be too tight or whatever? And like he isn’t fat so that was kinda weird but like he’s nice enough, I guess? But a third time is just redonk. Antonio isn’t a huge character anyway and I already finished making his costumes and just in case I gave it an elastic waist so like… I dunno, I think he maybe just wants to hang out with the Mabel.”

“Well,” Jo gave a theatrical knowing look, “I mean, who can blame him?”

“Yes, yes,” Mabel gave a small swish of her hair, “Of course, no one can resist the power of Mabel.”

Jo laughed, “It always comes back to the power of Mabel with you.”

“Even I am powerless to the power of Mabel!” Mabel insisted, landing her fist on the mattress with conviction.

“Okay, well, that makes just about zero sense, Miss-Sis,” Jo pointed out, through laughter, “But anyway, like, do you think the power of Mabel is strong enough to grow Mr. Brandon a pair?”

“Pssh,” Mabel made a dismissive gesture, “Even Mabel is not that mighty. He had his mom ask Kelsey Beechman to homecoming for him.”

Jo pulled a face, “Oh, honey. Yeah, he’s beyond even your considerable influence.” Mabel nodded in agreement, “So how’s everything else going with the play?”

“Well, Mr. McMahon told me not to ‘mabelify’ it too much, as in use the sparkly in moderation,” she elaborated.

“Naturally, Mabelness is synonymous with sparkliness,”

“Abso-tively,” Mabel agreed appreciatively, “The power of Mabel compels me to bedazzle,” Jo chuckled, happily listening as her sister explained how she had tried moderation but one piece after another simply wasn’t sparkly enough. She could fume all she wanted about her sister, but when push came to shove, she was no more capable of resisting the power of Mabel than any other mere mortal.

Chapter 4: Morning Mania

There were many ways in which the triplets differed from each other, but across the board, they were not morning people. Although Mabel tended to be the closest to human in the morning, all three would have much rather been curled up in bed. Their breakfasts differed considerably. Dipper nursed a cup of black coffee and a couple slices of toast in grumpy bed-headed silence. Jolene consistently had the biggest appetite and put away a banana, some corn flakes, and a piece of toast that Dipper had pushed away with a grunt, all the while re-reading the current issue of ‘Mystery Monthly’ that detailed the ‘Explain the Unexplained’ contest that they were submitting to. And Mabel ate a bowl of sugary cereal with strawberry milk and extra marshmallows added. They had accepted their different eating habits years ago, and as long as they were in agreement that breakfast was no time for a conversation, they got along perfectly well in the morning.

Unfortunately, their parents still had not gotten the memo on the Morning Conversation Moratorium, and often chose this time to try to get the three zombies impersonating their children to open up to them. Their mom had already left for work, but their father, who worked from home a couple days a week, stood in his bathrobe and PJs by the stove, with a cup of coffee, trying to engage his three uncooperative offspring.

Mabel loved her parents, and knew her siblings did, too. They were caring, involved, and made a decent effort to know and support their kids. But honestly, since long before they could talk, the triplets had formed their own language, and their own little family unit. Weirdness seemed to have skipped a generation in the Pines family, and their parents had always had a hard time truly relating to their off-beat kids. It must be hard, Mabel thought compassionately, Being an outsider to the Mystery Kids.

“Heya, Scout,” dad said, addressing Jo by the nickname mom and dad had given her as a small girl, “Ya reading about more of those cryptics you and your brother are always so jazzed about?”

“Crytids,” Jo mumbled, by way of response.

“That’s it. Hey, tomato, to-mah-to, am I right?”He replied.

“Sure, dad,” Jo said on autopilot.

Dad took a slow sip of coffee and Mabel jumped on the chance to interrupt the polite dad question game before it went on another agonizing second, “So, daddy, any thoughts about what’s for dinner tonight? I saw pork in the fridge.”

“My little detective, just like your brother and sister, I swear!” He joked, before launching into detailed descriptions of the different preparations he was considering. Mabel wasn’t the kind of elaborate cook dad was, but she liked listening to him talk about it. He got excited about cooking. It was a creative outlet for him, and she could sympathize with just about any kind of creative outlet. Jo caught her eye and mouthed ‘thank you’ for stopping the AM interrogation she’d been receiving. Mabel gave her a wink.

A moment later, dad was tapping an imaginary watch on his wrist and reminding them that it was almost time to go. In near-silence, they fetched their respective school bags, bid dad ‘seeya’, and headed out the door.

“Last one to the car’s a unicorn!” Mabel challenged the instant they were outside, breaking into a sprint. They might have been the only three kids who took the insult of ‘unicorn’ so seriously, but all three were running hard in an instant. The green station wagon they’d all pitched in for was parked on the street by the mailbox. They had all shared the cost of the car, and therefore all felt they had a claim to naming rights. While Jo insisted on calling it the Mystery Machine (which her siblings deemed to be too on-the-nose), Dipper called it The Chariot, citing some junk about Apollo and triads, but Mabel always fondly referred to it as Aoshima. Aoshima wasn’t more than ten yards from the door, so it was a brief race, however fierce the competition. Mabel reached the car first and hopped into the coveted passenger seat, Jo second, immediately claiming the driver’s seat with her butt and adjusting the mirrors, while Dipper reached the car a second later with a groan.

“Ah, Dipper, stain on our family name,” Jo mocked haughtily through the open driver’s side door, “Ever the unicorn in our midst.”

Dipper opened the driver side door to the backseat and groaned again. Behind Mabel’s seat back, the backseat was piled high with props and costumes for the High School’s production of ‘Twelfth Night’. He thought all of the bits of fabric peeking out were a little too bedazzled to be believable for the Elizabethan era, but thus was the way of Mabel. He climbed in behind Jo, uncomfortably folding his legs against the back of her seat, “Hey, Jo-jo, think you could scoot that seat up a little?”

“Dipper,”Jo said in a scandalized tone, “I need my seat here to drive. Don’t you realize your life is in my hands??”

“Yes, and I’m wishing I’d put a little more work into my will…” Dipper grumbled, accepting his fate.

As they tore out of the driveway, Mabel pushed a cassette tape into the player and gave them both a grin, which they returned. Their tried-and-true Manic Morning Mix spilled out of the speakers, and all three triplets burst into song, off-key. Mabel thought about their parents, how much they didn’t understand that breakfast was no time for talking. They also don’t understand that car rides are a time for rejoicing! The first day the trips had driven themselves to school in their car, they’d had a celebratory sing-a-long. That had been a special occasion. Then they repeated it the following day and the following day, and in no time it was a routine. We’re all so busy now with so much dumb junkum, Mabel thought, glancing at the rear-view mirror at the heap of costumes it reflected, sometimes this is the only time we’ve got to let the Trip Flag fly.

She leaned to the side a little so that the mirror showed her Dipper instead. He was taller than his sisters by a head and his long legs were uncomfortably bent towards his chest, but he wasn’t complaining. He was happily singing along at full volume, intermittently drumming along on his raised knees, a completely different person than the coffee zombie that had sat at the kitchen table. She loved seeing him like this, bobbing his head and tossing his hair like a nerd while he sang, his smile never budging.

It’s a shame the people at school never get to see them like this, Mabel considered, as she often did. Although both her siblings had a couple friends, neither was comfortable enough in school to let loose. Whereas letting loose had always kinda been Mabel’s default mode of behavior. So people never even meet the bestest part of them! Honestly, Mabel felt sorry for all those people and felt an inward surge of pride and gratitude, I get the bestest part of the bestest people to myself!

Continue to Part 2

[pegtl]

Landlocked Blues (2/10)

COMMISSION

PAIRING: Mikasa Ackerman/Annie Leonhart

SUMMARY: The Ackerman and Leonhart families have been warring over the control of Maria City for years, their conflict only intensified by the events that happened nearly half a decade ago. Seeking compromise, the heiress of the former family decides that forming a friendship with the latter’s heir would be the best course of action. However, circumstances are never on her side, and Mikasa must decide who she’s really loyal to.

CHAPTER SUMMARY: Annie talks.

Annie has been in the business ever since she was a little girl. Moved from house to house since the Leonharts couldn’t find it in themselves to be free of enemies, she was practically forced into this life because of her inconsiderate relatives. She’s not the only person in this boat –– not by a long shot, especially given her similarly-aged cousins who have been in said proverbial boat for even longer than she. (Probably because they were boys. Typical.)

Nevertheless, as the only daughter of one of the most prominent council members in the Leonhart family, she took her duty very seriously. There wasn’t anything, in fact, that she didn’t take seriously in her life. It made things very complicated, and efficient in equal measure. People tended to think that she didn’t understand jokes, when in reality, it was just that she seldom found things very funny.

One of her responsibilities as a future councilwoman is that she ought to maintain a good informational network. Her cousins were more the arms-dealing and extortion-slash-intimidation end of the spectrum, leaving the hidden work to her.

Again. Typical.

But she didn’t complain, because complaining was a one way ticket to an eye roll. Annie has learned from observation that the eye roll means that you aren’t going to be taken very seriously and that you’ll probably be informed that you ought to either get back doing your job ‘properly’ or just stay in the kitchen if you’re going to be uncooperative. So far, she hasn’t been uncooperative, so that means she’s gotten enough brownie points to pull the little stunts she’s been plotting for the past few months.

The truth of the matter is that Annie knows everything about everything. She’s remarkably good at wetwork, since keeping track of things with pencil and paper (however dangerous, and regardless of her father’s protests) has never been easier. People never believe her when she tells her the secret. Maybe that’s also another reason why she excels so greatly at her duties. Nobody believes her.

Nevertheless, Anneliese Leonhart is the one person in Maria City who knows everything about everything. Unsuspicious and unimposing because of her small stature, her ability to remain undetected by even the most dangerous of spies allows her the privilege of having basically everybody under her thumb. Politicians, corporate executives, you name it. She’s got dirt on them.

She rarely, however, partakes in field work. Relying heavily on a web of spies that are no more suspicious than she is. A majority of them are kids living on the streets, with prying fingers and equally prying ears. Always the last people adults believe to be their leaks, the information her contacts have amassed has served enough to keep the Leonharts afloat for about half a decade. Her predecessor, an old man whose associates had long since fallen out of favor with the people they were supposed to be trailing, was entirely too incompetent to remain within the family.

So they had him killed.

They were a ‘family,’ in the barest sense of the word. The Leonharts shared blood. Many cohabitated, living in households hovering dangerously close the double-digits at times. Cooperation was encouraged and expected –– necessary, of course, but they were never beyond hurting their own people if they thought their personal goals took precedent over the needs of the gang. But that was as far as it went. Beyond immediate family, they were, in reality, a network of business associates.

People who indulged in less-than-legal businesses for a variety of reasons. They viewed themselves as vigilantes. It was more lucrative. Or they were just plain evil.

(If one were to ask Anneliese ten years ago, she would’ve said the latter was the most accurate reason.)

A greedy folk who sought any means possible to achieve both power and wealth.

This was the reason their war started with the Ackermans, after all.

While originally a noble French family way back before the twentieth century was even a thought in a single soul’s mind, the Leonharts immigrated to England, and then finally to Ireland. They left during the mid nineteenth century, right around the time of the Great Famine, although there had been plans to leave the country beforehand anyways. They found themselves quickly rooted in the northeast, where the Leonharts tried to make honest livings as distillers.

And then Prohibition set in.

Moving from facility to speakeasy wasn’t exactly a difficult thing to do when one had fingers in the right pies, and eventually, they were able to return to the practice of making alcohol legally. Tied with the Irish mob (and some of the family even being members of it), they managed to live in relative obscurity.

Until somewhere along the fifties and sixties, they got a little avaricious. Emboldened by the post-war peacefulness and tranquility. It was then that the Leonhart family proper was born.

Decades of conflict later, here they are now. An hereditary oligarchy with a council of five, with considerably looser morals in comparison to their other Maria City crime lord counterparts. Not quite having gotten out of the mid-twentieth century mindset of the predecessors, as one could easily tell.

Annie doesn’t usually mind her family’s backwards behavior. Because she doesn’t talk back and does good work, those prejudices hardly ever apply to her. She’s free to do her work as she pleases, getting results and protecting the family. That’s all she really needs to do, anyways, until her father’s underlying heart condition caused by massive amounts of cholesterol acted up enough for him to consider training her to take his place in the event that he suddenly. and without warning, passes. It isn’t as though her older brother is going to be bearing that responsibility. Connor left the moment he fell in love with some random girl.

If only Annie were so lucky.

So her role in the family was one of deception. She was supposed to work behind the scenes, pulling strings and jotting dark secrets and compromising information down. Her position as her father’s only child aside, she was never intended for public consumption. The only people who ought to recognize her were the baristas at the local Starbucks and bookstore frequenters. She was a normal teenage girl who was deciding to take a gap year before starting college. That’s how the Leonharts operate –– with fictional urban personas. Makes it easier to have an alibi when you’re already seen as an upstanding citizen.

(Yet another facet of watching whiteness work, she supposes bitterly.)

Given this information, it was obviously something of a shock to her when her father and mother approached her and told her that the council requested that she be the one to help them make contact with the Ackermans. The latter had reached out first, of course, trying to seek some sort of peace, and the Leonharts were reluctant but eventually willing to ‘discuss’ those terms.

At first she wasn’t entirely sure what they meant. She wasn’t one for negotiation. She wasn’t sure if anyone in the family was one for negotiation. They had a tendency to settle their problems with bloodshed. A lot of it. But instead, this time around, they had come to her and asked her to be their emissary.

It was an honor, so her father said, to be the representative of the entire family. She would be the one possibly forging peace between years of war. A leading figurehead of kindness and generosity. She knew that this wasn’t what he meant. They never say what they mean.

Before she actually leaves, weaponless and thus feeling defenseless, they tell her that they want her to swindle the ever living shit out of the Ackermans. Aside from the fact that they believe a girl will get closer to Mikasa Ackerman by virtue of sharing the same sex (and at that, she has to audibly scoff), they also believe that Annie being a relative unknown to the public and the Ackermans as a member of the Leonhart family will make it all the easier for them to trust her.

They want the Ackermans gone. Removed from the face of the planet, if possible.

Annie doesn’t know why she of all people is being given this task.

So she arrives at the meeting time. She isn’t too late, and is slightly annoyed that she didn’t have the foresight to bring an umbrella with her, because it’s starting to drizzle and doesn’t look like it’ll be letting up anytime soon. If anything, it looks like the precipitation will only be getting worse. Lucky her.

She’s dressed warmly in a leather jacket and jeans, with ankle high boots keeping her feet from getting wet. She avoids puddles as she makes her way into the alley, noting the single spotlight that shines down. Annie can make out two forms –– she’d expected as much; it was smart of the Ackermans to insist that the Leonhart come disadvantaged, given what happened to them previously. But they would never have known if the Leonharts would keep their word, so the whole thing is kind of preposterous.

The first thing Mikasa Ackerman says to her is a command. A stilted bark, as if she’s unused to demanding that people do things for her. Strike one, the mark of a bad leader. If anything, a leader is supposed to be confident, strong. They’re supposed to have a firm grasp on the orders they’re issuing, not a tentativeness that screams “do it, only if you want to.” Annie doesn’t feel inclined to listen to her at all. And she’s not sure she’s going to be able to fake a friendship with someone like this.

Nonetheless, she acquiesces with a snort, stepping into the light and raising her hands. It’s difficult to make out the features of her current business partners through the dark. The floodlight partially blinds her, making her squint through the illumination to even make out her surroundings. It might be the wind whistling past her ears, but she thinks she might’ve heard one of the two gasp.. Only once it’s apparently been ascertained that Annie is not a threat, Mikasa steps forward, also into the light, and offers a hand to shake.

Annie’s first thought is that Mikasa is an odd mixture of features. Not visually, of course. One would remark that she was actually very pretty. But it was the makeup of this prettiness that was amusing and somewhat perplexing to Annie. The girl had a noticeable scar on her cheek and a small, nearly imperceptible one on the bridge of her nose. Big, expressive eyes were framed under arched, angular brows. Her nose was small, almost buttonish, and her lips were just somewhere between plump and thin. They had a natural curl downwards, and her chin was rather pointed.

A mixture of severity and beauty. Hardness tempered by softness –��� not so much that it was overtaken, but so much so that any scariness that might’ve been evoked from features that typically entailed an unfriendly scowl was practically erased. It was, again, amusing.

They shake hands for a brief moment. Firm, eye contact, one pump. Mikasa’s companion remains in the shadows, and it’s only after their boss’s sharp look and a turn of her shoulder that they move forward too. A boy, maybe a centimeter or two taller than Mikasa. Annie ought to feel tiny in comparison.

Instead, she’s busy counting strike two, another sign of a bad leader. Your men are supposed to follow you without question. They shouldn’t require two gestures in order to move their asses to do your bidding. They shouldn’t question it, let alone openly rebel. She wonders briefly if Mikasa considers this action an embarrassment as a testament to her ability to command her people. If she doesn’t, then that’s just another thing to critique.

“Thank you for coming,” Mikasa says, though the words seem more like a formality than anything else. “It means a lot that you’re willing to compromise with us like this.”

Oh, what is this? A Hallmark card? Annie bites back the words. She regrets letting her true emotions flit across her face for a brief second; she hasn’t been doing anything resembling fieldwork in a long time, so can you blame her? “The pleasure’s all mine. There are more than a couple of people in the family who think this stupid war is useless and that it’s been dragged on for far too long.”

Well, there probably are, but she’s not privy to their identities, and it’s more than certain they’re not going to go out of their way to reveal themselves. They’re the minority and probably always will be. Perhaps people of better moral quality would feel bad for the trickery they’re enacting on an unsuspecting pair –– that’s actually debatable; the boy seems like he isn’t very trustworthy of Annie, which is smart of him –– but those people probably have looser attachments towards their family and are what society would construe as functioning, good people.

Annie is no such thing.

Mikasa nods, seemingly accepting her words. She turns and introduces the boy behind her. “This is my brother, Aaron.”

“Your bodyguard?” Annie says, and notes instantly the slight flash of indignation behind Mikasa’s eyes. A tell. Evidently, Mikasa Ackerman dislikes the implication that she’s incapable of defending herself. If Aaron could see this distaste, there’s a high probability that he would be offended. What, Mikasa doesn’t think him worthy of protecting her? Seeds of dissension to be planted in his mind, Annie supposes. Just another way to gut the Ackermans from the inside out. “Or just your brother, I guess. That’s fine.”

Aaron rolls his eyes, disinterest evident in his gaze. He doesn’t want to be here, evidently doesn’t approve. More information to be stored away later. Why a leader would bring someone unwilling to be with them as a secondary liaison (if not a bodyguard, what else would he be?) was beyond her. But maybe it was because Aaron was Mikasa’s brother. Family and all that. Who knows?

“I’d appreciate it if we got down to business,” Mikasa says instead. “We’re here to negotiate peace between the families. It’s better if we stay on topic.” She looks anxious –– her posture attempts to conceal it, crossed arms and mismatched feet, her right facing the wall beside her and her left pointing directly at Annie, but it doesn’t do anything but make her look like she’s trying to hide her nervousness. She has a thing or two to learn about body language. Annie could probably teach her.

(Wow, outrageous thought. She’s going to block that out now.)

“Of course,” Annie responds. Neither of them have any documentation to present, which doesn’t exactly spell out good things for an agreement of a ceasing of hostilities. Luckily, Annie has a photographic memory. Unluckily, Mikasa has no idea that the Leonharts have no intention of holding up their end of the bargain. “Where would you like to start?”

Mikasa purses her lips. “Districting. We know perfectly well how the Leonharts don’t like to toe the line, trying to edge their way into our territory. We’d appreciate it if you stop, and we’ll split the city sixty, forty.” The hardness of her eyes makes it clear: sixty us. “We keep out of your business, you keep out of ours. We have history in this city. We’d like to make sure it remains untainted.”

Harsh words. Annie can appreciate that. Maybe she’s misjudged her. “Fifty, fifty. There’s no need to be greedy, Ackerman. We can share.”

“Fifty-five, forty-five, or nothing else,” Mikasa says.

Ooh. Not one predisposed to bargaining. Not that it matters in the end, anyways. Annie could roll over and accept all of Mikasa’s terms, but that would more suspicious than rejecting a few of them. No Leonhart would ever allow themselves to be trampled all over like this. But agreeing with this compromise at least would give the Ackermans the illusion that they’re in control of this conversation. “Fine. In return, we want you out of arms. That’s our territory, and we’re planning to keep it that way.”

Both the Ackermans and Leonharts have Russian connections, and their shared patronage has led to a fair share of scamming on behalf of their foreign middlemen. They’ve had a few lessons to teach them, but the better way to be rid of the entire scheme is to force out the other party. Extortion, the family can live with. The Ackermans are better at combat; it’s better to draw from whatever businesses they can, because it isn’t very likely that they’ll be able to take out other ventures and bring them under their wing. Especially not that dim-sum place. Levi Ackerman’s favorite, if Annie recalls correctly, and she always does.

Mikasa considers this briefly. Aaron twitches, glaring daggers into his sister’s back. He wants her to say no, but she pays him no heed. She probably knows that looking back to get his opinion would make her seem weak. At least she’s conscious of that. “Deal,” Mikasa says finally, and Aaron looks like a taut bowstring about to snap.

If looks could kill… “We also want full control of the wine district. We’re fully aware of your history, but we have plenty of it there too. Gardening has never been our forté.” She notes the slight dissatisfaction in Aaron’s gaze. Again, negligible. All she has to do is win Mikasa over and her brother will follow suit. How odd that she’s never heard of him, though. Judging by the permanent angry scowl marring his features, though, she’s surmised the reason they don’t let him go outside very often.

There’s a brief look of consideration that flits across the other girl’s face. She doesn’t like it, and is considering the option of flat out refusing a demand, of how well that will sit with them. Annie fights back the urge to tap her foot impatiently. She doesn’t have all night, and these are supposed to be preliminary talks anyways. (Of course they are. No way would Mikasa Ackerman just allow this to be set in stone through word of mouth, only. What if one of them forgot? No, Kenny Ackerman and Levi Ackerman would never allow this to be the only course of action.)

Evidently making up her mind, Mikasa shakes her head. “I’m afraid that’s not something I can do,” she says. “We’ll be willing to offer up thirty-five percent of the cargo district instead.” That’s where the guns come in from, so it makes sense. If the Ackermans are going to back off from arms, all the better that they allow Leonharts easier access to them in addition.

Annie’s lips twitch. It’s a minute tick, a gesture of dissatisfaction, but one that comes and goes as quickly as a blink. “We’ll take it.” She pauses. “That’s all my end wanted to discuss before we put it all to paper. Anything else?”

Four deals isn’t exactly enough to constitute a truce; she supposes that their shared presence is enough to declare that they’ll be leaving each other alone for the time being.

“Actually, there is. We want you to stop dealing the serum to kids. In fact, we want you to stop dealing it at all.”

Ah, yes, the serum. One of the more controversial drugs on the market currently, both because of its users (which is an age range that spans several decades) and because it’s so strong. Which is, obviously, the reason why people like it. It’s enough to put people out for twelve hours. Annie wasn’t sure whose bright idea it was to start marketing it to minors –– freshmen in high school, really, and then their peers –– but it certainly did make them a lot of money. Kids couldn’t pay much, and their prices were low compared to what was offered to adults, but the accessibility of the serum made it an easy profit.

It ended up being one of the Leonharts’ biggest enterprises; she was a fool to think it wouldn’t be a topic they’d bring up. All of the criminal wealth was pooling somewhere, and it was likely that the Ackermans would’ve wanted a cut. She didn’t expect them to want to get rid of it entirely. That was a call she couldn’t make alone. If she agreed, then at least, for a little while, they’d have to wait a bit before dealing it, once the Ackermans were dealt with. Killing their leader now was too obvious, and Kenny and Levi Ackerman in combination were altogether too dangerous for them to take on once the whole family was out for vengeance. Which was why she was actively dealing with them instead of shooting Mikasa outright. Pretending to be friendly only to incite rebellion, a civil war that would hopefully destroy the whole thing.

Sneaky, but effective. And taking the serum off the shelves was obviously a council issue –– and if she knows the council as well as she thinks she does (knows, she knows she does), they’ll probably say no. Might as well cut out that middleman as well. It doesn’t seem like a clincher, so she feels confident enough to answer on their behalf.

“You can’t really ask us to cut off the largest portion of our profit, Ackerman,” she responds. “I’m afraid we can’t stop slinging the serum. Maybe stop dealing to kids under sixteen, but I definitely don’t think we can stop it all the way. Has it been causing you any problems?”

“Yes.” Mikasa isn’t the one who spoke; it was her companion. Annie hadn’t taken much note of him –– why would she? He’s just a henchman –– but it seems that the topic of conversation as made his hackles rise. His fists are clenched at his sides, teeth gritting and eyes fiery. “It has caused plenty of problems.”

“Then you should wean your men off of it,” she says dismissively. It’s an easy enough solution. “We can stop dealing to them, too, if you want. It’s really not that hard though. The detox may hit but after a week or two, they should be fine. We wanted it to be addictive, but it wouldn’t be impossible to get rid of. Just needs a bit of willpower.”

It evidently was not the right course of action.

“It’s hard to wean a dead person off drugs,” Aaron says lowly, “and who could ever tell their mother what to do, anyways?” Mikasa shoots him an apprehensive look. It’s not reprimanding, and it seems like she’s more concerned with his current mental well-being than anything else.

“Hardly anything. Especially if your dad also isn’t around to force her hand.” His eyes, a mix between hazel and gold, flare with rage. Barely contained, like it could snap at any moment. She could probably take him down, but it wouldn’t be a very good look if she did. “Hard for Maria City to recover when your dad isn’t there and his hospital staff is in shambles.”

All of a sudden, it hits her.

Annie’s eyes widen. Shit –– it wasn’t Aaron, it was Eren. The Ackermans’ little charity case. How could she have completely missed that? She underestimated the boy, that's how. The Ackermans had never referred to Eren as Mikasa’s brother before, and it makes sense –– he’s a Yeager, not an Ackerman by blood. She hadn’t considered he’d been adopted, and if he hadn’t, an unofficial one. It was slightly difficult to wrap the idea around in her head. To call someone unrelated to you ‘family.’ Friends, maybe, but never more than that.

Her mind races to find other ways to fix this, to chuckle and apologize and move the conversation forward. There’s so much more that she wants to arrange as further provisions for the Leonharts, more loopholes for them to abuse. She has a job to do, but it seems like this last statement might have cut this little project short.

Well. That’s one misstep she might never recover from.

Annie clears her throat. “I understand any personal stakes you may have in this, but the serum is still one of the biggest ways we make money, and ––”

“I think this negotiation is over,” Mikasa says, eyes narrowed.

Ah, fuck.

“We don’t have any intentions of working with you if you refuse to discontinue the serum, and this disinclination increases tenfold if you refuse to stop distributing it to all minors.” She speaks as though either of their occupations offer a sense of ethics. Like they’re ever doing the mostly-right thing.

Annie doesn’t have anything to rebuke Mikasa’s words with, not without sounding disingenuous. The Leonhart pride keeps her from scrambling to get back in Mikasa’s favor after a failed first attempt –– though, it apparently seems the Leonharts themselves will not be very pleased with this development.

At her silence, Mikasa, tosses her a disgusted look and spins on her heel. Somehow, even when pulling off such an ugly expression, Mikasa seems to be able to hold onto the impression of beauty. So ready she is, to turn her back on her pet project. Maybe it’s because of Eren’s influence. Annie remains silent, stricken.

Finally, she finds her words, “You can’t exactly stop us from getting the majority of our revenue, Ackerman.” Hoping to seem meek, she attempts, “The rest of our deal is still on, though, right?”

The absence of words is all that needs to be said.

“Mark my words,” Eren hisses as he stalks off, trotting behind his sister, “you’re going to regret this.”

Annie knows she will. It’s the first time she’s failed.

[itsworn]

Backstage Past Part 2: 1955

Pivotal.

A year that opened brightly with unprecedented prosperity, new-car horsepower, and interest in auto racing closed darkly in the wake of James Dean’s fatal highway crash and a rash of on-track tragedies. Newfound concern about vehicle safety would shape the American automotive industry in general, and motorsports in particular, in ways unimaginable before two-time-defending-champ Bill Vukovich died while leading the Indy 500 and a Grand Prix car mowed down more than 80 fans two weeks later in France. Future installments of this series will recall scrutiny by politicians and law enforcement, an industry-wide racing ban, secret factory skunkworks, and other effects felt well into the 1960s.

Magazines published by Trend Inc. had been documenting high performance on black-and-white film since Robert “Pete” Petersen and Bob Lindsay hatched HOT ROD in January 1948, followed soon by Motor Trend. Not until this year, though, did Pete—by now a sole owner—ask photographic director Bob D’Olivo to start retaining and organizing employees’ negatives after developing. The company’s early 1955 acquisitions of competitors Motor Life and Hop Up and absorption of their respective photographers instantly spiked the volume of incoming film. The simple logging-and-filing system D’Olivo implemented on March 27, 1955, grew into the vast photo archive that uniquely enables HOT ROD Deluxe to serve up so many milestone images. Oftentimes, we’re afforded the additional luxury of choosing an outtake to the published shot that some editor with the same choice—but far less time—picked, instead, in the heat of the moment and a deadline.

How telling that the first batch of film ever entered into the photo lab’s handwritten log book, director D’Olivo’s work at an amateur sports-car race, included four action frames of a Porsche Speedster that rated no picture or mention in Motor Trend’s event coverage. It would be another half-century before company archivist Thomas Voehringer came along to wonder, investigate, then confirm that the young driver smacking a hay bale in his competition debut was a little-known actor awaiting release of his first feature films, East of Eden and Rebel Without a Cause. Countless such surprises are sprinkled amongst approximately 3.5 million black-and-white needles in Robert E. Petersen’s photographic haystack. Unknown numbers of worthies will be discovered or rediscovered as our archive research progresses through the 1950s and into the ’60s. Whether by lucky chance or dogged digging, to unearth some previously unpublished image of lasting significance is to strike gold. We’ll be sharing that ore as we shovel it up, one year per episode.

Backstage Past follows the pictorial-heavy format of HRD’s preceding historical series (Golden Age of Drag Racing, 2014-’15; Power Struggles, 2015-’17), with some added value: personal snapshots taken by and of Petersen staffers roaming America with cameras, free film, and virtually unlimited access. Adult beverages might’ve been involved, too. Readers of a certain, ahem, maturity who followed their journeys once before will surely enjoy the shenanigans. You kids will want an app for traveling back in time. Don’t leave home without the magic Trend Inc. business card that seemingly opened every gate and door.

(Photo: Wally Parks)

Everything went Chevrolet’s way this year. The all-new, V8-equipped, hot-selling Chevy was selected to pace the Indianapolis 500, and the superstar nicknamed “Miss Chevrolet” was Indy’s most famous race queen ever. If your house had a TV set or even a radio in the 1950s, there was no escaping Dinah Shore singing, “See the USA/In your Chevrolet ….” Starting in 1951, she sang the so-called “Chevy Jingle” to a loyal audience of millions at both the beginning and end of her Emmy-winning NBC variety show, the first network show hosted by a female. Backed here by the Purdue University Band, she belted out “Back Home in Indiana” before the race, inviting the crowd to sing along to a second chorus, and gamely stuck around to kiss Bob Sweikert in the winner’s circle. (Photo: Ray Brock)

Yup, that thing’s got a Hemi in it: Tony Capanna’s Wilcap Co. swapped a little Red Ram Dodge into the Dean Van Lines Special (left) that finished second in the previous Indy 500 with Jimmy Bryan and an Offy aboard. Bryan and Bob Christie alternately practiced at qualifying speeds before blowing engines in the Hemi car that Motor Trend proclaimed “unmistakably the people’s choice.” The ambitious effort ended up against the wall on the warm-up lap for Christie’s lone qualifying attempt. When the fuel motor exploded, the rear wheels locked up and spun him into the wall. Bryan had slightly better luck in Al Dean’s conventional Kuzma-Offy (right), finishing 24th after dropping out with fuel-system problems. HRM photographer Eric Rickman’s regular “circuit” of L.A. shops gave him the familiarity that enabled such a candid shot of champ-car legends like (from left) engine builder Capanna; Hall of Fame chief mechanic Clint Brawner; sponsor Al Dean, who owned Dean Van Lines; and car builder Eddie Kuzma. Rick’s future road roommate, Tex Smith, wrote in his book that Rick enjoyed back-door access wherever he roamed, working quickly without wasting film. (See Inside Hot Rodding: The Tex Smith Autobiography; June ’55 HRM; Aug. ’55 Motor Trend, HRM, & Motor Life.)

Three rolls that Rickman logged into Petersen’s in-house lab on May 9, 1955, as “Thrifty Drug NHRA Show” mystified archive divers for decades. In our July 2010 issue, founding HRD editor David Freiburger published six pages of parking-lot pictures, including one showing NHRA’s third employee and Drag Safari organizer, Chic Cannon, with an L.A. sheriff’s deputy. Left unexplained were who organized the event, and why, and how a gathering of so many famous hot rods, race cars, sport specials, and especially customs apparently never made HRM or its sister magazines. In 2013, Cannon’s autobiography answered the first two questions: “Since I had some experience organizing car clubs, Wally gave me the position of [NHRA] National Club Advisor. My cousin, Art Crawford, was in marketing … and had Thrifty Drug Stores as a client of his. They were developing new shopping centers all over Southern California, and Art asked me to help promote the grand openings…. So in 1954 and ’55, I organized about a dozen car shows.” As for why at least two were thoroughly photographed on Petersen film but never made print, Chic’s insight leads us to suspect that Rick’s assignment came from NHRA president Wally Parks—not his HRM boss and editor, also named Wally Parks. Possibly the photo lab supplied sets of prints, only, to NHRA and/or Chic’s cousin for promotional purposes, while the negatives were filed, as usual, with the publishing company. Historian Greg Sharp recognized the Barris-built ’51 Mercs of Bob Hirohata and Dave Bugarin alongside Bob Dofflow’s ’50 Ford, all magazine-cover cars. Adds Sharp: “Dave Bugarin was from San Pedro, where I grew up. In the early 1960s, it sat forlornly in primer at a Signal gas station on Western Avenue. I wanted it in the worst way and could have bought it for $300. My dad simply said, ‘You’re not buying that car because I don’t want people to think that hoodlums live here!'” (See Chick Cannon’s Gone Racin’: From Horseback to Horsepower.)

Bill Vukovich, Indy’s two-time-defending champion (1953-’54), was a runaway favorite to three-peat right up to his fatal accident. He held the lead in 50 of the race’s first 56 laps and was cruising at a record average speed of 136-plus, 17 seconds ahead of his closest competitor, before the crash. Vuky led 486 of his last 800 laps at the Brickyard and an incredible 71.7 percent from 1952 to 1955. During time trials, tech editor Ray Brock took advantage of HRM’s pit-row access to capture a relaxed team of Jim Travers (leaning on windscreen), Jim Naim (in T-shirt), and Frank Coon (obscured behind them). Chief mechanics Travers and Coon, previously lakes racers with the Low Flyers of Santa Monica, partnered as the “TRA” and “CO” in TRACO Racing Engines. We can’t identify the onlookers on either end.       

Attempting to avoid a multicar wreck on the backstretch, Vukovich clipped rookie Johnny Boyd, catapulted over the wooden rail, and plowed into a parked truck, Jeep, and safety-patrol car. From all reports, he likely died before the flames erupted—one of six open-wheel AAA driver fatalities this year alone. HRM editor Wally Parks arrived with his camera right after the firemen. The American Automobile Association soon ended its long association with auto racing, creating a vacuum hastily filled by USAC the following year. (See Aug. ’55 Motor Trend, HRM, & Motor Life.)  

Los Angeles engine-builder Tony Capanna brought two baby Hemis to Indy, a nitro version for qualifying and a more-durable methanol combination for race day. Going by the severe destruction, we’d guess this to be the fuel motor that exploded on the warm-up lap leading to Bob Christie’s aborted qualifying attempt. Since Hemis were restricted to the same 270 ci as the powerful, race-bred Offys, Capanna rightly figured that the only replacement for displacement was nitromethane, and lots of it. Whereas an Offy team might add 10-to-15 percent to enhance qualifying chances or position, then run the race on straight methanol, Capanna calculated that his stock-block Dodge wanted 85-percent “pop” to produce comparable power. His autopsy determined that oil starvation, not “liquid horsepower,” was this engine’s downfall. (See June ’55 MT; July ’55 HRM; Aug. ’55 Motor Trend, HRM & Motor Life.)   

It’s been said that Robert E. Petersen eventually launched magazines about all of his hobbies. Two favorites were firearms and fishing, as illustrated by a sequence that Bob D’Olivo captured from a second boat. Lacking any back issues of Water World, we can’t say whether our gunslinging, shark-spearing leader subsequently showed up in print. 

Eric Rickman tripped his shutter just as everyone turned to check out the chopped coupe rumbling into the classic scene. The Drag Safari’s Deer Park, Washington, NHRA regional meet brought Petersen’s imbedded photographer into Spokane and the original Thrifty Auto Supply. Magnifying the background of this scan revealed two bystanders to be Safari leader Bud Coons (right) and announcer Bud Evans.

Not many hot rodders have influenced the hobby as much as the late Norm Grabowski, whose revolutionary roadster pickup costarred in the hit TV series 77 Sunset Strip and, together with Tommy Ivo’s much-publicized imitation, ignited the T-bucket craze. This B&W outtake from HRM’s Oct. ’55 cover story shows the reversed ’40 Ford spring hangers that pushed the ’37 Ford axle forward to clear the radiator. Norm also stretched the frame 5 inches in front to accommodate an Olds V8 boosted by a GMC supercharger, a rare sight on daily drivers of the era.

Besides being a brilliant engineer and technical writer, the late Racer Brown possessed a photographer’s eye. The relatively few rolls cranked through his futuristic 35mm Leica after D’Olivo started the archive contain clever compositions like this illusion of two guys working inside the engine compartment vacated by a severely set-back engine. Racer exposed three rolls on this July day at Paradise Mesa Drag Strip, near San Diego, but we’ve seen no magazine coverage.    

So, your kids and grandkids think that selfies were invented after the phone camera, huh? Rather than leave his last couple of frames blank, freelance contributor Ray Brock finished off a roll labeled “Installing Duals on a Chevrolet” with two mug shots sure to entertain the lab technicians back home. Photographers were known to prank one another by discreetly grabbing the other guy’s camera and capturing entertaining, if not downright embarrassing, subjects that only came to light during developing. Sometimes, mischievous lab workers secretly make prints that circulated through Trend Inc.’s internal mail system before the camera’s owner ever saw an image attributed to him. (The late Brock became HRM’s invaluable Detroit connection, officially joined the staff in late 1956 as research editor, and ultimately rose to the top of the masthead as publisher, twice.)

One of the rolls that Rick submitted from the Drag Safari’s stop in Elizabeth City, N.J., included the earliest image we’ve seen of the new or near-new ’55 Corvette that would become as familiar to HRM readers as any rod, custom, or race car. Sixty-three years later fellow travelers Bob D’Olivo and Chic Cannon both drew blanks about the purchase circumstances. So did Rick’s son, then living in Texas with his mother and sister. “Unfortunately, he never related the story of how or where he found it to me,” e-mailed Michael Rickman. “He looks so happy.”   

Would you believe a Cadillac with two billet Engle cams rotating inside aluminum castings bolted onto stock heads? When Ray Brock visited Tom Cobbs in July, the homemade combination was said to be fresh from spinning 6,000-plus rpm on Hilborn’s dyno. The crafty lakes racer proclaimed this to be the primary engine for his (ex-Pierson brothers’) fuel coupe at the upcoming Bonneville Nationals, backed up by a couple of proven Merc flatheads. However, we’ve found no published evidence that the OHC conversion ran there, or anywhere. (See Sept. ’55 HRM)

Either the OHC Caddy was merely a sophisticated diversion (unlikely) or Stu Hilborn changed Cobbs’ mind just before Bonneville by offering the Chevy V8 that Hilborn had been secretly developing for land-speed racing since receiving one of the earliest assemblies in 1954. Since touted as the first small-block modified specifically for record setting, the blown 265’s debut was spoiled by insufficient spark from three different magnetos. Racer Brown reported that high cylinder pressures produced by the 15-psi huffer overwhelmed the ignition above 4,500 rpm. Cobbs would hang onto the whole, historical setup for the rest of his life. His family sold the complete engine to collector Ralph Whitworth, who displayed it for several years in the office of his stillborn museum in Winnemucca, Nevada. Its whereabouts since Whitworth’s 2016 death are unknown. (See Nov. ’55 HRM; Dec. ’55 CC.)

Carl Kiekhaefer’s Hemi-powered heavyweights dominated both major stock-car circuits this year. While teammate Frank Mundy (not shown) was winning the AAA crown, NASCAR champ Tim Flock (right) was racking up a record 18 Grand National wins and 15 placings in 45 events, leading fully 40 percent of his laps. He and big-brother Truman Fontello Flock (left) are pictured in Darlington’s pits prior to the Southern 500 (Nov. ’55 MT). “Fonty” had taken the Grand National title in 1947, the final season of Bill France’s National Championship Stock Car Circuit. Their older brother, Bob, had a brief-but-spectacular career (36 starts, four wins, 11 top fives, 18 top 10s) that was ended by a broken back. All three siblings are NASCAR Hall of Famers. A sister, Ethel, also made history by running more than 100 Modified events, including two NASCAR shows. In a July 1949 race on Daytona’s beach course featuring all four siblings, she finished 11th in a ’49 Cadillac, ahead of both Bob and Fonty (Tim was second). All told, the family started 379 NASCAR races and earned 230 top-10 finishes.

Whoever aimed Rickman’s camera at Petersen’s crew certainly caught Bob D’Olivo (left) and Wally Parks (center) by surprise, while Rick himself (second from the left) looks bemused. Car Craft editor and future PPC executive Dick Day is on the far right. Wally evidently gathered the all-star editorial team to present HRM’s huge Sportsmanship Award to Don Schleicher for doing an unknown good deed during the Kansas portion of NHRA’s rain-interrupted National Drags. 

The little kid dressed up like an airman and pretending to accept the NHRA Nationals Top Eliminator trophy is none other than LeRoi “Tex” Smith, USAF fighter pilot. Subsequent civilian careers with HRM and NHRA started with flying into bases near Drag Safari meets and assisting track setup and tech inspection. An appreciative Safari team affectionately dubbed the volunteer “Boy Lieutenant” and “Lieutenant Fuzz.” After separating from the service, he was recruited for HRM by editor Parks in 1957. He remained at the forefront of hot rodding and automotive publishing right up to his death in 2015, the same year that his long-awaited life story appeared (Inside Hot Rodding: The Tex Smith Autobiography).

Drag racing’s first national showdown and NHRA’s first four-day event was less the overnight success that the Trend Inc. monthlies would have readers believe than an “overnightmare” in Kansas. Drag News reported that the bumpy tarmac of Great Bend Municipal Airport caused so many drivetrain failures during the September 29-30 time trials that NHRA officials spent Friday night supervising a partial repaving. Overnight Saturday and throughout Sunday, the meet was drowned by what HRM called the area’s “worst rainstorm in 30 years.” Faced with an extended forecast for more of the same, and with only the Dragster class winner and overall Top Eliminator yet to be determined amongst all-Western cars, Wally Parks made the controversial call to postpone the meet’s conclusion to November 19-20—in Arizona, 1,000 miles away (thus the two-part event coverage in the Dec. ’55 and Feb. ’56 HRM).

If the facade seems familiar, yet you never saw this massive Los Angeles building, close copies of its tailfin-inspired towers greet visitors to Disney parks in both Florida and California. Inside the Pan-Pacific Auditorium, this Olds-powered custom won the Street Roadster class at Bob Petersen’s 1955 Motorama. Greg Sharp advised that owner-builder Hanky Rootlieb became a pioneer manufacturer of reproduction sheetmetal for early Fords. The company still operates in California. Not so the Pan-Pacific, whose 100,000 square feet made it the world’s largest inhabited wooden structure. The building was L.A.’s main venue for indoor events from 1935 until 1972, when it was displaced by a bigger convention center and abandoned by all but squatters. For the next 17 years, the property’s fate was debated by politicians, developers, and preservationists. Nothing got resolved until May 1989, when a fire blamed on a transient consumed the 54-year-old building. The site ultimately became Pan-Pacific Park, instantly identifiable by a scaled-down tailfin tower atop its recreation center. (See Aug. ’56 HRM.)      

If this outtake seems familiar, it’s because the frame is similar to others on possibly the most-reproduced, most-ripped-off roll of images in an archive bursting with approximately 8.5 million individual negatives and transparencies. Adding insult to personal injury, Bob D’Olivo’s portraits of Kenneth Howard, aka Von Dutch—with and without a flute—in this goofy setting are too often either uncredited or miscredited to D’Olivo’s internal, eternal arch-rival, Eric Rickman.  

Rickman got Von Dutch to strike a variety of poses in front of L.A.’s Competition Body Shop, wherein the cantankerous artist had set up shop. Humorous images from Rick and his boss, photographic director Bob D’Olivo, were combined in the Feb. ’56 CC, a package that began with editor Dick Day’s humorous column about assigning the accompanying interview to unsuspecting writer Jack Baldwin, who’d never heard of Von Dutch—and never got a straight answer to his prepared questions. 

The late Racer Brown never left home without his Cross ballpoint pen and a slide rule, recalled D’Olivo, his colleague, close pal, and soon-to-be racing partner in Corvette’s first national-championship season (see July ’16 HRM). Few folks outside of the company suspected that HRM’s longtime tech editor belonged to an extremely wealthy family and never needed to work. After leaving the publishing business, he found more success as a racing camgrinder. 

New-car road tests don’t always end happily. Incriminating evidence occasionally turns up in the archive (though never in back issues). HRM’s Brock raced fast American iron on the sand in Florida, on the salt flats, and on dragstrips without crashing, but he met his match in this 11.7ci (191cc), 9.9hp Messerschmitt. The German wartime aircraft manufacturer’s tricky, airplane-style steering bar swiveled side to side to turn the 4.00-8 front tires. These tandem-passenger three-wheelers weighed just 507 pounds and became fairly common in Competition Coupe/Sedan classes, whose liberal rules allowed any production body, imports included. 

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[mythandritual]

"You Can Hear Someone's World View Through Their Guitar." An Interview with Josh Rosenthal of Tompkins Square Records

This interview originally appeared at North Country Primitive on 11th March 2016

Josh Rosenthal's Tompkins Square Records, which has recently celebrated its tenth anniversary, has become somewhat of an institution for music fans, thanks to Josh's consistent championing of American Primitive guitar, the old, weird America and various other must-hear obscurities he has managed to pluck from the ether. Not content with running one of the best record labels on the planet, he is now also an author, and about to go out on tour with various musicians from the wider Tompkins Square family in support of his new book, The Record Store of the Mind. We caught up with him this week and pestered him with a heap of questions - our thanks to Josh for putting up with us.

Congratulations on The Record Store of the Mind – it’s an absorbing and entertaining read. Has this project had a long gestation period? How easily does writing come to you - and is it something you enjoy doing? It certainly comes across that way...

Thanks for the kind words. I don't consider myself a writer. I started the book in November 2014 and finished in May 2015, but a lot of that time was spent procrastinating, working on my label, or getting really down on myself for not writing. I could have done more with the prose, made it more artful. I can't spin yarn like, say, your average MOJO writer. So I decided early on to just tell it straight, just tell the story and don't labour over the prose.

I particularly like how you mix up memoir, pen portraits of musicians, and snippets of crate digger philosophy... was the book crafted and planned this way or was there an element of improvisation - seeing where your muse took you? And is there more writing to follow?

If I write another book, it'd have to be based around a big idea or theme. This one is a collection of essays. As I went on, I realised that there's this undercurrent of sadness and tragedy in most of the stories, so a theme emerged. I guess it's one reflective of life, just in a musical context. We all have things we leave undone, or we feel under-appreciated at times. I wasn't even planning to write about myself, but then some folks close to me convinced me I should do. So you read about six chapters and then you find out something about the guy who's writing this stuff. I intersperse a few chapters about my personal experience, from growing up on Long Island in love with Lou Reed to college radio days to SONY and all the fun things I did there. Threading those chapters in gives the book a lift, I think.

Tell us a bit about the planned book tour. You’ve got a mighty fine selection of musicians joining you on the various dates. I imagine there was no shortage of takers?

I'm really grateful to them all. I selected some folks in each city I'm visiting, and they all are in the Tompkins Square orbit. Folks will see the early guitar heroes like Peter Walker, Max Ochs and Harry Taussig and the youngsters like Diane Cluck, one of my favourite vocalists. You can't read for more than ten minutes. People zone out. So having music rounds out the event and ties back to the whole purpose of my book and my label.

It’s clear from the book that you haven’t lost your excitement about uncovering hidden musical gems. Any recent discoveries that have particularly floated your boat?

I'm working with a couple of guys on a compilation of private press guitar stuff. They are finding the most fascinating and beautiful stuff from decades ago. I've never heard of any of the players. Most are still alive, and they are sending me fantastic photos and stories. I have been listening to a lot of new music now that Spotify is connected to my stereo system! I love Kaitlyn Aurelia Smith. Her new one is out soon. I like Charlie Hilton's new album too.

Any thoughts on the vinyl resurgence and the re-emergence of the humble cassette tape?

Vinyl has kept a lot of indie record stores in business, which is a great development. As a label, it's a low margin product, so that's kind of frustrating. If you're not selling it hand over fist, it can be a liability. The model seems to be - make your physical goods, sell them as best you can within the first four months, and then let the digital sphere be your warehouse. I never bought cassettes and have no affinity for them, or the machines that play them.

Turning to Tompkins Square, did your years working for major labels serve as a good apprenticeship for running your own label? Did you have a clear idea of what you wanted the label to look like from the outset or has the direction its taken developed organically over time?

Working for PolyGram as a teenager and then SONY for 15 years straight out of college was formative. I like taking on projects. My interests and the marketplace dictate what I do. I've always felt like the label does me instead of vice versa. For example, the idea of releasing two, three or four disc sets of a particular genre served me well, but now it feels like a very 2009 concept. It doesn't interest me much, and the commercial viability of that has diminished because it seems the appetite for those types of products has diminished.

Working in relatively niche genres in the current music industry climate can’t be the safest or easiest way to make a living. Is there a sense sometimes that you’re flying by the seat of your pants?

We're becoming a two-format industry - streaming and vinyl. The CD is really waning and so is the mp3. The streaming pie is growing but it's modest in terms of income when you compare it to CD or download margins at their height. I don't really pay much mind to the macro aspects of the business. I just try to release quality, sell a few thousand, move on to the next thing, while continuing to goose the catalogue. The business is becoming very much about getting on the right playlists that will drive hundreds of thousands of streams. It's the new payola.

American Primitive and fingerstyle guitar makes up a significant percentage of Tompkins Square releases, going right back to the early days of the label – indeed, it could be said that you’ve played a pivotal role in reviving interest in the genre. Is this a style that is particularly close to your heart? What draws you to it?

Interest in guitar flows in and out of favour. There are only a small number of guitarists I actually like, and a much longer list of guitarists I'm told I'm SUPPOSED to like. Most leave me cold, even if they're technically great. But I respect anyone who plays their instrument well. Certain players like Harry Taussig or Michael Chapman really reach me - their music really gets under my skin and touches my soul. It's hard to describe, but it has something to do with melody and repetition. It's not about technique per se. You can hear someone's world view through their guitar, and you can hear it reflecting your own.

You’ve reintroduced some wonderful lost American Primitive classics to the world – by Mark Fosson, Peter Walker, Don Bikoff, Richard Crandell and so on. How have these reissues come about? Painstaking research? Happy cratedigging accidents? Serendipity? Are there any reissues you’re particularly proud of?

They came about in all different ways. A lot of the time I can't remember how I got turned on to something, or started working with someone. Peter was among the first musicians I hunted down in 2005, and we made his first album in 40 years. I think Mark's cousin told me about his lost tapes in the attic. Bikoff came to me via WFMU. Crandell - I'm not sure, but In The Flower of My Youth is one of the greatest solo guitar albums of all time. I'm proud of all of them !

Are there any ‘ones that got away’ that you particularly regret, where red tape, copyright issues, cost or recalcitrant musicians have prevented a reissue from happening? Any further American Primitive reissues in the pipeline you can tell us about – the supply of lost albums doesn’t seem to be showing signs of drying up yet…

Like I said, this new compilation I'm working on is going to be a revelation. So much fantastic, unknown, unheard private press guitar music. It makes you realise how deep the well actually is. There are things I've wanted to do that didn't materialise. Usually these are due to uncooperative copyright owners or murky provenance in a recording that makes it unfit to release legitimately.

You’ve also released a slew of albums by contemporary guitarists working in the fingerstyle tradition. How do you decide who gets the Tompkins Square treatment?  What are you looking for in a guitarist when you’re deciding who to work with? And what’s the score with the zillions of James Blackshaw albums? Has he got dirt on you!?

It takes a lot for me to sign someone. I feel good about the people I've signed, and most of them have actual careers, insofar as they can go play in any US or European city and people will pay to see them. I hope I've had a hand in that. I did six albums with Blackshaw because he's one of the most gifted composers and guitarist of the past 50 years. He should be scoring films. He really should be a superstar by now, like Philip Glass. I think he's not had the right breaks or the best representation to develop his career to its full potential. But he's still young.

Imaginational Anthems has been a flagship series for Tompkins Square from the beginning. The focus of the series seems to have shifted a couple of times – from the original mixture of old and new recordings to themed releases to releases with outside curators. Has this variation in approach been a means by which to mix it up and keep the series fresh? Are you surprised at the iconic status the series has achieved?

I don't know about iconic. I think the comps have served their purpose, bringing unknowns into the light via the first three volumes and introducing some young players along the way. Cian Nugent was on the cover of volume 3 as a teenager. Daniel Bachman came to my attention on volume 5, which Sam Moss compiled. Sam Moss' new album is featured on NPR just today! Steve Gunn was relatively unknown when he appeared on volume 5. There are lots more examples of that. I like handing over the curation to someone who can turn me on to new players, just as a listener gets turned on. It's been an amazing experience learning about these players. And I'm going to see a number of IA alums play on my book tour : Mike Vallera, Sam Moss, Wes Tirey - and I invited Jordan Norton out in Portland. Never met him or saw him play. He was fantastic. Plays this Frippy stuff.

What’s next for you and Tompkins Square?

I signed a young lady from Ireland. Very excited about her debut album, due in June. I'm reissuing two early 70's records by Bob Brown, both produced by Richie Havens. Beautiful records, barely anyone has heard them.