#he looks straight down that camera lens and said *i am a dangerous woman*

[bluestjayy]

Some artists: change the pronouns in their covers of songs to no homo their way through a performance

Jeff Satur: let me tell you what a dangerous woman I am

[damn-stark]

Wait

Diego Hargreeves x Fem!reader

A/N- I’m sorry if theirs some misspelling I literally just finished this and wanted to release it right away to post a request today. ALSO, I combined the two requests because they were about the same, hope you all don’t mind :)

Requested by anon “Are you still taking requests? If so, could you maybe do a reader x Diego one, where reader is dying and is just trying to hang on long enough for Diego to reach them so they can say goodbye?” (And since they’re like the same request I decided to add both together, hope you all don’t mind :) “I was wondering, if you're still taking requests, if you'd maybe do a Diego x Reader, where the reader gets put in danger because of Diego's vigilantism, and they almost die/do die?”

Warning- ANGST, violence, use of some derogatory names (swearing), light fluff and just pure sadness (you guys asked for it :/) talks of blood.

———-

‘Meet me tomorrow at our usual spot, at our usual time.’

Staring at the note in your hand and then at your watch one last time you ball the paper in your hand and shove it in your pocket, putting down what could be your hundredth cup of tea ever since you entered the damned place to wait for the boyfriend you had that was never in time.

Usually you forgave thirty minutes because you knew that his “line of work” held him up most of the time but taking two hours was unlike him. There could be the chance he was on his way. But he did state that today he wasn’t going to be held up by usual activities. Maybe—no.

Maybe you were just an idiot waiting for someone who had forgotten and just left you here. Hmph.

Pushing your chair back you stand from it and finally choose to leave, walking out into the cold with your arms crossed on your chest and an angry scowl twisted onto your features, cursing Diego under your breath and going clueless at the fact that someone had begun to follow after you, that more than one person had began to trial you. Feeling almost a steam of smoke come out of your ears and rise from your head at how angry you currently were at Diego, at how he didn’t even try and call to say he was not going to come at all. He just left you alone without a word.

“Hey, care to spare some change for a hungry woman.” An older woman suddenly said from her spot on the ground, making you lose your train of thought to stop and look at the tin can she had raised your way. A sunken look featured on her face and an exhausted smile on her face.

You nod and try to copy her smile, but yours is more feigned than her was, regardless you grab your bag and zip it open to take out what she requested, reaching your hand to drop it, but before the dollar bill could drop on the can, a wet cloth went over your mouth and arms wrapped around your neck. The sudden feeling surprised you causing a late reaction that cost your body to give in to the sudden darkness your unconsciousness brought. Managing only soft groan before nothing.

——

(Previous day)

“You’re finally on time today, what a lovely surprise.” You say with a grin, turning around to walk back to your couch, plopping yourself back on the comforts of your spot before grabbing the bag of snacks from the coffee table.

Diego takes his shoes off and throws them to the side, removing his jacket and lazily putting it on the coat hanger by the door before rushing to jump on the empty seat next to you, showing you a smile before laying down to rest his head on your lap—“I had to make an exception for you.”

You chuckle, “so you let yourself have a night off from being a vigilante? Did you tell the criminals. ‘Hey! Not today, I’m busy, but we can proceed tomorrow.”

Diego’s shoots you pointed look, his smile contrasting the annoyance he was trying to show off; “exactly. But actually tomorrow I plan to have a day off too.”

“Oh?” You ríase your eyebrow and shoot him a questioning look as you grab a snack from the bag and put it in your mouth, “what’s the occasion?”

“You.”

You laugh and shake your head, swallowing down your food before replying, “really? Taking a night off from being Batman to be with me?”

“Always.” He lifts his hand and takes yours to place a folded piece of paper on your palm, “I thought I wasn’t going to make it in time today so I planned leaving a note, but here we are and I didn’t want to let a good written note go to waste.”

Letting out an amused huff of air you unfold the paper and read the words, ‘Meet me tomorrow at our usual spot, at our usual time.’

“Ah, my boyfriend the poet, your words are so moving and kind. This note is going to make me cry.” Regardless of your teasing you lean down and press a kiss on his forehead, receiving a brighter smile from said man.

“I knew you’d like it.” He joked, his eyes widening as if he had seen something utterly terrifying. He sat up quickly and shoving his hands into his pocket, a relief sigh leaving his lips as he seemed to be content with what he found.

“You lose something, knife boy?”

He shook his head and just smirked, “I-I just thought I had lost my keys that’s all.” He moved back to rest on his previous position before taking your hand in his once more to interlace it with his.

You blink, “I thought you were going after that one gang the police still couldn’t track down?”

“Yeah,” he agrees, “but like I said just you and me tomorrow. If you’re up for it of course?”

You grin and lean down to press a kiss on his lips this time before whispering softly, “of course.”

——

Your eyes flutter open and the moment your vision clears you’re welcomed by bright and harsh lights that hang from above; you groan and lull your head to the side, noticing people behind a window, seeming to be arguing amongst themselves until the same woman from before notices you awake and stops them to come out of their office.

“Well, well,” one of them taunts while he moves towards you, his hands going to his hips before he crouch’s down to be on your level before you. “If it isn’t Hargreeves favorite girl.”

“Why are you surprised if you're the ones that took me.” You snap back. “I’m not even going to bother asking where I am, cause you’re not going to tell me. Typical.”

The man with the deep grey eyes shoots you a glare before a cruel smile curls onto his lips, “such a smart girl, no wonder our hero likes you so much.” He stands up and walks over to a table by the window, picking up a phone to press a couple buttons before putting it up to his ear. “It’s okay, you can lead him over here now, we have his girl.” His eyes never leave from your sitting figure as he finishes talking, setting down the phone whilst he leaned on the table. “I will tell you why you’re here though, just so you know why to blame your cop wanna be boyfriend.”

You huff and try to move your arms as the raspy material around your wrists seems to feel loose.

“Your boy has gotten too far up in our business and I don’t like it.” He seethed.

Your eyebrows furrow and a taunting and dangerous smirk tugs at the corner of your lips, “maybe you should be better at hiding then.” The man’s hand instantly slams the on the top of the wooden table while his other one goes to the gun holstered at his side. Ripping it out and shooting in a blink of an eye to the cement floor, the sound echoing the white room that seemed to be a warehouse of some kind.

“You better shut your mouth you little bitch, you might think this is a game but trust me it isn’t. Your stupid boyfriend is going to pay for shoving his nose in what doesn’t concern him.”

You swallow thickly and let your head drop while also still squirming your hands around to loosen the restraints around your wrists. Hearing but ignoring the footsteps approaching you until the same lady from before yanked your head up by your hair and made you look into her green eyes. “While we wait for precious number two, why don’t we make him a nice film.” She tilts your head down to make you look straight forward at a camera some other goon was positioning a few feet before you, his finger moving inches from the lens to press a button that made a red light go off.

“Okay.” The lady begins loudly, flipping her dark black her back to smile at the camera and pull a small silver knife out of her pocket. A knife you recognized as Diego’s; “I’ve grown tired of you coming in my business, number two. I’ve warned you time after time and you just don’t seem to get a hint!” She snickers and moves the knife to your face, straightening your head as you begin to move it away. “I didn’t want to do this, but you’ve left me no choice….” she pauses and then looks at you, shooting you a wicked smile before she presses the sharp blade to the side of your head just above the tip of your ear and slowly slides the blade down to the tip of your cheekbone. Creating a gash that made you let out a pained cry that made tears roll doesn’t down your cheeks.

“Ahhh!”

The woman chuckles and offers you a feigned sympathetic look, “Just one more.”

You try to squirm away, panting quietly as you try to move your restrained hands faster, having your efforts slow the moment she moves the blade to the other side of your face to press the tip of the blade on the top of your eyebrow and slid it down a couple inches to make a small slit. This cut wasn’t as painful but it still made your eyes shut firmly and more tears to roll down, making the woman smile and finally pull away, dropping your head to let it hang as she moved to the camera to speak words you didn’t catch as you felt the restraints fall off your wrists. Making a proud smile grow on your features before you jumped to your feet, ignoring the pain on your face and lifting the chair to throw it at the woman.

The men around instantly pulled out their guns at the sound of her yelp, but she signaled them to stay put, all of them not hesitating to do so—Noticing that slight fact you stride towards her and in a hasty move reach for the gun in her holster, finding to have trouble as her hands fell on yours to begin to fight for the hold, in that moment dropping the knife that was in her hand. Your eyes widen as the knife clinks on the ground, letting go of the gun to quickly pick up the object, noticing from the corner of your eye that she was quick to put up a fight by kicking you down.

“Ahh, fuck!” Your jaw drops to let out a couple of pained grunts, trying to shove the pain aside to slide your hand over to the blade, feeling in a matter of seconds her boot stomp on your hand. “You stupid bitch!” Using your other hand you grab her leg and yank her down, the move making her back land on your hand, but also making it easier for you to snatch the knife.

Just as you’re about to stab her arm, she rolls over to climb on top of you, beginning to wrestle for the object in hand, neither of you gaining the upper hand while also multitasking and reaching for her gun—“fuck you!” You growl, throwing your head forward and hitting her forehead hard, making her slightly fumble back but not removing her hands from either object and instead pulling out the gun the same time you did.

The woman smiles and digs her knee into your stomach, making you yell in pain and unintentionally losing your grip on the knife. Allowing her to swing her hand to the side and cut your cheek, making you let out another pained yelp.

You wanted to react more and just stop but you knew you couldn’t, you had to keep fighting. So you did; just as she thought she was going to win the gun, you got ahold of it first and swung it across her face, making her roll off your body and groan loudly, her hand flying to her wounded area—using her distraction you crawled to be above her head to lift it and threaten her with the gun in front of her goons, but as you tried she threw her hand back and the blade in hand Impaled your stomach. Instantly making your movements freeze and for the weapon in your hand to drop to the ground.

Your hands go to your new wound and the woman presses the knife deeper into your flesh, making you cry out and collapse to the floor, gasping softly for air to hit your lungs.

The woman's footsteps are heard walking beside you, her evil green eyes blinking and her head tilting to the side before a cold smile grows on her face. “Well, I was only planning to maybe let you live and just have some fun with you, but I like this outcome better. Shows a stronger message, don’t you think?”

You glare up at her and just spit in her face, earning feigned chuckle from her before she crouched down and stabbed the blade in you one more time, moving her head so her lips were by your ear to whisper. “If you see Diego, tell him that I don’t want to see him anymore, get it, honey?”

You tilt your head away and just ignore her, hearing her chuckle one last time before she stands up and orders her people to move out, leaving you spread on the floor with thick crimson red blood pooling around you. Feeling your heart beat slower and slower inside your chest, hearing your breathing begin to sound shallow and slow. Noticing your eyes are quick to get heavy.

Time was coming to an end, that much you figured out, unless someone just magically appeared and brought a couple doctors with them—it was wishful thinking, but you still hoped, somewhat. Even if you felt everything begin to numb to the point you couldn’t feel anything you held hope, perhaps not for the magical doctors, but for Diego. To at least see him once more before everything faded into internal darkness.

They did say to lead him here after all, so that wish wasn’t so far stretched as the other….right?—A violent cough suddenly escaped you, making you roll to your side to spit out the warm metallic liquid that rose up in your lungs. Noticing more blood stain the grey floors and spill all over your hands. Great—you fall back down on your back and take in a shaky breath, feeling warm tears roll down your cheek and hearing the door slam open.

Footsteps rush forward and come to a stop—now you would have tried to see who it was but even thinking of the effort was too hard, everything was beginning to feel hard, even breathing. So you instar you waited and heard as the mysterious newcomer stood frozen for a moment until you hear their loud footsteps rush forward, stopping once more but this time letting out a gasp and running towards you.

You blink to look at the feeling of someone fall to your side, instantly seeing the familiar face of Diego, his eyes already clouded with tears.

“I’m here. I’m here.” Without waiting more, his hands looped under your head and under your shoulders, lifting you up so you could rest in his arms. “I-I’ve got t-t-this, I can-can take you so th-th-th-they can help you. I-I’ve got you. I can-can help.”

You smile softly and reach to cup his cheek, wiping the tears off his cheeks and whispering to him, “no, it’s okay, I got to see you, just don’t leave me, okay?”

Diego shook his head and exhaled shakily, moving one blood covered hand to cradle your cheek, “no. No. P-p-please no.” He swallowed thickly and rested his forehead on yours, “I’m go-go-go-going to save you. Hold…...on.”

“Diego...please.” You cry softly, shaking your head to put down his suggestion, knowing and feeling that it was a matter of seconds now. “I love you, so much.”

Diego let out a sob and cradled your body closer to his, leaving a wet but soft kiss on your lips before stuttering out his reply. “I-I….I love you.”

You grin and keep your eyes on him as your vision begins to dim, feeling your hand slowly slide off his cheek, and feeling your breath slow down until you fall into a peaceful and internal darkness….

[dragonrajafanfiction]

Trade Secrets

While Mr. Baldwin and Captain Foli had their little chat, Dofi, made his way back the way he came, hands in his pockets a smile on his face. His soft footsteps were made softer by his gleaming black patent leather shoes. 

The hall was quiet and empty. The crew was in the middle of a shift change. There were four shifts. Morning, starting at 8 am and lasting until 2 pm. Then 2 pm to 8 pm then 8 pm to 2 am and 2 am to 8 am, called the Red Eye shift.. 

The midnight shifts were the smallest in the crew, and the Red Eye shift was often the slowest to wrest themselves from their beds so for a precious few minutes, Aido-Hwedo fell quiet. There was no one to hear when those leather shoes seemed to shimmer, as if losing focus and converting into stunning heels. The well pressed leather pants turned into a mesh of fishnet stocks wrapped around curving calves and topped with an A-line skirt.

HIs jacket and shirt changed shape as his body converted into an hourglass figure, his facial features softened and his eyelashes lengthened. The only thing that didn’t grow was his short cropped wiry curls. It wasn’t unusual for both men and women on the ship to keep hair clipped short.

Such a disguise couldn’t have been performed even by the most veteran spy, because it was more than just a trick of make up or acting.

Soul Skill: Mirage!

When he approached the women’s dorm area, the cameras fixed on him. Even the cameras couldn’t decode his ability.  It was a trick of the light. Light entered the field of his dragon speech and returned to the eye of the beholder and the lens of the camera, bent and distorted by his will. 

He walked through the halls until he came to the area where the mystery woman was staying. Two guards were posted outside her door armed with two rifles but he didn’t mind it. They were both accomplices to this mission. They opened the door for him without a word and he walked inside.

Two other women were there, seated on the top bunk beds, facing one another. On the left, a woman with bright golden eyes quietly whispered to herself in an endless stream of words. She stared eyes empty towards the other woman, not seeing her. Her whispering intensified and a bead of sweat rolled down her face. She gripped the mattress next to her legs. Her breathing accelerated.

Dofi paused, watching her carefully. This was Maria, and Maria was capable of putting anyone within five hundred feet of her into a coma without breaking a sweat like this. Yet, here she was visibly struggling. Dofi’s brow knitted and he looked down at the woman who was under her spell, sleeping quietly in her pajamas. This was no ordinary Cassell Student.

Captain Foli was warned by the Council of Elders of the likelihood that Cassell would bring in a secret weapon from the College. They never forgot their encounter with Anjou. They said that he was sniffing around like a hyena, smelling blood, but not finding the carcass. The West Africans had a vast bounty and he had picked up on it. He was looking for it. His arrival sent a shiver up all their spines and they couldn’t come out of their covert hiding places for years. Only after the breath of life left that man, could he finally move.

Now Dofi would see this secret. 

He held out his hand and the unoccupied woman gave him a pair of latex gloves. Working quickly, he picked up her hand, found a vein and inserted a needle. Bright red blood jetted into a small glass tube, which he handed to the woman.

He looked down at this strange young girl with her delicate features, smooth skin and almond eyes. Her face was ringed by those shiny dark curls. His fingers traced her hand where a ring should be, but was conspicuously absent.

The woman on the upper bunk topped the vial with a small eye dropper and held it over what appeared to be a copper plate, swirled with gold and green and etched with a five sided symbol. At each of the five sides was an aspect of the draconic elemental wheel. The droplets of blood fell and moved about the plate as though pulled by magnetism. The woman watched the drops of blood wander aimlessly before finally settling in a pool at the center.

“There is no resonance.”

Dofi lifted his head and looked straight at her. Growling low like a lion, despite his female appearance, he said. “Test it again.”

The woman didn’t change expression, but gently tapped the bottom of the plate. The drops of blood wandered a bit before settling again in the center.

“No resonance.”

“Are they accepting humans at Cassell College? Maria, make her talk. Who are her parents?”

Maria gasped, staring at the far wall. “Ch-... Chu… Zihang.  Chu… Meixiu.”

The woman on the bunk put the plate aside and picked up a less esoteric piece of technology, a small laptop. She typed away and while she did, no one spoke or moved.

Dofi sat still as a stone, glowering at this mystery girl. He’d lived too long and fought too hard for Cassell to stab them in the back at the last second. They were a mystery and unknown to the world of Hybrids. Did Mr. Baldwin think he could eliminate them in the middle of the sea with no one to take revenge?

“Chu Zihang was an Ace Commissioner in Cassell College, President of Lionheart, until his retirement. Chu Meixiu was Ace Commissioner in Cassell College, President of Club-S until her retirement. Her name is Chu Ru'Yi, a first year student. Born at Cassell College. There are no state records of her existence. There are no state records of her mother’s birth. She was a found child. Her mother was officially adopted at Cassell at age 16. Her father’s state records are thin. Only listing a mother and an adopted son. His father’s information has no state records.”

“Is Cassell a nursery now? Do they have a breeding program? What more can you find out?”

“I will need to take more time.” She looked down at him. “If you’re asking me to hack Norma.”

“How can the daughter of two Ace Commissioners be sterile of Dragonblood? Maria, ask her about her spiritual speech.”

The golden eyed girl gripped the mattress and stared. She panted as though drowning, gasping for air. She grit her teeth and grunted. “Can’t.”

“Can’t what?” He asked slowly, his eyes widening in barely contained fury.

“I can’t… I can’t tell you. I can’t …” The woman’s eyes moved to him. “I can’t push it. If she resists, she might break free of me.”

The amount of power needed to break free from Maria had to have been insane. Dofi began to feel real fear. They had to have a counter to a weapon as dangerous as this, but how could they counter something they had no information on? “Push it!”

Just as he spoke, the phone rang. It wasn’t a cell phone but the room phone. Dofi got up and walked to the phone and picked up. He didn’t have to ask who it was. He knew who was calling this room. “Brother, she has to be an extremely high level hybrid. Maria can hardly keep her down.”

Foli’s voice came over the phone. “Stop the inquiry.”

Dofi was so shocked that his illusory disguise wavered. “Why?” He snarled.

“I’ve changed my mind. I’ve decided to trust Mr. Baldwin.”

Dofi was speechless for a moment. “You don’t understand. This woman is powerful.” He hissed into the phone. “We don’t know what she’s capable of! She might kill us all here!”

“I don’t believe that will happen any more.” His brother said. His voice was calm. Unwavering. “Stop the inquiry.”

Dofi’s hand trembled as he hung up the phone. “Pack it up. We’re stopping the inquiry.”

The two women quickly gathered their things and hid them in spaces in the wall. They were supposed to just be her roommates for the night. No one else on the ship knew they would be interrogating her.

Dofi stood a few more moments, staring at the phone. Was his brother brainwashed? Mr. Baldwin went in alone. That man did not have the Soul Skill for brainwashing. This couldn’t be right. He strode quickly out of the room and down the hall, his heels clicking rhythmically against the tile. He slammed his hand against the button to open the door and walked through  when it was just barely wide enough for him to fit through. As soon as he was out of the range of the cameras his disguise dropped and he was just Dofi.

The hall was occupied now with the shift workers and they pressed themselves to the wall upon seeing such a fierce expression on the normally jovial man’s face.

He picked up his own phone. “Where are you. We need to talk about this.”

“I’ll meet you in Ra’s Chamber.”

“Don’t deactivate him until you listen to me brother!” Dofi turned and opened a door to another staircase. This was dark and lined with only emergency lighting, but Dofi didn’t stumble in the dark. The hum and roar of the ship's mechanics drowned out everything here. This should have been only a cramped maintenance area, where piping carried water, waste and air where it needed to go. There wasn’t much room for anything on this ship, not even its own people. But after moving past two fortified bulkhead doors, Dofi entered space, which spanned half the length of the ship itself.

Foli and Dofi stood dwarfed by a gigantic scaly muzzle. The steam from the hot breath that exited its nostrils was vented up through the ceiling while fresh air was piped in. Its black scales were damp with dew from it. It’s body was tightly bound by what appeared to be metal cuffs that pinned its limbs to its body. It lay on its stomach much like a slumbering crocodile, it’s ribs expanding and then contracting every several seconds.

Foli laid one hand on the tip of the creature’s nose.

Dofi approached him and pulled his hand away. “Brother, I need an explanation.”

“I know.” Foli looked at him. “You know I’m your brother, we shared the same womb. So you know how much I care for you. I wouldn’t make a decision like this lightly. What Mr. Baldwin did today, not only showed his care for me, but his respect for our ways, for our secrets. To ignore that, would be a sign of stubbornness on my part, not of wisdom.”

“Is the inquiry into the woman really ignoring whatever good it is he’s done? We can reward his actions some other way.” He took a step closer to him and whispered. “I know what I saw. If you want to trust him, fine. But I do not.”

“Every organization is entitled to their secrets. He respected ours.” He picked up the medallion from his pocket and held it up.

Dofi’s eyes went wide again, experiencing yet another shock. “The Ashanti Medal! Where … where did you find it?”

“He found it. He found it and showed it to no one until he returned it to me.” Foli looked his brother in the face. “Do you understand now?”

Dofi was visibly paler, despite his dark complexion. When he didn’t answer Foli grinned. 

“You’re speechless as well? It took my breath away. All the hand wringing and late night shouting in the Council… when it was all just a misunderstanding.” He returned the medallion to his pocket.”

Dofi sobered and looked over the bound sleeping dragon. “Some wanted to go to war over that thing.”

“It’s back in our possession.” He clapped Dofi on the shoulder. “Get some sleep. Don’t bother keeping one eye open this time.”

“Then are you deactivating Ra?” 

They both looked over the bound creature. “I don’t believe that’s wise. We are facing a Dragon King, we may yet need his support should the Cassell Agents fall in battle.”

[ao3bronte]

Smutember: Sensory Deprivation

Masquerade on Ao3

24: Sensory Deprivation

Marinette leaps out of the way, grateful for her Ladybug reflexes as a suitcase, a garbage bag full of clothing and a laptop go flying out the window above her head.

"How DARE YOU!" a woman screams from beyond the open window and Marinette can't help but pause and pull an earbud out of her ear, eager to see what all the fuss is about, "You told me she was your COUSIN!"

At least twenty pedestrians have stopped to congregate around the pile of strewn clothes and shattered technology by this point, their eyes and ears glued to the stage before them, "I never SAID she was my cousin!"

"Yes you did! That's what you had her listed in your contacts!"

"You've been through my PHONE?!"

"OF COURSE I have and for good reason! You've been CHEATING on me!"

Marinette takes a second to glance around her, the throngs of people quickly gathering either recording or livestreaming the spectacle as the angry couple continues to hurl abuses at each other, unapologetically airing their dirty laundry for all and sundry to see.

“It’s not like I asked for this!”

“What?!” she screams, the couple move towards their open balcony, their wildly flailing silhouettes finally in view, “You married another woman!”

“And if she hadn’t screwed up and gotten pregnant, then this never would have happened!”

“WHAT?!”

The whispers rippling through the crowd abruptly shift from appalled curiosity to alarm and nervousness. Marinette winces, realizing that people are now actually discussing what this akuma’s powers might be like it’s a topic for casual conversation rather than a potentially life-threatening situation. She looks skyward, tracing pointing fingers, looking for the telltale back dot signaling the next victim. The whispers shift again, casual nervousness becoming actual fear and Marinette’s heart sinks, tracking not one but two small black harbingers of doom as they fly their way into the open window.

“How DARE YOU?”

“This isn’t my fault!” he shrieks, throwing a lamp against the wall, “You just HAD to go snooping through my things!”

“We have a child together!” she begins to sob, “There’s no excuse for this!”

“And if you had just given me what I wanted—”

The voices stop abruptly, the all too familiar black and neon purple haze erupting from the second story apartment in a flash of light. Eyes wide, Marinette breaks off into a sprint and ducks into the nearest alleyway, nearly flinging off her purse in haste.

"Tikki! Transforme-moi!"

~

Adrien slips his mask off his head and lowers his épée against the floor, turning his attention back towards the phone ringing off the hook in the school’s athletics office. Both he and the three other boys in training share a speculative glance as M. D’Argencourt stomps over, cursing a blue streak under his breath at being constantly interrupted, and nearly tears the hinges off the office door before disappearing within.

“What do you think?”

Adrien turns to Mohamed and shrugs, mirroring Isaac’s equally confused gesture. He sits down on the practice pads as Clement slips his gloves off and collapses beside him, beads of sweat pooling on his brow.

“It’s too hot to be practicing like this,” he complains, glaring daggers at the ceiling. Adrien cocks a brow and decides that it’s best to keep his mouth shut, knowing the larger boy’s less than measured temper.

“If Monsieur makes us stay here longer just because he’s on the phone…” Isaac trails off, sitting back on one of the nearby benches. They’d been practicing for well over an hour now for the first competition of the season and D’Argencourt was running them ragged with drills and mock duels.

“Whatever it is, it’s probably important,” Mohamed replies, “It’s been ringing off the hook for at least ten minutes.”

“Probably,” Adrien shucks his gloves off as well, swallowing against the way his stomach seems to be sinking in his chest. He watches D’Argencourt’s silhouette through the frosted window of the office door as the older man’s flailing arm seems to collapse to his side and slump. The other boys follow his gaze and exchange a worried glance.

“That can’t be good,” Mohamed says quietly, his eyes glued to the door.

Clement pushes himself back into a sitting position, “It’s probably just another akuma attack, no big deal.”

“No big deal?” Adrien can’t help himself, ignoring the way the boy beside him glares at him reproachfully, “The akuma attacks have only gotten worse lately.”

“And more dangerous,” Isaac adds, getting back onto his feet, “I’m going to sneak into the locker room and grab my mobile. If it’s an akuma attack, I’m sure it’s all over the news.”

“Don’t be too long,” Mohamed warns, still watching D’Argencourt through the glass, “You know how nasty he gets when we bring our phones out.”

Isaac nods and jogs through the door on the other side of the gymnasium, appearing a few moments later with his iPhone in his hand. He scrolls quickly and sits down beside Adrien, his eyes widening with every swipe of his thumb, “Merde.”

“What?” Adrien scoots closer and watches over his shoulder in panic as Isaac pulls up the trending livestream from the Paris Police’s official Twitter feed, the video retweeted straight from the LadyBlog.

“This is Alya Césaire from the Ladyblog,” the stream switches abruptly to the forward-facing camera, “And I have never seen anything like what I’m seeing right now!”

Alya switches the direction of the camera and zooms in on the carnage taking place some two blocks away from their school, “What started off as a married squabble ended in an all-out brawl between man and wife. Talk about taking ’till death do you part to a whole new level.”

Ladybug dodges a blast of red magic and leaps up onto the eaves of the closest structure, disappearing behind a rooftop. The angle changes and Alya focuses it back onto the raging akuma, glowing red and orange and screaming at the top of her lungs.

“I’M SICK OF YOUR EXCUSES!”  she hurls another beam of energy into the air, “I WILL HEAR NO EVIL!”

Spreading her arms, she clips a series of bystanders with a burst of magic and sends them flying into the air. The footage is shaky for a moment as Alya runs towards them, dodging the screaming civilians that had flocked to see what all the fuss was about. When the camera finally stops wobbling, the lens focuses on a group of tourists clutching at their ears, desperately shouting at each other from the lack of sound.

The camera shudders again, “Are you okay? What happened?”

The closest person, a thirty something man clutching his girlfriend to his chest, shakes his head in abject horror, “HELP! I CAN'T HEAR!”

“Ladybug has her hands full with this one,” Alya can be heard behind the camera, following the akuma as it tears down the boulevard, “And Chat Noir is still nowhere to be found.”

Adrien digs his fingers into the padding of his protective pants and yanks his eyes away from the screen to track D’Argencourt. Releasing a breath he hadn’t realised he’d been holding, he inhales and gets back up onto his feet, brushing imagined particles from the fabric of his pants.

“Where are you going?” Mohamed asks, staring up at him.

“My father told me that the next time there was an akuma attack at school, he’d send a car,” he lies easily, gathering his gloves and equipment, “It’s probably waiting outside now.”

“D’Argencourt will be mad.”

“Tell him my father will be even madder if I get injured because of this attack.”

“I’ll let him know,” Mohamed gives him a thumbs up, “Be safe!”

“Thanks,” Adrien smiles and nods, sprinting towards the locker rooms, “Enjoy your weekend!”

Steeling himself, Adrien shuts the door and barely registers Plagg at his side, too busy shucking his gear off his body. He shoves it all in his locker and pulls his shirt over his head, slipping his sack over his shoulder and checking it for cheese.

“Ready?”

“Hardly.”

“Plagg, transforme-moi!”

~

Chat vaults over the rows of tightly packed buildings towards the screaming and skids to a stop along one of the rooftops, sending a few loosened shingles flying. He watches the fight below for a few seconds, bewildered that the akuma seem to be fighting each other just as much as they’re fighting Ladybug herself. He studies their patterns, noticing the way she seems to bring her arms into her chest right before shooting beams of energy at her targets. He, on the other hand, seems to have no tell at all.

"I am going to KILL you!"

He spots Marinette as she ducks behind an advertisement kiosk, narrowly missing a wide ray of neon green energy. The man roars and turns his attention back on his wife, ripping a bus shelter bench from its trappings and chucking it in her direction.

“Not if I don’t kill you FIRST!”

Sliding down a lamp post, Chat scurries over to where Marinette is squatting behind the stand and takes point, leading them both around the corner and into relative safety, “What’s going on?”

Marinette squints at him and hesitates for a moment before responding, “They take away your senses. He takes sight and she takes hearing!”

Chat blinks but doesn’t comment on the way she seems to be speaking louder than normal, “What have you tried so far?”

“I don’t know,” Marinette replies, her eyes widening, “Sorry, can you repeat that?”

“I said, what have you tried so far?”

Marinette nods her head, “Oh! I’ve tried to turn them on each other but they’re too fast. I’m going to have to use lucky charm.”

“Okay…” Chat trails off, “Are you sure you’re alright?”

Marinette blinks owlishly and takes his hand, “Let’s go.”

She drags him back around the bend and plucks her yoyo from her belt, releasing it and spinning it at her side. With the married couple far too distracted in their quest to maim each other, Chat takes a defensive position in front and waits as Marinette flings her yoyo into the air, calling upon her lucky charm. In typical Chat Noir style, he chances a glance backwards to see what had landed in her arms and smirks, shaking his head at the mirror lying there.

“Didn’t see that coming,” he chuckles, turning back to the quarreling duo. The civilians had long since cleared the area, the police and fire department waiting on the wings. They’d been reduced to crowd control long ago, knowing full well they were no match for the supernatural beings Le Papillon made it a habit to create.

Marinette weighs the handle carefully in her hand and flips it around a few times. Flexing her wrist, she faces the reflective part forwards and runs full tilt towards her assailants, “Stay here!”

“Ladybug, hold up!”

She doesn’t respond as she ducks in behind the bus shelter, ignoring his repeated calls as she peeks around the tinted glass. The man shoots another ray of neon light from his palms at his estranged wife and bellows when she cartwheels out of the way.

“Would you just SHUT UP already?”

“Would you just DISAPPEAR?”

Scooting in around them, Chat takes advantage of their momentary distraction with each other to check their bodies for the possessed items. Their power seems to emanate directly from their hands, their left one specifically, but they seem to be able to transfer it to both if they press their palms together. Squinting, Chat can see the way their wedding rings seem to pulsate with energy every time they hurl insults at each other and Chat doesn’t have to grasp at straws to come to his conclusion.

“It’s the rings!” he shouts from across the boulevard, his voice carrying over the racket. The couple pause and turn their attention to him, revving their energies across their fingers.

“Mind your own business Cat!” the man roars, launching another wave of raw power. Chat dodges it easily and glances over to the alcove where Marinette had been hiding, finding it empty. He uses his forward momentum to throw himself onto his back and slides between the fighting couple, ducking out of the way in the hopes of one of their beams cross firing and hitting the other.

“Sound to me like you couldn’t keep your business in your pants,” Chat quips back, scrambling onto all fours and darting away, smirking at the woman’s overjoyed reaction.

“See?” she cackles snidely, nearly clipping the man with her powers in the process, “Even Chat Noir is on my side.”

The akumatized man’s response is a wordless howl of rage, his pupils constricting to pinpoints as his gaze flicks between Chat and his star-crossed wife. His face contorts in a snarl as his left hand snaps out, acid green light firing from his palm towards his erstwhile partner, who’s hand comes up to shield her eyes even as she tries to dodge away.

Marinette chooses this moment to spring forward from behind the shelter and runs full tilt at her assailants, glass in hand. Chat’s eyes blow wide as she darts directly towards the beam, her arms outstretched to intercept the energy with the handheld mirror, forceful and determined. However, the akumatized woman is still in motion, her hand blocking her vision as she moves, sending beams of light that knock everything awry.

“LADYBUG!” Chat screams, desperately trying to warn his partner of the impending collision. She doesn’t appear to hear him, and Chat frantically wonders if she was already struck previously and he hadn’t realized it, or if she’s simply hyper-focused and not paying attention to anything else.

Regardless, his cry goes unheeded and Marinette and the woman slam into each other, their combined momentum sending them crashing in a tangle of limbs. The woman stumbles forward, slamming face first into the concrete as she trips.

Ladybug, however….

The beam hits her like a tidal wave, sending her sprawling backwards into the air. Abruptly, the bus shelter breaks her fall and she slumps forwards, bracing herself on her hands and knees as she scrabbles for purchase, viciously rubbing her eyes. Chat tears over to her with a speed he didn’t even realise he was capable of and gathers her into his arms, the severity of the situation dawning on him. Potentially deaf and blind and running on borrowed time, Chat scoops her up over his shoulder with one hand, grabs her yoyo and mirror in the other and runs for his life.

“Crapcrapcrapcrap,” he repeats the mantra, sprinting into an alleyway several meters away. Even with his super strength, he can’t leap up onto the rooftops without his baton so he shoves her yoyo into her empty hand and braces the mirror’s handle in between his teeth. He snatches the baton from the small of his back as the couple looms closer, their shouts gaining strength and volume as they near the mouth of the alley and Chat wills the baton to extend, shooting them both skyward.

He sprints across the rooftops for a good twenty seconds before dropping her onto her haunches in a shaded alcove. Scrambling, he takes the yoyo from her hand and clips in onto her belt himself, watching her helplessly as tears pour from her eyes. He waves his hands in front of her nose and she doesn’t react, not to the way he snaps his fingers near her ears nor the sound of his voice.

“I can’t see!” she yells, waving her arms around until she finally grasps one of his wrists, “I can’t see!”

“I can see that,” he rasps, taking his hands and cupping her cheeks. The gesture does little to solve her panic attack, her blue eyes roving sightlessly back and forth and Chat can’t help but panic along with her, swiping the tears from her cheeks.

He starts swearing again, settling on his knees in front of her. Her earrings are on their last pip and although she can’t hear it, he knows she must sense her waning energy with the way she tries to shake him off and curl in on herself. He can’t help but let her, his heart breaking at the anguish playing out on her features, of the desperation in her eyes as her detransformation takes hold.

The magic tingles across her skin and only muscle memory has Marinette reaching towards where Tikki normally falls as she struggles not to hyperventilate. A warm weight drops into her hands and she’s left sitting there, feeling curiously naked and terrifyingly vulnerable, unable to do anything except hold her breath and clutch Tikki to her chest in a futile effort to hide.

The feel of something touching her bare hands is a jolt to the system, too much and not enough all at once. His long fingers slide over hers, his gloved palms coming to rest along the backs of her cupped hands and they squeeze hers gently as Chat mimics her gesture. Tikki’s weight leaves her and Chat’s familiar hands are pulling her trembling fingers out and up, towards where she knows his face must be. His hands bump hers uncertainly against his nose, shifting his grip to grasp her fingertips and press them up where his eyes are. They trace the lines of his mask up, burying themselves in his hair and she pulls him to her chest like a landline, like an anchor is a sea of silence and black.

“I can feel you purr,” she gasps, clutching him harder. She can sense his breath ghost against her neck as he settles against her, wrapping his arms around her middle, “I can feel my voice.”

He nods against her and she revels in the motion, finally finding something to hold onto, “Squeeze once for yes and twice for no.”

He squeezes once and the tension in her body dissolves marginally, her breaths evening ever so slightly, “Are they still fighting?”

Squeeze.

“Did you get my lucky charm?”

Squeeze.

“Did you figure out what the possessed item is?”

Squeeze.

“What is it?”

His purr falters for a moment as he wraps his free hand around one of her fingers, “Marriage ring. Obvious.”

Squeeze.

He resumes his characteristic rumble, quelling some of the anxiety inside her. She knows her voice is still quivering, the tears she can’t quite control still dribbling down her cheeks. She’s grateful he’s not watching, his face comfortably burrowed into her chest instead, “Chat…”

He squeezes her and settles to the side, doing something she can’t quite decipher, “Do…do you know who I am?”

Of course he knows who she is but that doesn't stop her from wondering, doesn't stop her from wanting to hear it from him even though she can't. He squeezes again and it feels like she's shrinking.

“Are you...okay? With…”

There's a flurry of movement, too much to decipher and categorise and he's suddenly pressing his lips against her forehead, her temples, her cheeks. He feathers kisses against the bridge of her nose, the crease of her chin and lips, pressing reassurances into her skin. She can't help but start crying again, overwhelmed and vulnerable and helpless, knowing full well it'll be up to him to solve this. She hadn't aimed the mirror right and she'd failed them and—

“I’m sorry.”

He presses his lips against hers and takes her lower lip between his teeth, biting it as a warning. She huffs a pathetic laugh against him, tugging her own ponytails in a mixture of frustration and fear, “We've got to go back.”

Squeeze.

“Is Tikki eating?”

Squeeze.

“Good, I always pack a few extra in the front pocket of my backpack if she wants more.”

There's a flutter against her skin, Tikki’s tiny paws tapping a rhythm against her cheeks. She leans into the feeling and draw confidence from her, trying to breathe. She presses one hand against the brick behind her and uses her other to search for his hand, finding it easily.

“Use the mirror to reflect his power against him to stop him from talking. Tikki? Let him use my yoyo. I don’t know if you can because I can’t even communicate—” she rubs her hands across her face, “Just let him, okay? If he can tie him up, Chat can capture at least one of the rings and…ugh, I don’t even know what I’m talking about, I can’t see!”

Chat glances over to where he’s placed the mirror against the brick facade and lets Marinette crush him to her chest again, her breaths ragged and uneven.

Blinking carefully, he cranks his neck upwards, “Have you ever done this before?”

“Oh, Chat Noir and Ladybug have traded tools now and then,” Tikki says carefully, hovering just above his nose, “I’ll try my best to help you out.”

“That’s all I can ask for I guess,” he takes a deep breath, “Alright. Marinette transforms, I bring her back, I use the yoyo to get the man out of the picture...then what?”

“You’ll find a way.”

“See, this is why Ladybug makes the plans,” he pinches the bridge of his nose and hopes that Marinette can’t feel the anxiety coming off of him in waves, “That’s what I do you know? People tell me what to do, I do it.”

“Calm down Adrien,” Tikki responds, settling in front of him, “Have faith in yourself. Marinette has never needed you to be the best version of yourself more than right now.”

Chat closes his eyes, “How long have you known it was me?”

“Since the beginning,” she shrugs, “It’s the smell.”

“The smell?”

“Who else would carry camembert in their backpack? That, and Plagg doesn’t exactly grasp the meaning of subtlety.”

“Preaching to the choir,” he mutters, watching the red and black kwarmi fetch another cookie from Marinette’s sack, “Does she know?”

“Marinette?” Tikki’s laugh sounds like the wind chimes on the porch of his home in Saint Barths, “Of all the Ladybugs I’ve chosen, she’s certainly the most…imaginative. The two of you are drawn to each other like a moth to a flame and yet…” Tikki shakes her head, “When she does realise who you are, she’ll kick herself for weeks.”

“It’s a good thing she can’t hear us right now,” Chat hums, Marinette’s fingers tangling themselves in his hair again. His ears spread sideways, oddly attached his head as they are, and she gently scratches at his scalp, “She’d kill us both.”

“Ladybugs are known for their perseverance, even if it sometimes comes off as stubbornness, just as the Chat Noir’s I’ve had the pleasure of knowing are known for their recklessness,” she takes another bite of her cookie and chews thoughtfully, “While your flaws may characterise you, they certainly don’t define you.”

“You’re so much nicer to talk to than Plagg. Why couldn’t I have gotten you instead?”

Tikki smiles, “You’re not the first Chat Noir to tell me that either.”

“Can we trade for a day? I have a really nice garden.”

“I’ll think about it,” Tikki polishes off the last piece, having saved the bite with the chocolate chunk for last, “I’m sure Marinette would get along with Plagg splendidly. She has a soft spot for cats.”

Chat blushes as Tikki buzzes away, leaving him to his partner’s ministrations. He can practically hear her thinking, her eyebrows furrowed in both concentration and frustration, her eyes open and blank, “Tikki, are you ready?”

“I am.”

“Okay,” Chat sits up and tugs her to her feet, tapping on her earrings. She nods and Chat stands back, watching in awe as Tikki disappears into the burst of light that seems to swallow her, pulsating and compressing until it finally releases, sending red sparks up and around every which way. She holds her pose of confidence for a fleeting moment and takes a deep, heaving breath, holding out her hands.

Chat guides her forwards and turns around, pressing his back to her chest. Reaching to pat the outside of her thighs, Marinette gets the hint and climbs up onto him, wrapping her arms and legs around his neck and torso. With his hands now free, he takes the mirror in his left and his baton in his right and begins tearing across rooftops, easily tracing his steps back to the battle at hand.

“Alright,” he mutters, talking to no one in particular, “I’ve got to put you down somewhere.”

Extending his baton, Chat slides to the cobbles below and sits her down on the nearest bench, far enough out of harm’s way but still close enough to keep an eye on. Vaguely, he can hear the buzz of the crowd as he brushes his hand over her hair and forehead, leaning down to press a quick kiss against her lips. He traces his fingers down her neck, shoulder and arm until they come to rest around her waist, his claws clipping the yoyo to free it from her belt.

“Take it,” she unholsters it for him and presses it into his palms, “Just think about what you want it to do and it will follow.”

“Just like the baton,” he mutters to himself, eyeing the tool apprehensively. Slipping the string around his finger, he squeezes her shoulder one last time and heads forwards, the lucky mirror and yoyo in hand.

“Honey, I’m home!” he calls from across the boulevard, his tone light and teasing despite the heaviness in his chest. He keeps on his toes, dodging a splay of acid green light from the husband as the wife eagerly waves back, “Care to strike a deal?”

The telltale glow of butterfly wings hovers over her eyes and cheeks, distracting her for a moment, “Give me your Miraculous and then we'll talk.”

“Absolutely,” he smiles, sidestepping another attack by the husband, “But I can offer you something even better.”

The wife steps closer, ignoring her soon to be ex husband's jealous, enraged roar, “Yeah? What's that?”

“A chance to punch your husband in the face,” he winks, skirting closer, “All I need is for us to work together. What do you think?”

“I like the sound of that,” she smirks, eyes glowing red with her powers, “Shall we?”

“You SLUT!”

“Says the man with TWO WIVES!”

Chat grimaces, “Looks like she cat you red handed.”

Furious, the man howls and Chat hands the mirror over to the woman with a flick of his wrist, “What’s this for?”

“Reflect his power back at him, I’ll do the rest,” he replies, sprinting forward. Sliding to a stop, he keeps on his toes and weaves back and forth between every one of his sloppy punches and strikes.

“That’s MY WIFE,” he snarls, kicking out with his foot. Chat deflects him easily, squatting down to dodge a beam of light.

“I have a great repurr with the ladies,” he taunts, dancing just outside of his personal space. Skirting to the right, he aims his body so as to make sure his next blast heads for the wife, “I’ve been told I’m a regular catsonova.”

“AAAAUUUGHHH!!!”

Ducking, Chat flattens himself to the cobblestones and closes his eyes as the blazing ray of light skyrockets overhead and promptly beams back like neon boomerang. It smacks the husband like a freight train, the force of his own power sending him sprawling up into the air and into a neighbouring storefront, smashing its windows. Swearing and praying to every deity he can come up with, Chat throws the yoyo with all the force he can manage and hopes it wraps around his prey.

[mothershipresidencies]

Brendan Jackson

By the time I came to the Mothership, I changed my plan...

I had intended to make a series of photographs using a battered old mahogany and brass Gandolphi camera with a zeiss lens, dating from the 1920’s. I expected the images to be somewhat experimental. The last time I used this was nearly 30 years ago and then the images were pin sharp in the centre but a little fuzzy wound the edges, so who knows how they might turn out now. I had the camera and tripod and a black sheet to cover myself with; I had sourced some 5 x 4 Ilford black and white HP5 film; I dug out old darkroom equipment but I couldn’t find the double dark slides I thought were in the loft, so I found some online. They turned up two days before I was due to travel, only I had been sent 10 x 8 slides in error. I tried the local college, who still keep a chemical darkroom, but the technicians were away (half term). So the plan changed.

I know Dorset from my childhood vacations with my favourite auntie who lived in Dorchester. I had spent a lot of teenage holidays here and had my first real job at the (old) Dorset County Hospital, working in the kitchens. I undertook my first photographic project and exhibition here ‘A Brief Guide to Piddletrenthide in the Valley of the River Piddle’, entirely inspired by local people, their stories and connection to the place they lived and worked. It’s what has interested me ever since.

So I decided to undertake a series of walks, following in the footsteps of others here (though not Richard Long on his 1975 Cerne Abbas walk). I would walk by day, as the weather was mostly fine – though one rain swept day I spent in the Dorset Heritage Centre digging through archives – then at night I lit the stove and read old local guidebooks and literature, as well as a few Ray Bradbury stories (one highlight of my childhood holidays was reading Bradbury paperbacks and comics bought from a shop on the esplanade in Weymouth).

My Aunt first came to Dorset in the Spring of 1946. She came from Birr in Ireland where she worked in a leather factory and corresponded with a certain Mr Clark of Street in Somerset (who offered her a job, which brought her to England and provided her with a fine reference). She came to Dorset County Hospital to train as a nurse. She was 26 years old. Her cousins in Wimbledon took their holidays in Dorset and told Monica she was less likely to feel homesick in a town like Dorchester, as it had a similar character to Birr. Indeed it did and Monica lived the rest of her life there.

Here are some of my reflections during this time...

 A single walk in straight line

The sea is calm enough, a little bit of breeze but not the kind of blaster to blow the cod inshore. He’s been here since 6.30am and now it’s early afternoon. I’ve had a few nibbles, nothing much, he says, but I really don’t mind, I just love being out here. He carefully skewers lugworm onto a hook. He also has some squid as bait for the cod, but he might save that for another day. In the warmer months, this beach is a popular site for mackerel, when they can come inshore in large numbers. Some old second world war sea concrete defences, known as the Dragon’s Teeth, tumble down into the sea, and it’s here they say is the best mark for the fishing. The fish can be caught at close range as the beach shelves steeply. What can you catch here? In the summer, Bass and Gurnard, Bream, Dogfish, Scad, Trigger Fish and Flatties. Mackerel of course. Now, in winter, Cod and Codling, Whiting, Plaice and Rockling. I don’t know half these names they tell me, so I nod and smile. Well, good luck, I say and carry on my way. In the distance it’s clear and sharp enough to make out the lighthouse at the end of the Isle of Portland.

A Circular Walk around Eggardun Hill

At the end of the old roman road from Dorchester, the ‘Highway of the West’, at the spur of a curving ridge rises the Iron Age hill fort of Eggardun. It may be lesser known or appreciated than triple ramparted Mai Dun, but the views from here are far superior, of countryside that has barely changed in my lifetime, or perhaps even in the last three hundred years. The sweep of the coast towards Golden Cap and Devon beyond, the dazzle of the sea, a glimpse of Pilsdon Pen, in between the soft hills and downs, woods and valleys, scattered farm buildings, strip lynchets revealed by the angle of the sun. Now only inhabited by rabbits and sheep, these slopes and ditches were constructed of huge mounds of chalk, no doubt a gleaming white beacon when first raised up by the metal users. The bareness of the grass now testifies to ‘a long friendship with rough winds’, as one walker described these heights in the 1930’s, striding past with her puppy dogs, Bill and Mr Bundy, heading for Burton Bradstock and the Chesil Bank. Some years later, one farmer-writer from these parts gazed at a fossil in his hand (he called them books of stone), thrown up from ploughed chalk on the downland. He looked out over the landscape, at ‘nature’s vast, relentless roll’, reflecting on the rise and fall of empires, the clash of nations, massacres and crimes, past glories of philosophy and art. He told himself, ‘Here, order does not break.’ Today the wind relentless as ever, I ponder the wonders of the modern age; the flushing toilet, running water, a mirror, a cooking fire.

 A semi-circular walk from Overcombe to Nothe Fort

I am not staying in the old seaport and pleasure resort, which was once called ‘The English Naples’. I never have, though I know several folk who booked a bed and breakfast or caravan over the years, enjoying the extended frontage – the bay is nearly five miles across. Such visitors were was once noteworthy, articles in the Dorset Daily Echo reporting the arrival of 500 families from the Black Country by train in just one weekend, determined to enjoy their holiday here in Weymouth, surely cementing its reputation as a premier destination with ‘wonderful sands, a good water supply and a splendid climate’. Had they a Black Country flag back then, they would have been as popular a purchase as those paper ones of the Union Jack, of Saint Andrew and the Welsh Dragon, along with miscellaneous emblems of France, Italy and Spain that adorned a thousand sandcastles. (I don’t remember there being an Irish flag available).

Though locals disdainfully called these holidaymakers ‘grockles’, a visitor in 1804 was far less charitable of the locale itself. He intended to visit his brother who was with the Royal Squadron in the bay. On arrival, he paid the modern equivalent of £58 to a local boatman who dropped him at the first royal barge in the bay they came across, which is then stranded in an impenetrable sea mist and while waiting for dawn runs foul of a cable. Finally he is rescued by the crew of a cutter at anchor who finally take him back to shore. Then he spends his first night’s lodging being tormented by all manner of vermin. He does eventually meet up with his brother, but during his stay he is not impressed by the countryside hereabouts, complaining that he can find no shade from the scorching sun. He thought it a bare and barren place, and the cost of staying here horrendous, prices inflated due to the King’s visit. When he left Weymouth after a week, he was forced to travel slowly as his horse ‘seemed literally starved, his ribs starting through his skin’, although he had paid an outrageous sum of one guinea for his keep.

Boating in Weymouth is recommended, as one guide from the 1930’s puts it: ‘the bay being free of dangerous currents and promiscuous rocks’. No mention of mist. I took my first cross-channel from here, for 48 hours in France, in storm tossed seas on the return. I have a strong unpleasant memory of sliding across the deck. There is a small memorial here now to the U.S. Forces who left from here to land at Omaha Beach, with a photograph of some of those soldiers marching down the Esplanade. Over half a million of them passed this way (those called 'The Greatest Generation', probably correctly so if we look to current models). The wind whips up the sand of the beach and a few people run with their dogs by the shoreline (please note, dogs banned from the beach between April and October). Here on a Saturday night in Spring 1946 a young woman was carried off these sands on the shoulders of a British soldier. She was hopelessly drunk. An American sailor was also helping carry her. They were stopped by P.C. Otter. The soldier said she was ill and he was going to take her to a room for the night. Neither soldier nor sailor were able to tell P.C. Otter her name or anything about her, so he took her into custody. She was later charged with being drunk and incapable. She was 19 years old, Polish, of no fixed abode; she said her name was Frances Kolosvonksi and that she had only arrived that day from Aldershot to meet her boyfriend who had been posted here. ‘It was the first time in my life that I had a drink and it will be the last time,’ she said. ‘I had an argument with my fiancé.’ The Chairman of the Magistrates Court concluded, ‘I shall think you are very ashamed of yourself, aren’t you?’ If this was a post-modern musical she might burst into song and say ‘You took the words right out of my mouth’. She meekly agreed, ‘Yes, very ashamed’. She was fined 10 shillings, which would barely cover a single room with breakfast at the Crown Hotel opposite the railway station.

A square walk around the walls with a loop south and east

 Loosely follow the perimeter of the old Roman town, marked today by Walks originally planted in the 18th century with lime, sycamore and more recently chestnut – these enclose three sides of the town. By more recently we mean over a century ago. A river walk demarcates the fourth side, where one arm of the Frome runs in an artificially constructed channel used for the water meadows that have kept the town from spreading to the north and north east. The river curves here round old sluice gates and the rise upon which is built the prison (itself on the site of a Norman castle) and beyond that the County Council offices. The excavations in this north west corner to build these offices in the 30’s revealed three roman town houses which were then preserved. One fragment of the original wall still remains, near the statue of Thomas Hardy. Crossing the Frome on the eastern side of the town, it is a short walk of two or three miles to the churchyard in Stinsford where his heart is buried beside his first wife.

On the south side, beyond the line of the walks, lay the site of the town market once busy every Wednesday with fat calves, sheep, lamb and pigs. Here there were markets for farm equipment and implements too; sales displays of new combined side delivery rakes and swath turners, a Watson and Harry 30ft elevator, a Bristol caterpillar tractor, mowing machines, plough and cultivator attachments. Now it’s a car park, charges vigorously enforced.

Across the road, next to the Victorian police station, is Maumbury Rings, the Roman amphitheatre. When the railways came, the engineer Mr Brunel wanted to cut right through here, as well as the ancient earthwork at Poundbury on the north west side of the town, thus raising the ire of many an archeologist and historian, who decried this proposal as the work of ‘barbarian perpetrators’ no less. Mr Brunel was reminded that it was the great Sir Christopher Wren who first marveled at the Rings and made them known to the worlds’ antiquarians when, en route to scry Portland stone, he asked for his coach to be stopped, in order to give them a thorough investigation. Brunel twisted his rails so as to avoid the ancient amphitheatre and built a tunnel under Poundbury, ‘as he may frequently have the opportunity of doing mischief, he would always be found most anxious to avoid it.’

A walk from West Chaldon, looking for the ghosts of poets

It is getting cold, they say there is snow in the North. Just before tea it was raining. She fills the fire grate with twigs she has collected, strips of hazel, then adds the shavings of logs and crumpled brown paper that the bread came wrapped in. She lit the fire and contributed some vitriolic love letters she had never sent, as well as scraps of her verse that had no satisfactory conclusion. Finally she tossed in a few logs of ash and yew. Their cottage was somewhat dilapidated but homely enough for the two of them and the room is quick to warm.

Her lover pulls a face and complains that, after one too many doses of veramon, she is prone to roaming about the place looking white and grim. Her mood lifts though when they walk the downs and follow the shady hidden paths. She is cheered at the sight of the local names: Scratchy Bottom, White Nose, Daggers Gate, Five Marys. They sit holding hands on the highest of the ancient barrows, the sea air invigorating their spirits. Then she truly feels as light as a feather. Later, she will listen to the gramophone and manage to scratch out few lines, something secular. She writes, perhaps for herself only:

 Is the hawk as tender

To the belly of its prey –

White belly wet with dew –

As I am to you,

In the same way,

My slender?

The President Decides

Captain Hart gave him back the binoculars wearily. ‘Why do we do it, Martin? This space travel, I mean? Always on the go. Always searching. Our insides always tight. Never any rest.’

‘Maybe we’re looking for peace and quiet. Certainly there’s none on Earth,’ said Martin.

‘No, there’s not is there? Captain Hart was thoughtful, the fire damped down. ‘Not since Darwin, eh? Not since everything went by the board, everything we used to believe in, eh? Divine power and all that. And so you think that’s why we’re going out to the stars, eh, Martin? Looking for our lost souls, is that it? Trying to get away from our evil planet to a good one?’

These sentences are from a short story by Ray Bradbury first published in 1949, an author who revelled in the power and imagination of childhood, of magic, rocketry and science. As a teenager I devoured his collections ‘S is for Space’ and ‘R is for Rocket’ on my holidays in Dorset, sitting in the shade of the beach chalet, admiring the bikinis or watching the naval ships anchor in Portland Roads. Little did I know that near this very spot, back in 1946, Mr Hooper of Overcombe, Weymouth, looked out over much the same view and reflected on the power of the Atomic Bomb now in the hands of the Yanks. He had met enough of them over the last few years, 517,816 of their troops and 144,093 vehicles embarking for Normandy from this port alone, most of them decent enough sorts, but the recent public behaviour of their Joint Chiefs of Staff left a lot to be desired. (You will fid a small monument to those troops on the esplanade.)

He was particularly concerned about the effects of uranium. Thirty years of chemistry had led him to believe that May 15th, the date set for the atom bomb experiments in the Pacific Ocean, may be the end of us all. One was to be an airdrop, one underwater. His reasoning was that seawater contains traces of uranium, therefore any atomic explosion over the ocean will ‘almost certainly start off an ever increasing dissolution.’ In addition, he believed it was impossible to test the seabed for uranium; the testing area may therefore be over a large deposit and a catastrophe was surely waiting in the wings. To conduct the tests, 167 inhabitants were moved from Bikini Atoll to Rongerik Atoll, which had no inhabitants due to an inadequate water and food supply and also because of a belief that the island was haunted by the Demon Girls of Ujae. Regardless, the Americans moved 95 warships of all shapes and sizes to the test area, planning to assess their durability to nuclear attack.

As holidaymakers flocked to the coast again to enjoy the sun (though in reality the weather was mixed that summer), Mr Hooper sent letters to the Sunday papers, hoping for some reaction. He wrote: ‘Those of us interested in nuclear physics know of experiments which certainly seemed safe enough in theory, but which nevertheless ended fatally. Let us pray that this much vaster one does not end in disintegration.’ As they say in the local Dorset dialect, it’s a caddle – a puzzling plight, such a confusing situation that a man does not know what to do first. Some might say Mr Hooper was joppetty joppetty – anxious and agitated over the whole cantankerous affair. The world demonstrably did not end on May 15th, nor at the end of June when the first of three tests was actually conducted, no doubt he waited impatiently and wondered whatever would come next.

As the Americans were coming to understand the effects of fallout, in Paris the designer Louis Réard introduced a new two-piece swimsuit, which he called the bikini because ‘like the bomb, the bikini is small and devastating’. While the inevitable appearance of bikinis on the beach front at Overcombe might have led to an increase in his blood pressure, Mr Hooper would I think have been apoplectic had he been aware the US Army Air Force had put forward a plan to the Pentagon the previous September to destroy 66 Soviet cities and were demanding production of 204 atomic bombs to do so. As it was, production of 39 were approved to eliminate 15 first priority targets. Among them, it was estimated 6 each would be required for Moscow, Leningrad and Kiev, five for Lviv, four for Chelyabinsk, three for Tbilisi, two each for Baku and Grozny. While the majority of his cabinet and nuclear scientists supported the idea of international collaboration to control nuclear power and the abandonment of ‘the policy of secrecy’, the President sided with the military establishment and thus the arms race began.

I would like to thank the Mothership and Anna for the opportunity to ‘switch off’ from the normal daily clutter of life in the city (I had no mobile single or internet here, except when I went to the Dorset Heritage Centre, there catching up with all the Trump news); this was an opportunity to reflect on the stars above, the damp ground beneath my feet, without any other distractions to simply focus on what work I would like to do in the near future and what might be the content and purpose.

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