#her name is cocotte

[r3db3ans]

5 - BITTYBONES ARE BEING REAL?

? : hey weirdo, your hen is carrying a fucking corpse.

Me : ...Wha??? You're joking, or lying about something, she can't. She's... too small... at least for me.

?: why would i lie about this kind of shit? just go see by yourself.

Me : ...Can't you just show me where is my lil' chicken right now..?

? : ....

Me : ....

? : 'right, but you take my jacket, and don't you even dare to get it dirty...

? : see? SEE????

Me : ....Oh, this kind of corpse.

a few moments later ...

DAY 2 - 12:23 AM

The little buddy said that he saw my chicken carrying a ... 'corpse'

Looks like it was another little skeleton.

...

So...i guess he wasn't lying?

Maybe I should ask them their names. It's going to be hard to talk to each other otherwise...

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[stonerzelda]

I hipe she likessss ittttt

[2ndalt]

To aid me on my quest of extreme procrastination, I've decided to translate the French version of The Dragon's Code. For context, the non-English versions of the Thea Stilton books have little extended scenes at the end that are basically just the main characters chilling after solving the mystery. There's quite a bit to translate, so I'm breaking it up and just translating one character per post.

Starting off with Violet!

Right off the bat she writes a letter to Colette, complaining about the nicknames that they gave Vi. She acknowledges the other nicknames Colette gives her friends, like calling Pamela "Pam" and Nicky "Nic" (And Violet points out that it's a bit excessive, since Nicky's already an abbreviated name). Violet then addresses the nicknames that Colette gave her: "Vivi" and "Princess". She hates these nicknames with a burning passion.

In fact, Violet is being so incredibly petty about it that she comes up with a couple of amazing nicknames for Colette to get back at her. My favorites include:

"Collante": Sticky

"Cocotte": Casserole

"Colique": Colic (I had to look this one up to understand the joke; Colic is frequent, prolonged and intense crying or fussiness in a healthy infant. Violet's basically using a fancy term for cry-baby.)

These jokes wouldn't have worked as well in the English version, but they're hilarious in French.

Then she writes a list of various things that annoy her, like loud music (dangit pamela), nicknames (looking at you colette), people who talk while she's trying to study, etc., etc.

However, the next letter Violet writes is to her parents, in which she mentions that she has some new friends! She's like: "Hey Dad, I know I'm terribly shy and introverted and most people view me as a dismissive, short-tempered person, but I have friends now! Even I'm surprised by this development!"

Honestly, it's very sweet to see how much happier Violet is after properly getting to know and become friends with the other Thea Sisters. Despite all of their differences, Violet has grown to appreciate their company and uniqueness. She ends off her letter with a hopeful little note:

"P.S: Raxford (Mouseford in other translations) has an amphitheatre where we can give concerts. Wouldn't it be great if we could organize one and have you come?"

All in all, very cute extended scenes :)

[perle-in-her-boudoir]

My perfume rotation

I am big on perfumes, as it is one of my hyperfixations. This hobby is almost obsessive, as I only think about perfumes on day's end, especially if someone wished to find its signature perfume around me. I absolutly will ask a lot of questions, do my reasearch, scramble and present a selection to that person. I love the thrill of the search, the testing, trials and errors, and finally the choice. I found signature perfumes for a lot of my friends, and my boyfriend have also his perfumes (he doesn't have a signature one, but two, which is the next best thing.) But there's one thing : I don't have a signature, but a rotation. I can't choose for the life of me, and it's honestly bothersome. I recently decided to roll for a while with the rotation, and eliminate until I stick to one. Anyway, let's get to it!

Insolence, Guerlain

It was, for 2 years, my signature perfume. I fell in love when it was in the famous bee bottle, but alas I was too late and I missed it and bought it bottled like in the picture, the "La petite robe noire bottle" (I hate that choice, it makes the presentation so bland). The top note is violet flower, which is my favorite scent as it reminds me of the candies of my childhood. It has notes of red berries, orange blossom, and vanilla and iris which gives its powdery scent. I loved the powdery scent with a twist of berries, as it gave a malicious twist to the traditionnal powder. To me, this scent was charming, flirty, light yet present and complementary to my own self image and skin scent. Alas, I think I grew up quite a bit in those last years, and I changed and now it doesn't fit me as much anymore. I am finishing my bottle and I won't buy it again for myself, but I'll keep a fond memory of Insolence.

Putain des Palaces, Etat Libre d'Orange

In my quest to find the successor of Insolence as my signature perfume, I found this gem. This perfume is provocative from the get go (the name translates to "Whore of the Palace") and is described as the scent of a courtesan: powdery with an animalistic and sensual twist. The powdery scent is given with notes of violet (my love!), rose, mandarine, lily of the valley and musk, and the animalistic scent is reprensented by leather, amber and ginger notes. I read here that it smells like sex, and I somewhat agree: it is an erotic scent, yet sophisticated, luxurious and very feminine. It also has that very vintage feel, hence the "grandma" vibe some think but I don't agree, as the blend of notes is very modern at the end of the day. I am absolutly in love with this violet wrapped in leather and lace, and damn I feel like a cocotte in the best way and it is exactly the vibe I want to have to me. Sexy, humourous, sensual, sharp and alluring.

Le Régent, Oriza L. Legrand

Named after the biggest diamond on the French Crown, this perfume from the oldest perfume house in France had me by surprise. I went to the Oriza L. Legrand boutique in Paris back in december to smell Jardins d'Aramide, which was a floral perfume I thought I would like. I was utterly disappointed when I smelled it, so I decided to make my trip worthwhile and to smell every single one of the perfume in the shop. To the first spray, this one was very good, but when I walked out in the street with it on my wrist? I was bewitched. I couldn't stop sniffing my own wrist. This one has no trace of the beloved violet, but this warm, soft, vanilla benzoin had me melting. Think Hypnotic poison by Dior, but warmer and better. It had me running back to the store buying it 3 hours after the initial spray. My boyfriend is in love with this one (and fell in love with Peau d'Espagne of the same house). Le Régent makes me smell like a queen, with a warming and soft presence, but with all her majesty.

La dame aux Camélias, Les cocottes de Paris

Hear me out. You understood that Putain des Palaces and Le Régent are amazing but, let's say, not subtle. I am a french teacher in middle school in France, and I have to smell good as I can be close to my students, yet subtle and demure to not bother them. This one right here does the job : La dame of Camélias is a soft floral powdery perfume with notes of verbena, orange blossom, cardamom, rose, iris, camelia (duh), musk, tonka bean and juniper. It is fresh, powdery as I like, discreet and has the name of the protagonist of french novelist Alexandre Dumas' La dame aux Camélias, which is a plus to me, as I love the silliness to match my litt teacher's vibe to my perfume lol. Maybe one day I'll be tired of buying it only for working and prefer a cheaper option, but for now I am happy with this one. It will never be Perle's signature perfume, but to my students and colleagues it will be Miss *****'s signature perfume.

Which one will be the winner and be my signature scent? Only time will tell!

Bisous,

Perle .

[duhragonball]

Dragon Ball Super 101

THE POWER OF CHRISTMAS!

Last episode, Kale went berserk and wrecked everyone’s shit and it was awesome.  This episode, she doesn’t remember any of it. 

Also, Goku tried to start a showdown with Jiren, but then Top jumped in to screw it up.  His plan is for a separate squad of Pride Troopers to handle Goku while Top and Jiren withdraw to conserve their strength for later. 

Caulifla thinks Goku is going to try to take Kale out while she’s down, but before they can argue over that, the other Pride Troopers show up.  I’m a little fuzzy on the backstory here, but my understanding is that they created the three “main” Pride Troopers first-- Jiren, Top, and Dyspo-- then added the others to fill out the team.  So these are kind of the B-team guys. 

From left to right: Tupper (nice mustache), Zoire (the little guy), General Kahseral (with the beret), Cocotte (the woman) and Kettle (the big green one). 

Goku suggests that the ladies withdraw, since he’s the one they’re after, but Caulifla insists on sticking around for this.  As for Kale, Caulifla believes in her, and Kale’s too devoted to Caulifla to back out now.

Elsewhere, Master Roshi whips out that paralyzing attack he used on Goku back in the 21st Budokai.  His target, the Preecho, can’t move, but neither can he, so this would be a stalemate, except...

Roshi has backup in the form of Tien.  One Ki Ko Ho later, and Universe 3 loses another guy.

To Gohan’s credit, his half of the team has done well so far, sticking to the original strategy and working together to fight only when necessary.  They’ve taken down a few opponents, and they’ve only lost Krillin, who must have left the group to save 18.  But now that Kale’s tantrum has wrecked the fighting stage, everyone’s gotten separated, and as they start to regroup, Frieza and Vegeta rejoin the others.  But Goku, 17, and 18 remain unaccounted for.

Oh yeah, Frieza brought a plus one to this team meeting.  Vegeta says he was beating this guy up, but Frieza swiped him.  So Frieza tosses him over the side and that’s the end of .... sigh... Murichim.  I hate having to look up these guys’ names every single time. 

What kills me is that Murichim was the only Universe 10 guy they even showed during the prelude to this tournament.  This is why I was so harsh on that third-quarter of Dragon Ball Super.  In theory, those episodes were supposed to introduce all the new characters who would be in the tournament, but many of them aren’t even in the tournament long enough to matter.  When they showed the U10 team several episodes ago, they were all clad in black robes, like it was some sort of big secret that they didn’t want us to see.  Murichim was the only one without a robe, as if he was the most important, the one they did want us to see.  Well, this is it, right here.  This shot of Frieza manhandling him after defeating him off-screen is the big moment for U10′s star player.  

Well, let’s turn our attention to the Pride Troopers’ fight.  Tupper grabs Goku and uses his power to alter his mass to immobilize him.  Everyone’s always hugging Goku.

Zoire has tornado powers, so he can attack Goku that way while Tupper holds him in place. 

Kettle has... well, he just uses Hellzone Grenade on Caulifla.  I mean, that’s a cool move, and it’s nothing to sneeze at, but we’ve seen it before. 

Cocotte traps Kale in an “alternate dimension bubble” so she won’t get in the way of their mission.

And Kahseral can just stand back and gloat... until 17 and 18 show up to even the odds.  Now it’s five against five, and Kahseral has to use his own power-- energy swords-- to fight off the newcomers. 

17 keeps Kahseral busy while 18 gets Goku free from Tupper.  Tupper tries some other move where he rollls around like a big tire, but 18 just rolls him over to the edge of the stage, where his mass proves to be too much for the stage to hold. 

I mean, I like destructible backgrounds as much as the next guy, but it’s weird how the Grand Minister spent 40 hours building this ring out of super-indestructible metal, and then he ordered three of the Destroyers to test and reinforce the whole thing, and yet it takes such a pounding from the fighters.  I mean, it just shows off how strong everyone is, but at the same time, it also makes the ring look really flimsy. 

Zoire radios Khaseral about this development, and so he changes tactics.  Instead of fighting all five of these guys, he’s going to play it safe and focus his squad on Caulifla.  To that end he ditches 17 and regroups with the others.  Cocotte makes another bubble around them so they can attack Caulifla without any interference...

And Kale can’t do anything but watch helplessly as her “sworn sister” gets pummeled.  The term “sworn sister” gets thrown around a lot in the dub of this episode, and so I looked it up to get some context and the first thing I found was an article about a “marriage resistance movement” in late 19th/early 20th century China, where women would band together to avoid marrying men.  A lot of them were lesbians, as you might imagine.  So Funimation isn’t exactly being too subtle about this, which is fine, because Toei wasn’t very subtle about this in the first place. 

So Kale is horrified but Caulifla vows to defend her no matter what, which brings Kale to tears, and she’s so frustrated with her helplessness that she transforms again and....

Well, two things happen.  First, she breaks out of Cocotte’s bubble.  Second, her Super Saiyan form is different this time, like she’s only half-Legendary, and she can access the power without going bonkers. 

The significance of this is lost on the Pride Troopers, who try to finish off the Saiyans with their finest hand lasers....

But they’re no match for Caulifla and Kale’s hand lasers.  Caulifla powers up to SSJ2, and Kale beefs up into her max power form, although she seems to retain her sense of self.

And just like that, three more Pride Troopers take the big plunge. 

And Kale passes out again. Caulifla must have a dozen hair ties in her pants. 

But Cocotte is still okay because she’s surrounded herself with a bubble, so she can’t be hurt.  Well, that’s fine, because 18 can just throw the whole bubble out of the ring, and eliminate Cocotte along with it.  I get the impression that the Pride Troopers never seriously considered the rules of the tournament before they got here. 

So Caulifla carries Kale to safety, and Goku just lets her leave.  Even Caulifla finds this hard to believe, and 17 and 18 are confused, but Goku says he can tell the girls are going to get a lot stronger by the end of this thing, and he wants to fight them later, when they’re at their strongest.  18 finds this foolish, but 17 humors him, saying it’s the human thing to do, or rather the Saiyan thing to do. 

And as Caulifla sneaks off with Kale, KISS plays them off the show with the stirring love ballad “Forever.”  Everyone in the stands holds up lighters.  Or the flashlight on their smartphones.  Before those were invented, people held up cigarette lighters. 

Or they just made their eyes glow.  That’s how they do it in Universe 2.

[pearlyatelier]

Vive La Cocotte - Vivienne Westwood

Vive La Cocotte – fall, 1995

On March 18th, 1995, Vivienne Westwood would present her 1995 fall collection “Viva Le Cocotte” at the Louvre Carrousel in Paris, France. The collection was heavily inspired by France and French history featuring Rococo gowns, 17th century dress, and 1890s structured suits. This is reinforced by the title “Vive Le Cocotte” or “long live the cocotte”. A cocotte was a high-class prostitute in the Belle Epoque era or the 18th century. The name literally states that the Cocotte has been brought to the present through Westwood’s designs. The collection also highlighted and exaggerated the Female figure with its use of corsets, bustier, and bustles. The pieces in the collection also represent the women who oversee their own lives and cultivate a life for themselves. Relating back to Westwood’s roots in punk and activism.  

[madamemorisot]

In 1881, as in the preceding years, the Impressionists organized an exhibition of their works — the sixth; Berthe sent a pleín ar study of her daughter and nurse, a young woman in pink, a portrait now in the Santamarina Collection in Buenos Aires, a portrait of a child, a landscape, and several pastel sketches.

That same year the Eugéne Manets rented a little house at Bougival that they were to keep for several years. Berthe painted a great deal in the garden, using her daughter as a model. In a letter to a friend she wrote about her daughter:

“How grateful I am to you for your fondness for my sweet Chichi. Since you ask about her habits and tastes, T shall tell you that she likes the street more than anything in the world, that she makes advances to all the children in Bougival, and is very popular there. From every door one hears, “Good day, Mademoiselle Julie". When she is asked her name she answers very politely, “Bibi Manet”. This made two cocottes walking along the bank  laugh till they cried. They no doubt thought that she was the daughter of the famous Manet put out to nurse in this village of boating girls.“Mama is much less attractive than the daughter; she is ageing visibly and is still at work.“Dear friend, you still have a lot to learn; the love of art, as you call it, or simply the love, the habit of any work, does not diminish with the years. Teis this that reconciles us to our wrinkles and white hair.“Chichi is charming but leaves much to be desired as an intellectual companion; and I live in such great solitude that I should be worthy of pity if I did not find something to keep me busy. You know that I have always had a need for activity, and now this need is gratified only by my work Bibi, and reading. I have no friends left, of either sex; some have deserted me, and you, you are far away! And T have lost the dear duchess .. ”

[camilleflyingrotten]

@persephonesiren suggested on Twitter a Cabaret dancer Elias and... I came up with Cocotte. She’s a beautiful massive lady and she is very much in love with her tiny painter Adam 💕

[lady-moriel]

Part #20

beginning / previous / next

Моя группа ВК, история на русском.

I just love her face on the last screenshot. 🤣

Klaus: Good afternoon, dear, won't it make it difficult for you to prepare a sumptuous dinner for a noble heroes? Your gourmet chicken in honey sauce, mushrooms, stewed vegetables. In general, yes, more meat! We are pretty hungry after a five-day trip into the forest, and your cooking will not only make a traveler feel in seventh heaven with happiness, but heal a dying man!

Glena: Oh, my dear, for I will slaughter the fattest chicken, I will make it in the best possible way. Promise only to please us in the evening with your beautiful song.

Klaus: Differently. In addition, we need tree free rooms for a few days, I hope you still have rooms?

Glena: There's always room for you and your friends, don't worry. We'll have a wait a bit, today I'm alone on the kitchen.

Barman: *grumbles* Gods, whoever the devils do not bring to our land. What do you want?

Balasar: Five mugs of the ale that the table over there.

Barman: Now I'll bring it, you just sit back, otherwise you will scare away all the visitors with your muzzle.

Balasar: Do not forget to have a snack.

Klaus: Finally, delicious hearty food!

Tirael: Y-yes, the products are not the most exquisite, and the cleanliness of this establishment remains much to be desired. Wait, where is cutlery? Not even a cocotte fork? And spoons... How to eat soup?

Klaus: What nonsense! Eat with your hands, and dink the soup, and then again with your hands.

Tirael: We are not cattle to been fed in such a way. You not so long buried corpses with theses hands, and now you are going to eat this way?! You are disgusting!

Vianora: Come on, sis, he's making fun of you. Just look, he hid all the spoons next to him.

Klaus: I'm absolutely serious, just watch how I quickly and dexterously I deal with this chicken with my bare hands.

Dorian: Isn't it mean for all of us?...

Klaus: In the name of all bright Gods, I haven't have a meal like this for a long time. I think one more portion of chicken in creamy sauce with mushrooms would not hurt me for complete happiness. And a mug of ale.

Balasar: Where does so much fit in you? You practically ate everything by yourself.

[antoschauniverse]

I hate to be the umm, actually type of person, but I don't think Odalisque means lazy

I could be wrong, but I was under the impression it's a name for a type of a reclining nude in art

It's meant to be a depiction of a room servant (or a slave) in Ottoman empire since it the etymology of the word comes from a Turkish word for a room odalik

I'm sorry, maybe I didn't express my idea correctly. I know english quite mediocre. I meant that David's kept woman was too lazy to look on the Internet what the word "odalisque" means and find out that basically this word has a negative meaning before calling her bouquet that way and displaying it in David's house. A room servant girl or a slave arranges flowers in the sultan's house. I hope that she will not call her next bouquet "cocotte".

[lisawilsonlisa]

Coco Chanel Jewelry, Purses, and more.

Coco Chanel was born Gabrielle Bonheur Chanel on August 19, 1883 in Saumur, France. Her early years were anything but glamorous. At age 12, after her mother died, Chanel was taken to an orphanage by her father, who worked as a street vendor. Chanel was raised by nuns who taught her to sew, a skill that would lead to her life's work. Her nickname comes from another occupation entirely. During her brief singing career, Chanel performed at clubs in Vichy and Moulins, where she was called "Coco." Some say the name comes from one of the songs she used to sing, and Chanel herself said it was a "shortened version of cocotte, the French word for 'kept woman,'" according to an article in The Atlantic. Among all her works purses remain a prime attraction to the fans of Chanel. One can view the Coco Chanel purses sale online for a wide range of varieties.

Gabrielle Coco Chanel created one of the most famous international fashion brands the world has ever known. Beginning with a small headgear shop in Paris in 1910, it quickly expanded into luxurious jersey sportswear that caught the attention of women in Parisian society clamouring for Coco Chanel designs as an escape from their previous corset looks. Chanel also made black an elegant colour in fashion rather than being reserved only for funerals and mourning. In 1921, it was the first fashion house to create a fragrance, the famous Chanel No.5, which was very successful and remains one of the most popular fragrances on the market. Coco Chanel created some of the most iconic designs and styles, including the quilted bag, little black dress, collarless suit, and interlocking C logo. Coco Chanel sale is available online. Interested ones can take a tour of the items and purchase.

In her early 20s, Chanel became involved with Etienne Balsan, who offered to help her start a headgear business in Paris. She soon left him for one of her richest friends, Arthur "Boy" Capel. Both men were instrumental in Chanel's first fashion adventure. Opening her first store on Rue Cambon in Paris in 1910, Chanel began selling hats. She later on she added stores in Deauville and Biarritz and started making clothes. Her first experience with clothing success came from a dress she made from an old T-shirt on a cold day. In response to the many people who asked her where she got the dress, she offered to make one for them. "My fortune is based on that old T-shirt I wore because it was cold in Deauville," she once told author Paul Morand.

Chanel became a popular figure in the Parisian artistic and literary world. She designed costumes for the Ballets Russes and Jean Cocteau's play Orphée, and counted Cocteau and artist Pablo Picasso among her friends. She also designed jewelry, her jewelry was popularly known as Chanel jewelry. During the German occupation of France, Chanel became involved with a Nazi military officer, Hans Gunther von Dincklage. She obtained special permission to stay in her apartment at the Ritz Hotel in Paris, which also served as German military headquarters. After the war ended, Chanel was questioned about her relationship with von Dincklage, but she was not charged as a collaborator. Some have wondered if her friend Winston Churchill worked behind the scenes on behalf of Chanel. While he was not officially charged, Chanel suffered in the court of public opinion. Some still saw her relationship with a Nazi officer as a betrayal of her country.

Chanel, who died matured 87 out of 1971, did nothing by equal parts. Assuming her garments have now gotten inseparable from a monochrome range, her life, conversely, was a bright one, loaded up with adorned certainties and an always showing signs of change origin story. While she never wedded, Chanel's affection life was emotional, making her own issues as much a subject of conversation as her assortments.

[terresdebrumestories]

WIP: trilingual soldiers

This started out as part of my answer to a prompt from lulunicorn on the TOG server and grew into its own thing. I'm experimenting with a different form of planning with this one: I'm writing the dialogues alone for now and when I rewrite it I'll add the narration.

And translate everything into English.

Anyway, if you're into French / English / German messes set during ww1, please read on ;)

(TW: suicide gets referrenced in a fairly flippant manner.)

"Oh putain—t'as trouvé ça où ?"

"Bet he stole it from the Lieutenant."

"Hein? Ça va pas la tête ? Si jamais Lebrun l'apprend il va devenir fou!"

"You might get shot."

"Eh bah au moins j'aurai les pieds secs pour une fois, ça me changera."

"That's not funny."

"Ouais, y a déjà assez d'Fritz qui veulent nous faire la peau, file leur pas un coup de main hein!"

"Vous voulez du chocolat oui ou merde?"

"I can want chocolate and want you alive."

"Non, dans la vie faut faire des choix."

"Bon ben donne ton chocolat, alors."

"Merci. Enfin un peu d'bon sens. Joe? Chocolat ?"

"You're an ass. And a thief."

"I can steal or I can drink. Your pick." [Miming]

"Moi je vote pour que tu restes sobre, vu qu't'es l'seul qui sache viser."

"Ta gueule, Jean-Claude."

"Fuck you too, rosbeef!"

"Ah, see, you got the accent right in the end."

"Y dit quoi?"

"Y dit qu't'as une sale gueule. Aïe! Put—"

"COCOTTE !"

 Joe and Sébastien move to shield Jean-Claude at the same time, which results in them nearly breaking their noses against one another—and for nothing to boot, seeing as nothing explodes in the vicinity. Rubbing his nose, Sébastien shares a look with Joe and turns toward the East side of their trench to try and see what's happening... which is when Jean-Claude, somehow extirpated from below two sheepish immortals, pokes his head over Sébastien's helmet and hisses.

 "Y fout quoi Berger là ? Il est con ou quoi ?"

"Il en a p't'être marre? Ça sera pas l'premier."

"What?"

"I said maybe Berger's trying to end it."

"With no one shooting?"

"Y dit quoi?"

"Y dit qu'le suicide de berger va pas aller loin si les Fritz se décident pas à tirer."

"Tu dis ça comme si c'était dommage!"

"Mais non laisse le, c'est moi qui traduit mal."

"Why's Jean-Claude pissed at me?"

"Y dit quoi ?"

"Because he thinks I'm doing word for word translations."

"Oh, Bouquin ! Y dit quoi?"

"Attends deux minutes—il en est où Berger ?"

"Il est au milieu du champ! Le con!"

"What's he saying?"

"He says Berger's a dumbass. I think we can look, they're still not shooting."

"T'as dit quoi?"

 They poke their noses over the edge of the trench, like the dirtiest mushrooms ever created, and watch as Berger from around the bend walks through no man's land with what looks like a ball held high above his head. Then he shouts:

 "Comment on demande si ils veulent faire un match ?"

"Wollen sie spielen!"

"Y dit quoi?"

"Je sais pas, je parle anglais, pas allemand. What did you say?"

"I said 'do you want to play?'"

"Il a demandé si les Fritz voulaient jouer."

"Ah ouais. Logique."

"Ils disent 'bla bla bla hören'!"

"They're not hearing him."

"Ils t'entendent pas Berger, gueule plus fort!"

"T'es tout con toi, je gueule autant qu'je peux!"

"What did he say?"

"He says he can't shout louder."

"He needs to tell them to send someone over."

"Y dit quoi?"

"Y dit qu'il faut que Berger leur dise d'envoyer un gars. Berger! Dit leur d'envoyer quelqu'un pour te parler !"

"Mais je parle pas allemand moi! T'as qu'à envoyer ton rosbeef c'est lui qui sait leur causer !"

"He's saying I've got to go there isn't he?"

"Yeah you're not going up there—y peut pas sortir Berger!"

"Y fait quoi?"

"Putain Joe! I said stay down there!"

"They're not shooting, I'll be fine."

"Y dit quoi?"

"Y dit qu'il est con, Joe reviens ici !"

 Joe goes over the side of the trench. Nobody shoots, but from the English trench to the West, several voices rise in clamor.

 "Ah bah y sont contents de l'revoir les rosbeefs. J'espère que les Fritz vont pas lui éclater la caboche maintenant, ça serait con."

"Y vont pas lui mettre une balle, ils sont en train de lui parler !"

"Pas faux. C'est à moi qu'y fait signe ?"

"Non, à moi. Son copain là bas doit pas parler français."

"Tu vas y aller ?"

"Si j'y vais pas on est encore là demain."

"Sebastian! Come on up here! We're trying to organize a tournament!"

"Y dit quoi ?"

"Y dit qu'ils veulent faire un tournoi."

"Un tournoi de foot? La comme ça ?"

"Faut croire que les Fritz aussi ils font la trêve."

 Sébastien goes over the wall. The other three are done gesticulating when he gets to them, looking at him expectantly.

 "Gentlemen, this is Sebastian."

"Sébastien."

"Schon Sie zu treffen, Sébastienne."

"Ta gueule, Berger."

"Oh allez, soit pas chienne. Aïe!"

"What's the problem?"

"His accent makes it sound like he's using the woman's version of my name."

"Was sagt er?"

"Er sagt, dein Akzent ist sehr gut. Ow."

"So what do you want to do for the tournament?"

"Use your head as a ball."

"Had a good time over with the froggies, didn't you Joe?"

"They're decent, but their rations are as gross as ours."

"Qu'est-ce-qu'ils disent?"

"Was sagen sie?"

"Joe. The tournament thing?"

"Right. Daniel and I were thinking two teams each, draw for the first matches, see who wins?"

"Ils veulent qu'on fasse deux équipes chacuns et qu'on tire au sort pour les premiers matchs."

"Ça me va. Pas d'armes à portée de main, on garde les casques pour marquer les joueurs ?"

"He says no weapons out, and the helmets mark the teams."

 Joe translates into German.

 "Gut."

"Bouquin! Y disent quoi?"

"I'm gonna have to go back, Jean-Claude's not gonna stop asking. On fait une équipe tranchée Nord, une pour la tranchée Sud ?"

"Pas de problème. Tu dis pas au revoir à ton rosbeef?"

"Oh...right. Gotta go back to your own trench."

"Yeah... I mean, I'll be back topside in a few but uh. At the end of it I'll have to get back to my side."

"Right. Yes. Makes sense."

"See you when I kick your ass, Bookin."

"Ta gueule, Joe."

 They make their way back to their respective trenches, where Jean-Claude is waiting for news and proves eager to play the game, if customarily overenthusiastic about it. They set up the teams, get the captains up in the field where non players have started to sit and mingle.

Then Sébastien gets called over again.

 "Wir haben ein Problem. Wir haben keinen Schiedsrichter."

"Qu'est-ce-qu'il dit?"

"Il dit qu'on a pas d'arbitre."

"Tu parles allemand toi maintenant ?"

"Non, j'ai des yeux."

"Warum kämpfen sie?"

"Sie sind Französisch. So zeigen sie ihre Zuneigung."

"Why are the French fighting?"

"I don't know, I think it's a French thing."

"Berger thinks I'm an idiot. I can referee if you want."

"Qu'est-ce que tu leurs a dit sur moi?"

"J'ai dit qu't'étais con. Si j'arbitre, ça te va ?"

"Tant qu'on laisse pas compter les points aux Fritz."

"Haben Sie einen Soldaten namens Fritz?"

"Attend—what does he want?"

"He wants to know if you've got someone named Fritz."

"No. Listen, Berger says it's okay with him if I Referee for the match."

"I'll be honest with you mister Bookin, that might not fly with my men."

"Was sagt er?"

"Sébastienne—ow—er sagte er könne vermitteln."

"Es ist ok für mich, aber die Anderen..."

"He doesn't want me to do it either does he?"

"It's not him, it's his men. He thinks they won't want it."

"Now wait a minute—"

"Qu'est-qu'ils disent ?"

"Ben... What's his name?"

"Willhelm."

"Thanks. Daniel a dit que ses hommes voudraient pas d'un arbitre français, ensuite Wilhelm a dit que des hommes voudraient pas d'un arbitre français alors maintenant Daniel est vexé et il veut bien d'un arbitre français. You *are* okay with me referring, right? Offended as you are."

"He's got a point, you know."

"...fine. But only if someone from our side shares the duty with him."

"Fine, I'll do it."

"He's your friend. You might want to help him."

"And the rest of your men gave Joe a huzzah when they saw him. If they don't trust him they won't trust anyone else."

"Fair point."

"Qu'est-ce-qu'ils disent ?"

"Joe et moi on va co-arbitrer."

"C'est qui Joe?"

"Is he asking who I am?"

"Ignore him, he's an ass."

"Wait, you've been there two weeks and they still don't know your name?"

"That's irrelevant—it *is* irrelevant, hush. Now—wir brauchen eine deutsche Schiedsrichter."

"War—oh. Ja, genau. Schneider! Komm her. Schneider wird den dritten Schiedsrichter sein."

"Good. Joe, if you see them cheat, just do the same, I'll personally forgive you for it."

"Don't worry, we'll have a watcher. Jean-Claude! Viens ici."

 Berger groans. Jean-Claude's head pokes over the lip of the trench, pretty much alone by then.

 "Vous êtes sur le territoire de qui?"

"De personne, c'est la trêve. Viens ici!"

"Warum kommt das Kind zu uns?"

"Er ist ein Verfechter der Regeln."

"What did you say? Why are they calling a baby frog over?"

"Because no one can cheat when he's around—we banned him from all card games. Bouge tes fesses, Jean-Claude, y caille trop pour traîner."

"I'll vouch for the kid mate, he'll call any foul out as he sees it."

"Vertraust du ihm?"

"Ja klar."

"Y disent quoi?"

"Y disent que t'es un bon gamin. On a besoin de toi pour surveiller les arbitres, vérifier qu'on triche pas."

"Tu vas pas tricher pour notre tranchée, tu les aime pas."

"Ta gueule, Balland."

"Fous lui la paix, Berger, c'est pas comme si il avait tort. Tu veux surveiller ou pas ?"

"Ils vont s'énerver si je surveille ?"

"What are they saying?"

"Was sagt er?"

"He wants to know if the referees will get pissy if he calls them out. Les arbitres ça sera Joe et moi—et Schneider. Si il s'énerve on peut toujours lui mettre une balle."

"Ben voyons, et tu redémarre le merdier pour tout le monde?"

"Ta gueule, Berger."

"Schneider says he'll behave."

"Great. If he doesn't we'll just kill him."

"Tu dis quoi?"

"Juste qu'on va pouvoir commencer. Va voir Lepage et demande lui s'il a toujours son sifflet pour arbitrer."

"Ce gosse. Je sais pas qui l'a foutu là mais si je le croise, je lui fait manger mon casque."

"Am I going to have to agree with Berger?"

"He says whoever got Jean-Claude here should get his face caved in."

"Damn it."

"Don't make me pick sides between the French, Joe."

"Go get your team, Daniel."

"Bon, je vais appeler les gars hein. Qu'ils soient là pour le tirage."

"Tu fais ça." [pause] "I want to take Jean-Claude along, when we leave."

"Sebastian..."

"He's never going to survive this thing. You know he's not."

"I know! And I don't want that for him, but 'Bastian...you have to remember how it went—"

"Yes, of course I do. I don't want to *tell him* I want to take him away from here."

"If he's caught as a deserter it'll be the firing squad for him."

"If we take him far enough away...."

"Sebastian. He's already got trouble adapting to French people in the *army*. What do you think is going to happen if you drop him on a whole different continent altogether? Just because he's got no family doesn't mean he's got no roots there."

"It's not going to be quick, Joe. They keep saying it's going to be over soon but they always say that and it's *never* true."

"I..."

"Ich könnte den Jungen nehmen. Wenn das Waffenstillstand endet. Ich könnte ihn nehmen. Wenn ich sage dass ich ihn gefangen habe..."

"What does he want?"

"He says he could take Jean-Claude. Pretend he's a war prisoner."

"Jean-Claude? Lying?"

"Es würde nicht funktionieren. Er lügt nicht."

"Aber..."

"Er lügt nicht."

"Gottverdammt."

"Ouais."

"Bouquin ! J'ai un sifflet! Je le donne à qui?"

"À moi, on va voir si les autres en ont avant de refiler les affaires de Lepage à n'importe qui." "D'accord. Ça va?"

"Ouais ça va."

"Ça a pas l'air d'aller."

"C'est la guerre, Jean-Claude. Personne a l'air d'aller."

"Oh."

"Hey, Jean-Claude. This is Schneider. Schneider, Jean-Claude."

"Y dit quoi?"

"Y dit que l'allemand s'appelle Schneider."

"Oh. Enchanté. Euh. Comment on dit—"

"'Schön Sie zu treffen'."

"Schön Sie zu treffen, Schneider."

"Sag 'enchanté Jean-Claude'."

"Enchanté, Jean-Claude."

"Oh. Il a l'air sympa."

"Jean-Claude magst du."

"Y dit quoi?"

"Y dit qu'tu trouves Schneider sympa. Trouve toi un coin ou t'asseoir, on va démarrer."

 After the match.

 "I got word from Andy, while I was with you."

"Hé, Bouquin, ton rosbeef y veut—"

"Il boit pas d'alcool."

"Ah merde. Problème ?"

"Non, religion. Y a du café ?"

"Ouais attends, j'vais en chercher."

"Merci. What did she say?"

"Might be time to regroup. Nico's—"

"Yeah, I can't leave Jean-Claude in this mess."

"I had a feeling you'd say that."

"You're going to go anyway, aren't you?"

"Nico needs me."

"Yeah. Of course."

"Will you be—"

"I'm always alright. How are you going to do it?"

"I figured I'd wait until it occurred naturally."

"Or you could—merci Jean-Claude."

"Vous parlez de quoi?"

"Joe va devoir repartir dans sa tranchée à la fin de la trêve. On cause tant qu'on en a le temps."

"Oh. Je peux causer avec vous ? Je l'aime bien, ton rosbeef."

"He wants to know if he can sit with us."

"...if you're okay with a change in topic."

"Vous voulez pas que j'reste?"

"Si, vas-y, assied toi."

"Vous avez pas l'air de vouloir que je reste."

"Que tu restes ou pas, on peut pas se dire tout ce qu'on a à se dire de toute façon. Et pis y t'aime bien aussi, Joe."

"What did you just say to him?"

"Just that we didn't have time to finish our talk right now, wh—ça va, Jean-Claude?"

"C'est ton ami particulier ?"

"Sebastian?"

"Yeah uh—not right now. Un ami particulier?"

"Comme mon oncle. Il est parti au Maroc en 1907 avec l'armée et il s'est fait un ami particulier. Quand il est mort, Paul—c'est son ami—nous a ramené ses affaires et ensuite il est resté habiter chez nous. Il arrêtait pas de parler de mon oncle avec ma mère, elle faisait les mêmes têtes quand elle parlait de mon père."

"Can I—"

"Wait, please."

"Je sais que j'suis pas comme tout le monde, mais j'suis pas con, hein. Le rosbif, c'est ton ami particulier ?"

"Non. On s'est connus avant la guerre. Lui et moi c'est de la famille. C'est comme si je disais au revoir à mon frère, tu comprends ?"

"Ouais. Tu m'le dirais, si c'était un ami particulier ?"

"Tu sais pas mentir, Jean-Claude. C'est dangereux, pour les hommes comme ça, si on apprend leur secret."

"Why is Jean-Claude upset?"

"I think he thinks I'm lying to him."

"Tu sais, quand Paul était vivant, j'ai dit à personne que c'était l'ami de mon oncle. Je sais pas mentir quand on me pose une question, mais on m'en pose jamais, des questions."

"Sebastian what's going on?"

"We're having a bit of a crisis here—"

"Yes, I can see that thank you—what is the crisis *about*?"

"He thinks you and I are an item and I don't want to tell him because I don't trust him."

"Crap."

"Yeah."

"C'est pas grave, Le Livre, j'ai l'habitude."

"Jean-Claude, attend—"

"Jean-Claude, come back."

"Y dit quoi?"

"Il te demande de revenir. S'il-te-plaît."

"Bookin and I aren't together. I already have someone."

"Y dit quoi?"

"Are you sure?"

"It's not like anyone from your trench is going to ask him about me outside of my relationship to you.”

“Bouquin. Y dit quoi?”

“Y dit qu’il a déjà quelqu’un.”

[yoohyeon]

icb ur mom inadvertently got u into kpop that’s amazing !! also i meant 29 ;p i rly want to hear ur answer for it in french !!!!! 💖

Yeah I found it pretty funny, especially when my dad is like « we don’t care we are tired of listening to kpop » and I just go « but mom like it it’s her fault I listen to kpop » and she’s like «  Yeah I do » and my dad can’t say anything jvkjbkjbkjb

Also I’m sorry that what Trying to write and answering this do to me vkjgbjk

29. What name from your native language would you give your ult bias?

AJ I’m really bad at nickname especially in French, I try to avoid French the most I can’t cause I think it’s cringing 😂 I like Coco tho I give that nickname to all of my baby cousin 😂 I also Call my bias coco and cocotte a lot ! It’s cute but not special at all, Coco is a nickname for egg 😂

[salantami]

Pissarro

Portrait of Jeanne 

Portrait of Jeanne depicts Pissarro’s only surviving daughter, Jeanne Marguerite Eva, nicknamed Cocotte. Her older sister, for whom she was named, Jeanne Rachel, nicknamed Minette, had died in 1874 at the age of nine from a respiratory ailment. Cocotte (b. 1881) would be about twelve years old here, just on the brink of puberty. She wears a loose-fitting, long-sleeved yellow dress and her lap is covered with a mauve coverlet. Her head is in three-quarter view, a position favored by Pissarro for portraiture. This slight turn to the side distances the subject from the viewer while taking full advantage of the subtle interplay of light and shadow over the features. Vestiges of Pissarro’s Neo-Impressionist involvement are still present here in the high-pitched palette, the striking color contrasts, and the dense crisscross strokes used in part of the background.

 Source and credit:

From the Israel Museum publications:

Impressionist and Post-Impressionist Painting and Sculpture, The Israel Museum, Jerusalem

https://www.imj.org.il/en/collections/194553

[paleandmoonstruck]

Half-Sick of Shadows CH. 1

For reference: this is a Tommy Shelby x OC fic. Just me playing around a little with canon as a kind of fix-it fic. Enjoy!

(AN: The version of ‘Clair de Lune’ Lucy sings here is by Merry Ellen Kirk! All rights go to her and her beautiful brain.)

The gaslight reflected off the rain-slick streets, shimmering beneath Lucy’s boots. Long, glowing lines of gold seemed to lead her straight to Alice’s door; entirely too beautiful for what she had told her of Birmingham. The brass handle of her suitcase had grown warm from her clutching it, a steamer trunk filled with the non-essentials on its way from the train station. The man at the counter had assured her that it would arrive by the next afternoon, and directed her towards a line of cabs willing to take her to wherever she was staying.

She had walked the five kilometres to Alice’s happily, brushing away the voice that murmured that she wasn’t safe. She had learned to be invisible, and the dark blue of her coat and hat let the eyes of others skip over her. The city had taken her by surprise: Ottawa had been busy, but never this cramped and… industrial. Steam seemed to collect around the feet of the buildings, spewing from furnaces dotted around with no apparent rhyme or reason. Despite the hour, streams and masses of people filled the streets, clamouring together and shouting. The air stunk of factories, but as she drew nearer to where Alice lived, she found it had its own charm. She had always enjoyed being where it was lively, and the bright energy of Birmingham lacked the frantic fear of the medical tents that had tainted the bustle.

Before she knew it, the small door that read Alice’s address was before her face. The paint was peeling in the corner, something George would have fixed. She had barely lifted the knocker when the door swung open, the worn metal slipping from beneath her fingers. And behind the frame stood Alice.

She had changed in the months after the War’s end. Her hair was shorter, cut to her jaw in the current fashion. She looked smaller somehow. Carried herself differently. Lucy wondered how she had changed.

“Lucienne!” Alice gasped, throwing her arms around her. She still smelled like lavender and soap, still buried her shorter head in the crook of Lucy’s neck. Her nose burned with tears.

Resisting the urge to babble away in French, Lucy pulled back, “let’s go in off the porch, ma cocotte, before I start crying in the middle of the street.”

In a flurry of movement, Alice had taken her bag and ushered her into her little apartment. “It’s got two bedrooms,” Alice chirped, “we had planned on making the second a guest bedroom, but that can be yours now. Tiny though, I hope you don’t mind, love.”

Her tone was forced, and Lucy offered her a sympathetic smile. “Never. I’m just glad you got my letters.”

Lucy’s side had been itching all the way here. She wasn’t sure if it was the wound itself, or the fact that she knew it was there. She had scratched the skin raw during her nearly week-long trip across the Atlantic. Dropping her hat, she crossed the room to the fire. A long iron poker lay to the left, and she propped it up so the end was properly thrust into the coals. “Do you have any whiskey, Alice?”

“Where are my manners?” she said, dashing off to the small kitchen, “would you like it watered down any?”

“No,” Lucy replied, shrugging off her coat and starting to work on the buttons of her blouse, “straight, if you don’t mind.”

By the time Alice reappeared in the living room, Lucy stood naked from the waist up in front of the fire. Alice stopped dead in the doorway, eyeing her like she had lost her mind. Lucy remained unabashed. Alice was more like family than anyone who shared her blood, a sister in every way but biology. She drew nearer to where Lucy stood, eyes focused on the ugly raised skin on her right side. She handed off the whiskey, voice low, “did — did he…?”

“With a knife,” Lucy said, knocking back her whiskey. The rush of it flooded her from head to toe, glowing warmth settling in her chest. She put down the glass, grasping Alice’s hand in her own, “I need to ask a favour of you.”

“What?”

Pulling the poker from the fire, she eyed the metal. The edges glowed a bright orange, and she handed it off to Alice, “burn it. Please, for the love of God. I can’t walk around with it any longer.”

“Lucy,” Alice said, swiping at tears that hadn’t fallen yet, “you can’t ask that of me.”

“Please, Alice,” Lucy begged, raising her arm to show the full effect of the scar. Two jagged letters, FV, sat in the curve between her breast and ribs. “I feel like a cow.”

Alice nodded, grabbing the poker with two hands. “Arms up on the mantel. I don’t want to catch you somewhere else by accident.”

Bracing herself against the fireplace, Lucy sucked in a sharp breath as Alice dragged a chair over, propping her legs against it in case her knees gave out. The poker met her skin, blinding pain blooming across her ribs. Her death-grip on the oak mantel kept her from drawing away from the poker, but she wouldn’t have in the first place. The pain was cleansing. Rebirth lived on the razor’s edge of it, each wave of agony burning away the letters, the words, where his knife had dug into the flesh. She wished she could do this to her whole body. That the Lucienne who had loved him could go up in smoke as easily.

“It’s done,” Alice said, dashing away as if she had been the one burned, “I’ll get water to draw the heat out, and I think I have cooling gel here somewhere.”

Finally letting herself fall away from the fireplace, Lucy flopped onto the chair. As her head lolled back, she smiled at Alice. “Thank you."

Alice paused in the threshold of the kitchen. The apartment, Lucy realized, was arranged strangely. Alice’s things littered the rooms, with strange gaps. Like she had left space for George to put his things, and the holes still had yet to be filled. Her belongings, she supposed, could slot in to the empty spaces. “No,” Alice said, “thank you. For coming when I needed you."

For a moment when she woke, Lucy forgot where she was.

She came to thrashing, just as she had for the past week and a half. But Alice’s familiar smell clung to the sheets of the guest bed, and all at once she came back to herself.

Her new burn made dressing difficult, but it didn’t hurt nearly as terribly as she thought it would. The skin was a jagged block of new and old flesh, the once raised scar now lowered compared to the surrounding skin. Alice had informed her of a nearby bar in need of staffing, and she refused to languish unhelpfully for longer than she had. The past few days had been spent with Alice dashing off to work at the hospital, while Lucy cleaned anything she could get her hands on. She had assembled her and Alice’s things into a tidy order, the gaps where George’s belongings had been easily forgotten.

The dress she wore today reminded her of her uniform during the war, the sky-blue of it matching her eyes rather wonderfully. Little bluebird, a familiar voice hissed in her mind, mon alouette. She brushed harder against her palm. Despite herself, she couldn’t bear to cut her hair. It remained far past her shoulders — horribly old-fashioned. The curls helped a little, even if she spent a solid half hour a week brushing them out. The golden red of it didn’t suit the new style of bob anyhow, unlike Alice’s shiny black hair.

Staring into the mirror, she stopped seeing the woman she had been for the past seven months. The Lucy that had slogged her way to the medical tents and worked twelve-hour shifts on her feet reappeared. She almost expected to turn her head and find her face splattered in fresh blood.

She wondered if she would ever be the girl who had never seen war again, or if she was lost to 1913.

Twisting her hair back into the same bun she had worn for the four years of the War, she felt more and more like her old self again. By the time she had stepped out the door, her spine was straighter than it had been in months, and she met the eyes of each person she passed dauntlessly. And they stared. Both her dress and cloak-like coat were the same bright blue, admittedly standing out amongst the darker colours the people of Birmingham seemed to prefer. Otherwise, her old-fashioned sense of style and red hair made her stick out like a sore thumb.

When she swung open the door, the bar — pub, she reminded herself — appeared empty. She called out into the silence, cringing as her voice echoed back to her, “hello? Anyone here?”

“We’re closed right now love,” a voice answered. The man it belonged to came around the corner. He was fairly tall, wearing a suit of a fine make with the jacket and tie cast off. He had an impressive moustache, laid against a somewhat old, weathered face. His ears were quite large, and she tried desperately not to stare at them.

“I was told there was a job opening? For someone to come sing.”

He narrowed his eyes. “What’s your name? Where are you from?”

“Lucienne Frasier,” she said, cursing her blend of an accent. “But most English folk call me Lucy. I’m from Ottawa, in Canada. My mother was French, and my father was Scottish, so I sound a tad strange. But I’ve moved to Birmingham.”

She was babbling, and she knew this, but it was proving rather difficult to stop. Out came the hand gestures, and the rushed voice, but words kept spilling out of her. “I’ve worked in bars before. Before the War, I mean. As a singer, and as a barmaid. During the War, I was nurse. Served on the Western Front. But that’s not relevant, is it?…”

Her question hung in the air as a second, utterly familiar man rounded the corner. Sergeant Major Thomas Shelby stood staring back at her, a look on his face like he had just seen a ghost. She supposed he had. She hadn’t even considered the fact that she might bump into him in Birmingham, despite the relatively small size of the city. God, how could she be so stupid?

Northern France, November 4th, 1916.  

“Seven more wounded!” Someone called. Men dragged in the dead and dying on stretchers. A beat. Lucy was too slow, five other nurses had already flocked to the dead bodies. They were the easiest, only needing someone to properly pronounce them dead before moving on. She settled for a man with blood staining his torso, who lay still as a corpse. Dragging him over to her workspace, she began to cut away his torn and dirty uniform. Beneath, she saw that he was littered with stab wounds.

“Leave him,” Nurse Bernadette said, “he’s almost dead anyway. It’s not worth the effort.”

Maybe it was the fact that Bernadette was a raging bitch, and every nurse, medic, and doctor this side of the Marne knew it. Maybe it was the faint fluttering of the soldier’s eyelashes as she spoke. Maybe it was the fact that he was beautiful. Either way, a surge of anger and protectiveness rose in Lucy’s chest, and she snapped back, “mind your own damn patient. He’s mine to take care of, and I’ll do as I please.”  

Bernadette, ever the arsepiece, turned to Doctor Thompson. “Tell her to leave him be, she’s wasting time and resources.”

Doctor Thompson scanned the man, and saw Lucy’s face. “Her patient, her decision. We don’t have time for this, Bernadette. Mind your own.”

“Thank you, Doctor,” Lucy said, eyeing Bernadette murderously. She got to work, splashing her hands in Dakin solution and tossing on a pair of gloves. Anesthetic was administered quickly, and with expert technique. Thank God, his organs weren’t damaged. The stab wounds were numerous, but shallow. From the size and shape, it looked as though they had been made by an idiot who didn’t know how to use a bayonet. The work was painstaking, each stitch made with the utmost precision. Other nurses whirled around her in constant movement, stretchers flying across the medical tent as men were either healed enough to be taken to Recovery, or died on the table.

“Lucy,” a voice called. It was Nurse Russell, she realized. “Your shift is up, someone else can take over for you.”

“No,” Lucy murmured, shifting the man’s skin so the layers lined up with one another. She was hoping to reduce scarring, if possible.

She lost herself in the work, slaving over the dozens of minuscule stitches needed to piece him back together. By the time she was done, the clock informed her that it was an hour and half past the end of her twelve-hour shift.

“I’ll take him to Recovery,” she said, her tiredness crashing down on her now that she was aware of the time. She tugged him onto a rolling stretcher, and carted him off to the Recovery tent. She put him in one of the nicer ones, with ‘rooms’ sectioned off with hanging canvas. It was thick enough to block out some of the noise, and provided about as much privacy as one could expect.

Before she left to go sleep, she cast a backwards glance at him. His chest rose and fell slowly, but steadily. He was out of the woods. A strange feeling of relief passed over her. An odd affection for a man she had never so much as spoken to blooming in her chest.

She needed to sleep.

Northern France, November 6th, 1916.

“How’s Caesar?” Alice asked, poking her head into the room.

Lucy still wasn’t quite sure how she had swung it with Nurse Russell to let her momentarily switch from Incoming tents to Recovery. Well, she was somewhat sure. Not one full sleep after she had carefully stitched him back together, nearly every nurse in Recovery and otherwise had started fighting over who would get to watch over him. It wasn’t because he was good looking, though that certainly helped. He was a mystery. He still hadn’t woken, and there was absolutely no form of identification on him. It tickled the fancy of the girls who had signed on to be nurses out of a botched romanticism, and at least stirred the curiosity of the others. Lucy insisted that she should be the one to care for him, given that she had treated him, and therefore knew his wounds best. Nurse Russell had no doubt seen an easy out there, and deemed it the perfect solution.

“Still sleeping,” Lucy answered, absentmindedly feeling the cloth on his forehead. He had started running a bit hot within the first day of her taking him into her care. It seemed to stem from whatever he was dreaming of, however, as she had checked thoroughly for any signs of infection and found nothing. He was healing remarkably well. “You’ll be the first to know if he rises from his slumber.”

Grinning, Alice tossed her a canteen of fresh water. “I had better be. Don’t forget to grab some food, lunch’s in an hour.”

Lucy took a grateful sip, nodding as she made to soak Caesar’s cloth in bowl of cold water at his bedside. Settling down with her book of Tennyson, she made a mental note to change his bandages in a half hour.

She could pass hours like this, entertaining herself with small menial tasks and the minutiae of tending to him. She supposed she could have gone and checked on the others, but it wasn’t as though Recovery was short-staffed. She took up darning a pair of socks Alice had handed off to her, insisting that if Lucy was going to sit around Caesar’s beside all day, she might as well make herself useful. Without doing much in the way of thinking, she began to hum, which grew into full-out soft singing. It was a Scottish song her grandmother had sung to her as a child, some ballad that doubled as a lullaby. She kept going as she went to change Caesar’s bandages, turning to the side to grab her medical bag.

A rough voice echoed through the room, nearly scaring her out of her skin, “are you an angel?”

Any song died in her throat, and she turned back to see Caesar staring at her, bleary-eyed. “Not an angel,” she managed, ignoring the little thrill in her chest as she took in the bright blue of his eyes. “Just a nurse.”

“Ah,” he said, nodding a little. “Figured an angel wouldn’t be singing a Jacobite song, but thought I’d check.”

He had a thick accent, that while being unmistakably English, was unlike any of the other accents she had come across just yet. She gently tapped his bandages, “I need to change these, do you mind?” When he waved his consent, she began to peel back the thick cotton, examining his wounds as she spoke, “everyone will be so pleased to hear you’ve woken. What’s your name, by the way? You lost your identification, so we’ve been calling you Caesar I’m afraid.”

His eyes drifted open a little wider, surprise and amusement swirling in them in equal measure. “Caesar?”

“That’s my fault,” she admitted, cheeks heating. “I started it. We’re supposed to call unidentified men John Doe, but I thought Caesar was a little more apt, what with all the stab wounds.” She gestured to his torso, which was littered with stitches.

He peered over his chest, craning his neck to see his stomach. “Ah. I nearly forgot.”

“Forgot being almost stabbed to death?”

“You’d be surprised what a man can forget when he doesn’t want to dwell on something.”

“Well,” she drawled, “you’re healing wonderfully. You’re welcome, by the way. I had to fight to be allowed to stitch you up.”

“Bit of a lost cause, was I?”

“In the opinion of some,” she sniffed, slathering a poultice over the stitches to keep them from getting stiff.

A smile was tugging at the corner of his mouth. “But not in yours?”

She turned to made eye contact with him, growing serious. “No one is beyond saving until their heart stops beating. Anyone who says otherwise is just lazy.”

“In that case, you have my eternal thanks,” he joked. “My name’s Thomas. Thomas Shelby.”

Tugging his chart out from beneath her pile of recreational activities, she wrote his name in clear print. “Age, rank, and affiliation?”

“Twenty-six, Sergeant Major, Small Heath Rifles, British Royal Forces. And you? Do you have a name?”

“Lucienne Frasier,” she murmured, offering him a drink of water, “but you can call me Lucy, if you’d like. Twenty-three, Nursing Sister, Canadian Army Medical Corps.”

“Ah, you’re one of the bluebirds,” he said, accepting a swig from her canteen. Shifting in his bed, he cocked an eyebrow at her. “Tell me, do all Canadians have an accent like yours?”

“No, I’m special I’m afraid,” she quipped. “I’m from Ottawa, so I suppose I have a bit of the Valley accent. But my father’s Scottish, and my mother’s Quebec French from across the river in Gatineau. Blend all that together, and you get my voice.” “Well, it’s lovely,” he said, tone ringing with a sincerity that made her toes curl in her boots.

“And where are you from? I’ve never heard an English accent like yours.”

“Small Heath, in Birmingham.” His tone was fond, and her breath caught in her chest as the smallest of smiles bloomed across his mouth. “The Brummie accent’s quite a bit different from anything else, you’ll find.”

“I see,” she teased, “so you’re special too.”

“Quite,” he said, schooling his face into the model of seriousness. “Unbelievably special. You’ve no idea.”

Silence hung in the air for a few moments before he cracked a grin, and she exploded into quiet laughter, shoulders shaking with the force of it. He joined her, though he winced in pain. “Careful,” she giggled, “you’ll rip your stitches. And they were an absolute bitch to put in, so they’d better stay put.”

“Aye aye, Nurse Frasier,” he said, eyes drifting around the room. They landed on her book, and his face lit up, “is that Tennyson?”

“Yes, do you care for him?”

“My mother used to read poetry to us before bed,” he murmured. “One of her favourites was The Lady of Shallot.”

“That’s right after the one I’m on, at current. Would you like me to read aloud?”

“God, please,” he groaned. “It’s been so long since I’ve done anything but play cards and drink. Bless my compatriots, but war’s not a particularly intellectual pursuit.”

Settling back into her chair, she opened to the page she had last read. “I’ll start back at the beginning, it’s not particularly long. It’s Oriana.”

He nodded, settling back into his pillows with a small noise of contentment. A warmth filled her chest and entered her voice as she read, but she ignored it. “My heart is wasted with my woe, Oriana. There is no rest for me below, Oriana…”

Northern France, November 20th, 1916.

As she tugged her book of Tennyson out of Tommy’s hands, she couldn’t help but think that his pout was adorable. “Let’s go, physical therapy.”

“I was halfway through Lady Clare,” he complained, shifting his blankets off his legs anyway. “I’m thoroughly enjoying your notes in the margins.”

She tucked the book into his pack, snug between a thermos and a rather large matchbook. “You can keep it until you finish, now let’s go.” She tugged Tommy up and out of bed, his legs giving way beneath him as they hit the floor. In the span of a few seconds she had nearly the full one-hundred-and-thirty pounds of him draped over her. She wasn’t shorter by much, but her own knees halfway buckled, a small noise of surprise escaping her throat. For the briefest of moments her brain refused to work. All she could register was the heat from his chest against her palms, and the smell of him in her nose.

Snapping out of it, she timed her breaths to still the racing of her heart, pulling away. “Careful, it’s my night off. If you break a bone, you’ll be fucked ’til the morning.”

“If it’s your night off, where are we going?”

“Out of this tent,” she said, steadying him on his feet. “You can walk now, and I’m willing to be you’re bored out of your right mind. So come with me.”

Laughing under his breath, he let her help him into a coat and shoes and lead him out of the maze of army canvas. “I’m not complaining, but aren’t there rules about this sort of thing?”

“The only person who could get me in trouble is Nurse Russell, and she adores me.” Turning to face him, she flashed a bright grin. “Besides, I won’t tell if you don’t.”

They tumbled out into the night air hand-in-hand, giggling to themselves. A group of nurses and medics were clumped together, bottles of liquor from home clutched in their hands. “Lucy!” Alice called, waving her over.

“Alice,” she greeted amiably, “meet Sergeant Major Thomas Shelby, formerly known to all as ‘Caesar’.”

Laughing, Alice offered her a fresh bottle of champagne. She grinned at Tommy, “right clever, isn’t our Lucy?”

“The cleverest,” he said solemnly, his hand migrating from hers to the small of her back. She tried to pretend that the sudden warmth in her stomach was from the champagne as she tilted her head back, cheeks heating. She handed him the bottle, admiring the line of his jaw as he took a swig.

“Lucy!” a voice called, Doctor Harding waving at her, “guess what we’ve got!”

“What?” she called back, offering him a wave in return. “Brigadier General Alexander gave us his record player for tonight, bless him!”

“No!,” she said, drawing nearer to see the player and a stack of records propped on a table someone had carted outside. “How on earth?”

“I have my ways,” Alice said, batting her eyelashes playfully.

Snorting, Lucy took another drink of champagne, “does he know you’re engaged?"

Alice shrugged, “he knows what he needs to.”

“Sing for us, will you?” Doctor Harding asked. “You’ve such a lovely voice.”

“Doesn’t she?” Tommy said, tugging her a little closer. “First thing I heard when I woke up. Thought she was a bloody angel.”

“Reminds me of my wife,” Doctor Harding said carefully, as though he was defusing a bomb. “I hope our daughter inherits that, I can’t carry a tune in a bucket.”

Something about Tommy softened, and Doctor Harding seemed to settle as well. God, she would never understand men. Loosening herself from Tommy’s grip, she approached the pile of records, deciding on Clair de Lune. Her grandmother used to sing a version with words to her as a lullaby, and she was in the mood for something sad and comforting. The soft crackle of the player was achingly familiar, and she was forced to remember how long it had been since she used one.

The song was soft, and she revelled in the feeling of everyone’s eyes on her as she sang. Most of all, she shivered beneath Tommy’s gaze. He looked at her as though she actually was an angel. Some primeval creature descended from the heavens. She wound up staring at him as the final chords of the song played. It was him who began to clap first, a rare, bright grin spreading over his face. Something a little like relief flooded her chest, and she grinned back.

For the rest of the night, they were glued together at the hip. Settling beneath a tree with their champagne, she found herself growing bolder. “You have a girl back home?”

A cloud passed over his face, and he took another pull from the bottle, lighting up a cigarette. “Used to, before the War. Her name was Greta. She died of consumption before I enlisted.”

Clutching at her chest, a dozen feelings filtered through Lucy before she spoke. Regret. Empathy. Relief. Self-loathing. “My mother died of consumption when I was ten. I’m so sorry, Tommy.”

“She did?”

Lucy nodded, fisting her hands in her skirt. “We sent her to a sanitarium early on, so none of the rest of us caught it. Broke my father’s heart. He’s never stopped regretting not being able to be with her at her deathbed. Suppose I haven’t either.”

“What about you then,” he said, taking another drag as he changed the subject, “you have a boy waiting for you somewhere?”

“Good question.”

“What do you mean?”

Biting her lip, she dropped his gaze. “I was seeing someone before the War. We’ve known each other since the cradle, and I suppose we’ve loved each other just as long. He enlisted before I finished my nursing course. We’ve never… put a name to anything. He told me before he left that he thought it was for the best if we put whatever we had on hold until after the War. After all, God knows if one of us is going to die before everything’s over.” Her voice turned to ash in her mouth, and she tried not to mumble. “ Alice thinks he just wanted to be able to fuck someone overseas and not feel bad about it. But then again, her and George heard about the War and were engaged in a week. She’s an odd duck.”

Silence hung between them for a moment, and she felt the rough pad of his finger under her chin, forcing her to look at him. His face was earnest as he spoke, “he’s a fucking idiot.”

Her breath was shaky, and she found herself speaking before she thought, “honestly, I don’t know if I even really love him.”

“Why?” Tommy asked, voice rough.

He doesn’t make me feel like you do. “I’ve never tried to love anyone else. We just grew up and decided we were in love and that was that. I was his, and he was mine. What if we made a mistake?”

“I think you should expand your horizons while you have the chance,” he murmured, tracing her cheekbone with his thumb. She melted into his touch, jolting upwards as a round of applause split the night air.

Whoever was performing had just finished. Now someone was strumming a guitar, the beginning to a sailor’s song everyone knew the words to. “C’mon,” she said, struggling to her feet. “I’ll teach you to dance the reel.”

The next few minutes consisted of her attempting to teach a very drunk Tommy a dance she knew from childhood, all while being equally ossified.

“No,” she giggled, showing him how to move his foot, “like that!”

“Okay,” he said very seriously, “like this?”

They made it about halfway through, until the section where they were supposed to circle one another, palms about an inch apart with the other hand tucked behind your back. Instead, he laced their fingers together, curling his free arm around her waist. Everything stopped, the earth grinding to a halt on its axis. Everything but his face lost colour and was shrouded in darkness, all sounds but their loose pants falling into quiet. Every inch of her was on alert, all too aware of every single place where their bodies met.

“Could I kiss you?” he murmured, eyes sweeping over her face.

“God, please,” she begged.

He did, mouth ghosting over hers in a soft kiss that sent shivers down her spine and curled her toes in her boots. It was unbelievably short and chaste. Hardly enough. She pressed herself closer to him, stretching onto her tiptoes to kiss him again. His hand left hers, burying itself in her hair.

Tipping slightly off-balance, she flung her arms around his neck as she tumbled into his chest. He groaned into her mouth, arm tightening around her waist as the kiss deepened. She felt like she was on fire and drowning all at once, skin far too sensitive and breath coming in a rush between kisses. God, how long had she wanted to do this?

As he pulled back, she pressed a kiss to his jaw, “I knew there was a reason I saved your sorry ass.”

“Am I ever glad you did,” he said, his hand rubbing soothing circles into her hip.

“I should bring you back, curfew’s soon.”

“Would you stay?”

She almost said yes. Between his hand in her hair and the taste of his cigarette still lingering in her mouth, she couldn’t imagine prying herself away from him. She swallowed a lump in her throat. ”You know I can’t.”

“I know,” he said, kissing the tip of her nose. Her heart melted in her chest. “But God, I want you to.”

Tugging herself from his grip, she intertwined their fingers. “Let’s go, I’ll see you to bed.”

When she finally did help into his cot, he stole another kiss from her as she leaned over to fix his blanket. “Thank you for tonight. I did need it.”

She smiled, running her fingers through his hair, “don’t I know everything?”

“If I say you do, will you kiss me again?”

“Bribes are unnecessary, I assure you, mon coeur,” she said, pressing a quick peck to his mouth. “Now go to bed, you can hassle me in the morning.”

“Could you stay until I fall asleep?”

Sighing, she stuffed his blankets to the side to lie on top of them. He eagerly made way for her, wrapping an arm around her side. “Just until then, and then I have to go.”

He hummed his consent, burying his nose in her hair. She had to admit that they fit together well, his ribs slotting into the negative space left by the curve of her spine, arm slung perfectly across her waist. For the briefest of moments she though of Félix, and her heart withered in her chest. How could she lie with someone else, knowing he was out there somewhere?

No. She was being an idiot. He was the one who had called off whatever they had. And like Alice said, she had no assurances that he wasn’t off seeing other women as soon as he got a bit of leave. And god, she had never felt anything like this before. The soft rush of Tommy’s breaths ghosting over her ear filled her with a strange kind of inner peace. All she wanted was to lie like this until the end of time; to fossilize and stay frozen with his weight against hers.

He had fallen asleep, she realized. With great chagrin, she gently extricated herself from his grip. Pressing a kiss to his forehead, she left him sleeping happily for the night.

As soon as she entered her own room, she felt any energy she had leave her. She barely had the strength to peel off her boots before she fell into bed, the smell of him still stuck in her nose.  

God, she was fucked.

Northern France, November 21st, 1916.

She burst into Tommy’s room, a ball of panic. She had woken up late, and incredibly hungover. But she had still come to with a smile on her face.

To her surprise, the room was empty. Absolutely barren. Someone had stripped the bed and remade it, all of Tommy’s personal effects having disappeared. Poking her head out of the room, she called to a gaggle of nurses a few feet away, “where’s Sergeant Major Shelby?”

“Oh,” Nurse Jameson said, “we thought you knew, and that’s why you didn’t show up this morning. He’s gone.”

“What do you mean, ‘gone’?” she snapped, a ball of lead settling in her stomach.

“He was called back to the front,” Nurse Jameson said quietly. “They came for him early, barely gave him enough time to gather his things. Apparently they have a big project planned for the Clay-Kickers.”

She was hyperventilating, she noticed dimly. Her hands came to her chest, clutching at her heart. He couldn’t be gone. Just… gone. She felt like the wind had stolen her five-dollar note, and she was staring after it helplessly, grasping at the empty air where it had been.  

Retreating back into his — the room, she collapsed onto the bed. She hadn’t realized just how much it had smelled of him in here, now that his familiar scent was replaced with antiseptic and bleach. What had she really expected? That he would stay here forever? That she would get to wake up every morning and get to discuss books and poetry with him, teach him silly songs, exchange stories from before the War? She didn’t know. All she knew was that it felt as though someone had carved up her heart and taken a piece with them, and now she was supposed to live on without it.

“Well,” the moustached man said, “if you’re gonna’ apply to be a singer, might as well sing us something.” He gestured to a record player in the corner.

In the stack of records lay a copy of Debussy’s greatest works, and a strange boldness filled her. Her hands trembled as she lowered the needle onto the record, the grainy sound of Clair de Lune echoing through the pub.

Turning to face the brothers, she took her hat off, fully revealing her face. She began to sing, her shaky voice joining the swell of the piano:

You there, pearly white.

Can you see those stars, in my eyes?

A nice reflection it may be, so it seems, to me.

A kiss from Heaven lightly breathed,

Nightly unsheathed.

As she settled into the familiar rhythm of it, her voice grew louder. She began to move about the floor of the Garrison, tracing the shining wood of the tables as though it was full of patrons to be entertained.

You there, pearly white.

Can you hear those, stars tonight?

How I wonder what they might say to you.

O, how they wander but hardly they ever move.

What do they whisper while hardly they ever move?

The piano picked up in pace, and Lucy turned to face the brothers again, catching their gazes as she pushed forward. Tommy was staring at her like she had grown wings and flew, and she couldn’t help maintaining eye contact. Something about the look on his face made her feel powerful. Unearthly.

What do they tell you?

Tell me what they tell you.

What do they show you?

Show me what they show you.

And if I know you,

Like they likely know you,

Could I die?

Oh my dear.

And then she was no longer in 1919, in Birmingham. She was back on the Western Front, with blood still under her fingernails and Thomas Shelby’s eyes on her as she sang to a scratchy record on Brigadier General Alexander’s record player.

Love.

A lasting love,

Like a dove that flies

Right over the years.

Truth.

Precious truth.

She drew closer, making direct eye contact with Tommy as she sang the next few lines. A shiver ran down her spine and crept into her voice, curling into a gentle vibrato.

As in youth, I’d like to fly

Up above.

Lasting love.

Lasting love, enough to rise up

Through the evening sky tonight.

How you wander right over the evening sky

Like a dove.

Lasting love.

Everlasting love, like I never knew.

Quite, like you do.

Precious truth.

For the briefest of moments she directed her attention back to Arthur, who looked positively enraptured. But it was the heat and the memory in Tommy’s eyes that drew her back to him, moving a little further away as she sat on one of the tables, crossing her legs and leaning backwards as though she were draping herself over a piano. The rolling chords of the song slowed to a gentle plucking, framing the breathiness of her voice perfectly.

As in,

You there.

Pearly white.

Can you feel those stars tonight?

How I wonder if they are kind,

Are they kind to you?

How I wonder if maybe they sing this song for you?

There was the shortest of musical interludes, and in that time Lucy drew her finger across the shining wood of the table, lowering her eyes from Tommy’s. When she looked back up he had taken a step toward her. His chest moved up and down too quickly, breathless. And thank God, because she was too.

You there, pearly white.

Can you sing a song tonight?

Just for me,

Just for me dear.

Of a lasting…

Ever…

More music. Lucy slipped off the table, coming into Tommy’s space. He was quite tall. How hadn’t she remembered that? She was of a fairly average height, nowhere near Alice’s pixie-esque stature. But he dwarfed her. She had to crane her neck to meet his eyes.

Everlasting,

True love.

The piano drew to a beautiful close, and with a scratch and a jostle the record switched to a different Debussy. Chest heaving, she was still staring at Tommy, who stood in front of her like a marble statue. Arthur’s loud, bellowing voice echoed through the Garrison, “bloody beautiful! I’d say you have a job, Miss Frasier.”

All at once, the spell was broken. Shaking herself from her trance, she flashed the elder Shelby brother a bright grin, “thank you very much, Mr. Shelby. When should I start?”

“Tomorrow, if you can,” he said, taking her wrist and pulling her towards the bar. Removing a glass, he gestured to the wall of liquor with a questioning glance.

“Scotch, if you please. Straight.”

Chuckling, he pulled the whiskey from the first shelf, pouring her a glass. She took it gratefully, shooting half of it in one go. Her heart was still thumping a mile a minute in her chest, and she needed to still her shaking hands before someone noticed. “Now,” Arthur began, “our establishment is rather casual, so you’ll double as a barmaid. A couple of the boys can be a little handsy, but they’re a good bunch.”

“I’ve worked in bars before, Mr. Shelby. If one of them tries to get me against the wall I’ll give them a swift kick in the couilles, no need to worry. Now what would my duties be?”

As Arthur went over exactly what her job would entail, Tommy didn’t move from where she had left him. Twenty minutes later, she was back out on the street with a job and some future prospects. She couldn’t contain her giddiness, permitting a small grin. But she found herself waiting at the corner of the building. She wondered if Tommy would follow her out. Explain. Discuss. Praying no one would mistake her for a whore, she leaned against the brick wall, drawing her hat low.

A few beats. The sound of a door.

Tommy Shelby appeared at the corner, a cigarette already drawn between his fingers. “It is you.”

Raising the brim of her cap, she nodded, “it’s me.”

“Why’ve you come to Birmingham?” he asked, lighting the cigarette with an efficient strike of his match and a puff.

“You remember Alice,” she murmured, “she lives here now. This is where her fiancé was from. He died at Verdun, and she didn’t know where else to go. She’s been lonely, so she sent for me.”

“And your boy, did he ever come home?”

“He did.”

Tommy raised an eyebrow, offering her his cigarette, “he came to England with you?”

She waved it off, resisting the urge to cross her arms. “No.”

He leveraged a curious look at her, “why not?’

“We’re not together,” she explained, praying he’d leave it at that.

“Decided not to rekindle the romance when you both returned home?”

“No.”

Thank God, he did leave it at that. Nodding to her, he took another drag of his cigarette, “I’ll be seeing you tomorrow then.”

This surprised her. “You will?”

“My family’s company owns the pub,” he said. “You’d be surprised how often I’m here.”

“Well,” she said, flashing him a grin, “it’ll be lovely to see you. We should catch up.”

His eyes were as intense as ever, burrowing into her soul. God, he was beautiful.

Something about his voice was rough, “I didn’t mean to leave so suddenly. I had to go.

“God,” she said, trying to instill a false cheeriness in her words, “I hope you haven’t been worrying about it. I was a little shocked, but I lived.”

“Good,” he said, pulling his cap further over his face. “Have a good day, Miss Frasier.”

“Same to you,” she murmured, cursing herself for creating a distance between them. All she wanted was to see his face properly.

Instead, she peeled herself off the brick wall and kept walking, headed back in the direction of Alice’s apartment. She had done the right thing, she reassured herself. How could she be close with Tommy so soon after everything that had happened with Félix? And it had been years since she last saw him. For all she knew, he was happily married. It was incredily bold of her to assume that he’d even feel the same way after all this time, or even to ascribe the same depth to his feelings as hers in the first place.

Feeling reassured, she slipped her copy of her employment contract from her coat.

Tomorrow she would begin her job with Shelby Company Limited.

Chapters: I II ...

Ao3

[thearkhound]

Metal Gear 2: Solid Snake liner notes translation

The following is translation of the liner notes from the original soundtrack album to the MSX2 video game Metal Gear 2: Solid Snake released in 1991. It features a round table-style interview with the game’s development staff. While the members are addressed by nicknames, it’s pretty easy to know who is who since they still use their real surnames. Thus, it doesn’t take much of a genius to figure out who Snake Kojima is (it’s probably Joakim Mogren).

Piston Uehara: "Well, the reason we’re gathered here is because the Metal Gear 2: Solid Snake album CD being released soon, I thought so they could provide their voices into the liner notes. Moreover, it’s been a while since we last saw each other, which is another reason for the reunion."

Snake Kojima: "Has it really been nine months?"

Everyone: "How nostalgic..." "It's like a class reunion."

Piston Uehara: "I think we can expect that the recording for the CD will go quite smoothly without any incident and it’ll be a product to look forward to."

Ikachan: "Uh-huh.... We were really tired by that point."

Piston Uehara: "Today, we will talk about our personal anecdotes and such involving the development of Metal Gear 2. Shall we let our readers who we are?"

Akababa Akada: "I'm Akababa Akada (henceforth known as Akababa), who was the lead programmer. Pleased to meet you."

Monkey Oka: "I was the assistant programmer. The name is Wild Monkey Oka (henceforth known as Monkey).  My pleasure..."

Madamuyan Fukui: "I'm Madamuyan Fukui (henceforth known as Madam), who handled the characters."

Shoulder Nishio: "Uh... I'm mecha designer Red Shoulder Nishio (henceforth known as Shoulder)  and if I caused too much trouble for you guys then I’m sorry..." (everyone laughs)

Cocotte Yabu: "I'm Cocotte Yabu (henceforth known as Cocotte) and I drew the bottomless swamp."

Piston Uehara: "I did the sound effects and audio programming. The name's Piston Uehara (henceforth known as Piston)." (bows repeatedly)

Ikachan: "And I'm always here to assist you. I’m Ikachan, the composer."

Snake Kojima: "I was training at Mt. Takatori. I'm the planner, Snake Kojima (henceforth known as Snake), pleased to meet you."

Piston: "Well, let's discuss any inside stories we have about the game's development."

Akababa: "We have lots of things to talk about... Many things."

Snake: "Indeed. Many things happened during development... Like Shoulder getting lost in Tokyo."

Piston: "Shoulder went to Tokyo for the first time in his life in order to photograph the Metal Gear model figurine for the magazine ads."

Shoulder: "It was a one-man journey to Tokyo..."

Snake: "And there were bugs that became proper features..."

Monkey: "That’s right, the camouflage mat was born from a bug..."

Snake: "There was a hole data for a truck that was casually misplaced... I think someone reacted with ‘what is this?’ in a surprising and amused way and we decided to give the player an item that replicated the effect."

Akababa: "In contrast, there were also many features planned out that didn't make the cut such as wires, flying soldiers, searchlights..."

Shoulder: "Maniac Cop, piranha, and a tank.... there was even a mass-production Metal Gear model that I've designed..."

Snake: "Shoulder wasn’t paying attention to the game’s ROM size..."

Monkey: "I went through a lot of trouble trying to fit in everything thanks to him."

Shoulder: "Gulp..."

Madam: "Our ROM capacity was pretty tight and there were many characters that we had to cut out from the final version. The game’s specifications had to be changed quite a few times too since we kept exceeding our limits."

Piston: "Speaking of specification changes, we were initially told that we didn’t need to put that much music into the game ..."

Ikachan: "That's right. It was my pleasure to work on this and SD Snatcher at the same time at first, however..."

Snake: "Initially we aimed to create a heartbeat-like sound in order to bring a feeling of tension, but Piston wasn't able to creating such suitable sound effects."

Piston: (munching) "It wasn't the type of sound suitable for the SCC chip. In the end, the tune we made ended up being played only when the player infiltrates Zanzibar Building through the vent shaft."

Ikachan: "Thanks to that, I have to work in extra hours every night... My home life was on the verge of collapsing."

Piston: "If I remember correctly, I believe your infant daughter started calling her maternal uncle "papa" around this time."

(everyone else is shocked)

Piston: "After all, you did compose over 40 BGMs..."

Ikachan: "46 music tracks and 130 sound effects to be precise."

Piston: "The biggest Konami soundtrack yet!! Well, I hope you’re able to appreciate the fruits of your sacrifice with this CD." (munching)

Snake: "With all the specifications changes that happened during the development, naturally you're wondering whether the storyline was affected too. That year was pretty tumultuous for the world. The Tiananmen protests, the Romanian Revolution and the Unification of Germany.... We were taken by surprise with the real life demolition of the Berlin Wall, since in the game's storyline I've wrote that it was destroyed during the mid-90s. I had to do some last minute rewrites since Natasha Marcova's involvement and credibility in the story started having some holes."

Akababa: "But that game has so many situations that are hard to see as just fiction, so while they’re scary, they were also foreseeable. If the game was being made now, we would have to be even more careful..."

Madam: "No one could've foreseen the Gulf War back then."

Snake: "Well, war games are not really viable unless there’s peace."

Monkey: "Speaking of peace, there was this one happy person who had their last name changed during development." (everyone laughs)

Madam: "Yeah... That’s why [my] surname was different between the opening and ending credits..”

Akababa: "[So you] got married during development!!" (whistling sound)

Monkey: "There were many opportunities to fix that during debug... I'm sorry for the slip-up..."

Akababa: "I'll leave..."

Madam: "Maybe we should do a debugging tournament for the next rookie welcoming party."

Cocotte: "I probably would've brought the MSX to my home and checked for bugs there."

Snake: "Ah, the 'I don't know how to use it’ incident."

Cocotte: "That's right!" (heart pounds)

Everyone: "Ah we remember that."

Piston: "I remember going to the burger joint in my pajamas during midnight while the ROMs were being burned."

Snake: "And then on the day of the game's release, I saw nothing but  developers forming a long snakeline at the local game store. They were the faces of shrewd users."

Cocotte: "I got an SD Snatcher paper jacket for pre-ordering"

Shoulder: "Huh!! I got an ugly t-shirt." (everyone laughs)

Piston: "We still some time left before we wrap things up. Can each of you give us a few words before we end this?"

Akababa: "I'm certainly confident in the work I put into the game and I hope there's a copy in everyone’s home. Please buy our game."

Monkey: "Although this was the most difficult game I've worked on in terms of direction, gameplay system and such. I was very absorbed in my work... I did my best. If they say they're going to work on a 'Metal Gear 3', it’s going to be a bit (mumble) tiresome though."

Madam: "That’s because even though the game's theme is war, it was flowing with love underneath."

Everyone: "That’s cool!" (whistling sound)

Cocotte: "This is the first game I've ever worked on... So for me it was a memorable experience, I think." (coughing)

Shoulder: "For me... I was delighted to broaden my interests to include new hobbies such as model building and playing survival games. Let me reveal a little bit about how I made the Metal Gear D model kit. It was based on the K***e model kit by a company called N***o [note: likely referring to Ma K. Krote kit by Nitto]. Unfortunately it's been discontinued, so it’s not easy to get a hold of these days."

Ikachan: "This has felt like a one-year class reunion, but I hope I will keep on making good soundtracks, even if I'm no longer working with the same people. Please continue with your support."

Piston: "I think this game utilized the full resources of the SCC format.  The SCC usually outputs a waveform of 100P, but that’s impossible on a weak hardware unless the software allows you to adjust the timing. There's already a battle occurring against noises just before the processing time...

Akababa: "Thanks to that we had a few problems with the main programming..."

Piston: (scratching) "If you haven't bought the game yet, then please play it already. And then listen to this soundtrack."

Monkey: "That sounds like some good publicity. As expected from the sound division."

Snake: "While the subject matter of the game is definitely war, I want to transmit something in players' mind than just mere battlefield action, something to keep in mind... I hope this game will be the first step for most players in being interested in real world affairs and not just end there."

Piston: "Are you anxious to make a third Metal Gear game?"

Snake: "Well, I have several story ideas for a third game in my mind, but I haven't decided on how to make it yet.. Perhaps Metal Gear will come back when the world least expects it during a time of peace. Because when there's peace, there's also Metal Gear... Until then, I’ll await those fan letters."

Piston: "And on that note ends this rather serious liner notes. Thanks for all your good work."