#here's some bs

[toringo]

I feel the need to say: this is an au, I am not justifying any of Jimmy's actions. Just because someone had it bad in the past doesn't mean they can take it out on others. Violence brings violence, etc. I am just exploring a character I find interesting. He's still an abusive, awful man that should be held accountable for everything he's done. It's for the Childhood friends au.

[thebrightestwitchofherage]

More on how Anti-Zionists use the word "hostages"

There are no "Thousands of Palestinian hostages held by Israel". Please stop spamming every post about the 98 Israeli hostages currently held captive by Hamas with bullshit like this.

Cmon, we all know this is just cheap dog-whistling and wring, considering that there are 98 Israeli hostages held in Gaza right now. Anyways, here are some facts: Israeli news outlet Ynet just made an initial report on this matter, I'm transcribing it to English and will provide any additional detail if provided. Israel's supreme court demanded the state to provide information on how many Palestinians are held under custody in different correctional facilities. There are currently 3,464, and 151 were released for various reasons. The update was provided due to a petition by the Public Committee Against Torture in Israel

Why are they held captive? The majority of them are Illegal immigrants & felons, and many are terrorists. That's it. That's extremely different from being kidnapped from your bed for being Jewish after seeing your family slaughtered.

[concord-and-cliches]

i'm probably aspec but i have 10 billion yen to be worried about so idrc about that rn

(for RGG Aspec Week day 7! based on [x])

[mint-fixates]

About Bill's Thoughts on Ford ("Even His Lies Are Lies")

Long af post containing spoilers for ThisIsNotAWebsiteDotCom and TBOB below!

So, this is bullshit. And if you're not already aware it's bullshit, I'm gonna tell you exactly why it's bullshit, with Receipts™!

Bill definitely saw Ford as a tool. No denying that. I can even believe that he sees him as a pet more than an equal to some extent. But to claim a tool and a pet are all he sees Ford as? He's 10000% lying. Whether to himself and the therapist or just the therapist, I'm not sure, but let's breakdown how we know he's lying about the extent of his feelings for Ford here.

Why would he want to make Ford a Henchmaniac? Why plan to keep him around after the portal is finished if he only wants him as a tool to build the portal?

2. Why give him 72 hours to turn the portal back on? He says it himself- "sentimentality". Convenient as they are, I don't usually get sentimental over hammers.

3. Why be more honest with him about his backstory than he was with his actual Henchmaniacs?

4. If he just wants Ford as an obedient human pet who "remembers to sit, stay, and roll over control of his entire life", why offer for Ford to join him during the Weirdmageddon arc, before needing his help with the barrier but after Ford had spent 30 years actively opposing Bill at every possible opportunity?

5. Of course, I'd be remiss not to mention it- if Ford is just a tool at worst and a pet at best, why would Bill get wasted and cry over him after the breakup?

[korn-dawg]

me when my mutuals are bullying me (telling me to go to bed)

[cowardlykrow]

Despite herself, the Emma is wooed

[nevertheless-moving]

unable to stop dwelling on the discworld trouser leg of time where, in the penultimate fight scene in Nightwatch, Carcer manages to kill teenage Sam Vimes.

Which means that the future that Duke Vimes came from can no longer exist, which means he can’t go home. Meanwhile you’ve got a bunch of history monks with stored up temporal energy, a prepared space outside of time, and the need to do some desperate damage control before the Auditors get involved. Death shows up, reality is unweaving, Sam is reading Carcer his discworld miranda rights because what else is he supposed to do.

and finally, with little other option, the monks de-age Sam so he fits the time period and send him back out into the fray.

(they didn't call it deageing of course. His memory is hazy, splintered during that terrible in between moment, They....took the time out of him? Sanded away the edges of his self for a terrible, workable fit? It...wasn't a good feeling.)

Just—damn. Sam Vimes having to live his whole crapsack life over again, but this time as his disillusioned-reillusioned, unwillingly-character-developed, noir-epic, Duke of Ankh, Commander Sir Samuel Vimes self. 

Younger (Older? He's never felt so Old, His steps so Childlike, reality twisting in his gut like one of Dibbler's pies) Sam Vimes walking around in a haze after the revolution. Desperate to go home, knowing he can’t. Wanting to drink. Knowing he can’t.

The whole precinct feels pity, he really took Keel’s death hard, hardly speaks except to do his job. Eventually he has to grit his teeth and start being present, because what else is there to do?

Resists the urge to drink until Colon takes the whole watch out to celebrate because -he’s going to be a father!

Come on Sammy, one drink won’t kill you— and after the first drink he’s cracking jokes and after the second hes smiling and after the third hes honestly the life of the party and sometime after that he’s crying about how he was going to be a father and my wife would be ashamed if she saw me drinking like this and— 

Oh shit, Did anyone else know he had a wife?? A PREGNANT wife??? What—aren’t you like 12—no you're 17 now aren't you but when did—

You guys n’ver met ’er—oh gods none if you ev’n know ‘er, is jus’ me...

What—when did you lose���

I lost her the same damn day I los’ ev’rythin else, whadya think...bleeding Carcer...the fuckin revolution...

So! That! Sam only vaguely remembers the night, but rumors travel faster than light on the disc, so by the next day the whole damn city knows about poor Sam brung low by the loss of his poor, tragic, pregnant wife, so young to be a widower, and the Seamstresses nod because they already knew, don’t ask them how, somethings you just have to know in that trade.

And his mother—I don’t know, sue me, I’m a time travel fiend but there’s something deeply intriguing about a man meeting his dead parent, who is somewhat younger than him, and stepping into the old relationship like a badly fitting thing that's supposed to fit well. She would know, right? How would she deal with her son’s impossible grief? Maybe she wouldn’t know—he spent most of the time out of the house, running with different street gangs, maybe he avoids her until she dies and lives with the guilt twice over. God, we don’t even know her name. There’s just so much narrative and emotional potential that I don’t even know where to start.

When he’s on duty, which is most time - it’s agonizing because at first he remembers cases, saves lives that would have been lost. But the more time passes, the hazier his memory because in the original timeline he was becoming an alcoholic. Fuck! A kid dies and he could have saved her if he hadn’t been such a drunk, if he had just remembered where the asshole lived, but it’s all a haze, and he wants to drown out his guilt, but that’s what caused this in the first place.

Good young Sammy, who spends his rare off-time in dusty libraries (and yes, the irony that he’s apparently Carrot now is not lost on him) reading gods-only-know.

It’s not like he can ask the wizards for help, cutthroat and vicious as they are now in the not-so-distant-past.

Good young Sam, who...talks to the Broken Drum’s pet Bouncer like he’s a real person and not a dumb rock? That’s a bit weird, but he’s a bit of a funny guy.

Good old Sam, who believed the testimony of the dwarf who said the humans were trying to rob him and let the dwarf go??

the PROBLEMS this man would cause, good grief. Can you imagine a moderately progressive middle aged man with some degree of begrudging diversity and equity training that he did, for all his sins, pay attention to, suddenly going back to like, 1990, going back just 30 years, and going...oh damn this is kind of fucked up, no man you can’t say that, holy shit.

Except Sam’s lived through even more rapidly shifting social moroes! There’s no seamstress guild, there’s no women allowed inside the university, there’s no black ribboner’s society. People hunted trolls for their teeth! But Sam can’t just unlearn everything, and he can’t shut up, and he has no real luck and anyway he would absolutely get himself (temporarily) fired.

FUCK. Sam has no idea what to do with that. None. Zero clue. Wanders around in a haze until that dwarf he saved from police brutality finds him and insists on repaying the debt. No, he insists, do you have any idea what debt means to a dwarf?

“Sort-of?” he replies hesitantly, and that honest admission of incomplete knowledge shows a hell of a lot more respect and understanding than any self proclaimed dwarf-expert ever did.

Gets a job as a surface man, hauling rocks into the city. It’s backbreaking work, but, in true Discworld fashion, it’s also one hell of a workout (again the irony of being Carrot is not lost him. he freezes for a minute while hauling a rock cart, when he remembers he's technically Lost Nobility too, in a strict sense, but someone curses at him in the street and he's comfortingly grounded)

And here is where this au slides into a SPECTACULAR romantic comedy, BEAR WITH ME. Because in his time on the Watch he’s already done noir, action adventure, war story, detective who dunnit, psychological horror, but guards guards only allowed him to be a romance protagonist in an extremely limited context.

Give me righteous, twenty-something-looking, can’t-say-he-doesn’t-have-style, young Sam Vimes, not an alcoholic,  being fed three square meals a day by his dwarven forced found family, hauling rocks. He is startled to find him bumping his head on a low hanging bar that he doesn’t think used to be there, eventually realizing that he’s an inch or two taller than he remembers. Huh. Guess all that bearhuggers really did stunt his growth.

Still doesn’t get what some of the looks from women he’s getting are about, sure, he’s dirty but so is everyone else. Fine, he took his shirt off, but it’s hot out, there’s far wrinklier than him hauling heavy loads, get a life. 

Happens to glance in the Ankh one day when it’s particularly slow and shiny and is startled to realize that he might be turning heads for a different reason. Oh. Right, not that he was ever a heartbreaker, but he did alright for himself... when he was a younger and his face hadn’t been broken so many times. Which...it isn't now.

Is mildly disturbed by the revelation.

Especially once things blow over at the precinct and what with high mortality rates, he ends up with getting hired again. The boys are delighted to have him back, nevermind that he’s an odd one, noone is ever quite in your corner like Vimsey, absence makes the heart fonder, no one else works that hard, and he’s not even competition for promotion. All around great guy, we should set him up with somebody and just, no.

It just keeps getting worse! He’s literate! He’s a feminist! He believes abuse victims! He’s got a tragic backstory! He’s unreasonably good in a fistfight! He’s kind to animals! Word gets around that there’s a good man on the watch and he’s just waiting for a good woman to come snap him up. The widower excuse doesn’t hold people off completely, and for some it’s its own sort-of appeal. 

Things REALLY become stressful after he rescues that carriage full of noblewoman.

What’s he supposed to do? Let them get robbed? Or worse? Chasing down and beating up 10 goons is as easy as beating up one, when they’re that stupid, getting separated like that, drunk and distracted, and he knows these streets better than anyone, really it’s nothing. And oh lord he’s Modest too.

I mean, they were genuinely greatful, as genuine as people like that are capable of being, the skill having grown rusty. And then there is something...magnetic about the man. An air of command.

So, soon enough you get Lady Marigold of Marigrave calling on Treckle Road for that gallant young officer who rescued them, she really needs to thank him. And Viscountess Elanor Thitzferal specifically requesting that he guard her at her next soiree. And Baroness Julieta van Shoeholten insisting that he come to her home while her husband’s away, for... manly protection.

Aaaah just zero sympathy from the guys. None. 'It’s become a competition, they’re just trying to see who can get me into bed first, it’s like I’m a piece of meat, you can’t send me sir, the Marquess greeted me in a nightee last time you made me go to—' and 'small gods Vimes are you even listening to yourself, shut the hell up'.

Simultaneous to this, (again this is several years into the timeline) swamp dragon accessories come into style. Which means abandoned swamp dragons scrounging on the street. Vimes takes one back to his apartment, blows his paycheck on dragon medicine, and eventually, heart in his chest, brings it to the Ramkin estate. The sunshine orphanage doesn’t even exist yet and he’s just standing outside the gates like an idiot, what is he thinking. Turns around, but her carriage is pulling up and—

well. they meet. it's cute. he's never felt so young. he's never felt so old, too old for her, too poor—

and certainly her thoughts linger too long on the awkward, kindly, handsome young commoner, but is it any wonder she doesn't quite connect it to the stern, dangerous, sexy young guard the ladies seem to be in some quiet, cuthroat competition over?

i have this gorgeous, absurd scene in my head in which Vimes is strong armed into standing guard at some high society soiree and one of the pushiest ladies insists he dance with here, or, if he prefers, if he's not confident about his skills, he can dance with her in-private at her home and he’s like [grinding teeth, looking for a way out, seeinf one] “I would be honored to dance with you.”

Steps right into some ultra-complex dance with multiple partner swaps (she never thought he'd pick this one, devilishly intimidating to one not strictly trained, and you barely spend anytime with your first partner).

But he does alright. Better than alright, for a common man, sometimes misstepping but his hands and feet always end up where they need to be. Raises several eyebrows part way into the song because he's throuwing in some slightly scandalous, no innovative, extra lifts and twirls that wouldn't become fashionable for another decade or two. Who even is that guy? Some out of towner? No, no he's in a guards uniform...how very strange.

Gets to Sybll and she's used to embarrassment during these dances, she tries to get out of them when she can... but can't always. Men awkwardly skipping the lifts, or worse, trying and failing. But him — oh it's him, the one who helped little Erold, and looked at her like—like—well like she was someone beautiful. And he's doing it again, and he's strong and there's a quiet moment where she's in the air, they lock eyes, and the rest of the room melts away.

And then the partners change again, the moment ended.

Just...living throught it all again. To the left, a dance he almost knows the steps to, throwing others off balance with erratic moves , honest mistakes, and delibrate stepping on toes. Improvising. Ruining. Improving. Getting far, far too much attention.

Hes almost excited when the first assassains start coming after him. It's like a hobby.

Everyone tells him he should get a hobby.

Interactions with young vetinari...I don't have the energy to write it all down, the slow circling in on each other, both burning with the need to fix the city, save it, their city.

needless to say he ends up fired again, life under real threat after offending some high lord.

Conveniently enough he has an employment opportunity- bodyguard to fucking Vetinari on his 'grand sneer.' The bastard knows vimes isn't what he seems, though sam is pretty sure that he doesnt know the exacts.

Vetinari hypothesis:(the ghost of keel? Keels son, with some hereditary curse? Or a larger spirit of justice possessing a string of unrelated souls? He knows things he shouldn't- mind reader? Fortune teller? Havelock once arranged for a wizard to bump into him on the street, the magical fool gave an odd double look and then muttered something about destiny looping in on itself giving him a headache. Destiny? Lost noble? And hes far too familiar with sybyl, one of the few bearable noblewomen in this city. And his thoughts on guilds, when havelock can trip him into speaking... Most of all, if hes reading him at all correctly (for all the mystery hes not that hard to read, unless thats a very clever cover) then it seems that behind those dark haunted eyes is Respect. Loyalty. For vetinari. What an interesting man. A puzzling asset. An intriguing threat. )

Did I mention the timeline is changing, healing slowly around the place where it was torn? Healing enough around scars to perhaps get some flexibility back, with some painful stretches and...massaging of said scar tissue?

And hes heading to unresting uberwald, a place where a werewolf pack still hunts humans and, truely unrelated but perhaps equally exhausting, an eldritch spirit of vengeance just might be looking to stretch its legs in a hapless vessel?

Opening drabble Vimes Vetinari Meta (Unwell) Scene from the Uberwald Grand Sneer

[bromcommie]

ok but we all know sam wilson is a hipster right? like dude has stacks of hard copy media in his apartment and is introduced to us by starting a convo over a semi-obscure marvin gaye soundtrack album like. I’m sorry but my man’s not listening to taylor swift bc of his crush instead it’s 3 am at the local bar and he’s 3 drinks in mansplaining southern blues to you and how much better it is to hear it on vinyl

[jdorian]

just to be clear Oliver never in any way, shape, or form has confirmed as of today that buddie was supposed to go canon in s4 or that they were having an 'oh' moment during the shooting arc or otherwise at any time or that Buck has been in love (?!?) with Eddie since he joined the 118.

all he said was; there was a pitch about the bi Buck storyline in s4 that got shot down (at whatever stage we don't even know, there might not even have been a single scene written for it, for all we know) and that in retrospect and considering the slow-mo and the music in the scene, Buck was possibly confused about his feelings around Eddie when he joined the team — which is something Tim has already talked about before.

please stop acting like the conclusions you're jumping onto are facts or canon — even if the shooting was meant to be an 'it' moment, it didn't end up happening in canon so, as interesting out-of-universe info this is, it doesn't have an affect on the in-universe canon at the moment.

and I promise, I'm not saying all this because I hate fun, hell, not even because I necessarily disagree. only because I can already see this leading into Oliver and the cast being harassed in case the show doesn't end up confirming these ideas that are currently being passed around as cold hard facts.

[pali-and-proud]

Chase, nervous/guilty/apprehensive: where's Buddy? ;-; Me, excited/gleeful/moderately sadistic: Where's Buddy? :DDD

[intramoon]

This bitch is *crack of the whip*

[slickricklj]

Jill Valentine + Chris Redfield - When you know, you know.

Bonus:

[maerhiya]

in regards to the constant dismissal of his aroace identity, i hate it when alastor 'fans' say and use the excuse: "he's fictional, he won't get offended."

like, you're right, but it can and will offend us.

when you see yourself being represented on screen, of course you'd feel enthusiastic about it — representation allows individuals to see themselves reflected in the media they consume, validating their identities and experiences. but when so many people take that representation and decide to disregard and discard it, it is so fucking frustrating. we finally have another character to be part of the tiny amount of representation we have, but then people don't even care about how much it means to us? like yeah, alastor won't get offended because he's not real, but it frustrates and annoys us. do you realize that it's also technically invalidating the aroace community? that you're invalidating our feelings? imagine feeling like you're finally being seen because your orientation is finally being represented in media, and people just decide to blatantly ignore, discard, and invalidate it.

media has such a powerful influence on real life, representation being a prevalent factor of it. there are numerous posts that dictate how people went to watch a movie/show or read a book just because a character depicts their identity in it — obviously, being represented is an incredibly uplifting and validating experience.

which is why seeing an aroace character in a popular show is so meaningful to us because we live in a world where romance and sex are literally everywhere and prioritized above all else. (and it's pretty obvious that alastor's on the repulsed end of the spectrum, but even if he wasn't, at least make an effort to acknowledge his sexuality instead of continuing to portray him as allo; aroace folks can be in relationships but it's not going to be the same thing with allos' experiences.)

any and every representation matters, but why does that seem to stop at people under the aroace spectrum? like y'all can't even let us appreciate the scraps of representation we have. we barely have any, so are we really that dramatic for being upset at how people easily disregard and dismiss our identities that are being depicted on screen just like that? is it truly wrong of us to want to defend and maintain the little representation we have?

[fayevalcntine]

This is what it feels like reading some people's IWTV takes

[thejilyship]

I walked into work this morning after crying at a convivence store because the woman behind the counter said she liked my RBG sweatshirt and she hoped I was okay. I wasn't expecting it. I live in a very red part of Michigan and her kindness and gentleness made me cry.

I told myself when I woke up that I wasn't going to cry. I stared at my phone for twenty minutes, dread pooling in my chest because even though I let myself get hopeful yesterday, I knew what I was going to see.

I said I wasn't going to cry.

And when I got to work, one of the other preschool teachers walked into my classroom, and she didn't say anything, we just looked at each other and I started to cry. I had parents who I knew were happy with the results about to drop off their kids and I couldn't start crying, but I did.

I only have nine kids in my class, I only had to get through seven drop offs today. I only had three parents that were devastated. I cried about that too.

I had two little girls in my class today, and they got into an argument, as two years old's will do, and they both got upset and started crying. One of them laid on the floor next to me, and one of them collapsed onto my chest, and I cried with them too.

During group time today, I cried while reading a book about kindness. "What does it mean to be kind? Being kind means standing up for those who are less fortunate than you." I had to stop reading for a minute. My assistant teacher looked at me from across the room and I couldn't meet her eyes.

I stayed off social media all day, but when I caved and opened tik tok, the first video I saw was of women in other countries governments saying that they were standing with us through this hard thing and I cried again.

I think I'm gonna keep crying. At least for today and the next couple of days.

And tomorrow (which may not actually be tomorrow) I'll figure out what comes next.

[remapped-soul]

would've, could've, should've

It's late enough that no one cares where Pecco is going, why he's racing through the padock, almost panting as he tries to stay close to the walls where the shadows lurk. He wouldn't know what to answer anyway.

He has a sprint to win the next day, a race on Sunday. A championship to focus on. He's made too many mistakes this year, he can't afford to lose focus now. And yet, here he is, almost running as if he's chased by hounds, hands curled into fists in his pockets. He switched the Ducati red jacket for a nonedescript one, a hat to cover his eyes. He doesn't think he's doing anything wrong, he just wants to talk. A conversation has never hurt anybody, and they'll be teammates next year. It's his duty to pave the way, to make sure he'll get a third championship, and a fourth. He's not Vale, but he still wants to be great.

He spots the motorhome as he rounds the corner, getting closer, closer, heart jumping in his chest with every step. Up the stairs, stomach tight. He knocks, and prays, prays no one answers. He just wants to talk. Pecco shouldn't be here. He knows this, and yet--

The door opens with a click, and Marc blinks at him, hair wet, dripping in his eyes.

"Pecco?" Marc asks, squinting. "Is everything alright?"

Pecco nods, frozen in place. He presses his tongue against the back of his teeth, trying to think of something to say, but words elude him. He shouldn't be here, but he has a duty to fulfill. He's seen the way Marc rides when the bike listens to him, a hound chasing its pray. If Pecco thinks too long about it, he'll get scared. He can't. He wants next year to be good, for him, for both of them. Sweat drips down the side of his face in the humid Indonesian night.

Marc leans against the door, crossing his arms over his chest. Pecco follows the movement with his eyes. Marc doesn't take his eyes off of Pecco. "Can I help you?"

Pecco shouldn't be there. "Can I come in?"

Marc raises an eyebrow as if he's waiting for a continuatio, but when he gets nothing, he steps aside. Pecco follows. The door closes behind him. Pecco is inside. He shouldn't he here. He doesn't want to be here. His brain doesn't register the space. Couch, armchairs, a towel on the backside of a chair. Marc behind him, breath like thunder in Pecco's ears. Pecco must say something. He wants to leave.

He turns. "I wanted to thank you."

Marc smiles, and it strangely resembles a cat. "Did you now?"

Pecco nods, stomach tight. "For helping me." Marc steps closer. "During practice," Pecco continues. "I didn't realise I was low on fuel." It's a lie.

Marc stops in front of him, too close. Too far away. "Things can get confusing on track." They both know it's a lie. "Speed gets to your head." They both know it's true. Pecco feels its song in his veins still.

"Certo," Pecco says, shifting his weight from one foot to another. The movement cuts the distance between them, and Pecco finds himself looking down at Marc. Yet, he's never felt smaller. "You didn't have to do that."

Marc raises one shoulder in half a shrug. "We're going to be teammates next year." He looks up at Pecco, takes another step. "We're going to be riding the best bikes on track." He takes another step, fully in Pecco's personal space now. With all the space around him, Pecco doesn't move, can't move. Marc leans in and drops his voice. "We'll be the fastest on track."

Pecco should leave. "It will be interesting, especially with Jorge at Aprilia. He might win this year--"

"You should believe more in yourself, Pecco." Marc's lips almost touch his ear, his cheek almost against Pecco's cheek. Hands hover over his hips. So close. So far away. Marc smells like coconut. Pecco has never liked coconut.

Pecco swallows. "I am. I won two years in a row. I'm a world champion." And he'll get the third one.

"You'll get the third one as well," Marc laughs. "Jorge loses control too easily." His breath is the only thing that touches Pecco's skin, sending shivers down his spine.

"The fourth one will be more difficult." Pecco closes his eyes. Marc keeps a calculated distance from himodand Pecco is pretty sure Marc is standing on his toes to reach his ear, but he can't move. His nostrils flare with the smell of coconut, almost choking him. He never understood people who liked food-scened skin products.

Marc turns his head. "You'll be riding against me." His lips graze Pecco's ear, making him sway in place. Marc's fingers close over Pecco's hipbones, pressing through his shirt, finally, finally. Pecco shouldn't be here. Doesn't want to be here. He--

"We need to behave, or Ducati won't have any champion next year."

Pecco wants to devour him, coconut smell and all.

Marc smothers his laugh against Pecco's neck. It takes everything in Pecco to stand tall, to not melt against Marc, to keep the distance.

When he speaks, his voice is not his own. "Will you?"

Marc stops laughing, kisses lower. "Mm. What will you give me to play nice?"

Everything. Pecco doesn't say that. "I might let you win."

Marc bites his neck lightly. "What would Dall'Igna say? His golden boy giving up his win for me."

"I have only two. You got eight."

"You brought glory back to Ducati."

"And you're one championship short."

They don't speak his name, but it's like someone dumped cold water over their heads. Marc steps back, removing himself from Pecco. The look in his eyes is weirdly lucid for how out of his mind Pecco feels.

"We should both get some sleep. It will be a long day tomorrow."

Pecco knows a dismissal when he sees one, so he agrees. He shouldn't have said that, and yet Marc got to him. He shouldn't even be here, and yet he is. He doesn't want to leave. "Thank you, again." He wants Marc to kiss him.

Marc leads him to the door, the same unreadable smile on his face. Pecco feels stripped bare, with nothing left to hide. Marc smiles at him. Two seconds ago, those lips were on Pecco's neck.

Marc smiles as if he knows what Pecco's thinking about. "Tell Vale I said hello," he says and closes the door in Pecco's face.

Pecco thinks he understands Vale a little bit more. You either love or hate Marc, there's no in between.