#i hate to mention it but hell i should stand up for my artistic integrity. or at least acknowledge it! just wanted to get it off my chest.

[sleekervae]

Yoü & I [1.6]

Masterlist

A/N: I hate everybody in the entire fucking world... except you guys. you guys are cool ;)

Warnings: mostly fluff, mentions of conflict

--

Charlotte's page looked like an ink bomb had been set off. She was writing mid-lyric when the pen had decided to snap and thin black ink splattered everywhere; on the journal, on the desk, ever on her nice moppy jeans.

"Son of a bitch!" she quickly grabbed a rag from her bathroom, soaked it in hot water and scrubbed vigorously at her jeans. It was just so happened the ink landed over her crotch, and as she scrubbed the water seeped in and made it look like Charlotte had an accident of a different sort.

As she tried to get the ink out, the door to her bedroom swung open and Maria, Chloe, and Kimberly came sauntering in; all stopping dead when they saw the wet stain in Charlotte's crotch. 

Chloe smirked, "We interrupting your good time, Lottie?" 

Charlotte glared back at her, "My pen broke and got all over my favorite fucking jeans, and I'm trying to clean them," she grumbled, "Get your mind out of Cosmopolitan,"

Kimberly's face contorted into horror, "No! Those are the moppy ones we found at Vintage Thrift?" Charlotte nodded solemnly, "Fuck, dude!"

Maria rolled her eyes, "Whatever, they're pants. Just throw them in the wash and put on a new pair. C'mon, we're gonna' be late!" 

The girls had booked a studio session to discuss and start the blueprints for their next album. And unfortunately, Charlotte had a key song in her journal that was now blanketed in ink puddles. The lyrics were gone. 

Nevertheless, the girls still had a menagerie of work to pick from, having compiled a good chunk of writing between the four of them. The challenge would be piecing it all together to form the next album. There was always a fear in creating the second album, and what most artists ended up doing with trying to recreate the same success with the same formulas that had made their first album successful. Charlotte didn't believe in those types of do-overs; if you wanted to stand out you had to be different from everybody else.

Changed into a new pair of jeans, Charlotte and the girls sat on stools and small couches, instruments in laps and books thrown on the workbench as they discussed which directions to take. And no matter what, Charlotte's cursed song always came out leading the charge.

"I just think it's really sexy," Maria confessed when discussed 'You & I', "If we integrate a heavy bass line, it could be like Do I Wanna Know 's badass female cousin,"

"You hear that, Lottie?" Chloe piped up, "You're writing Arctic Monkeys quality shit!"

Charlotte blushed, "I'm pretty far from that level, but okay," 

Kimberly shuffled up in her stool, "I agree with the girls. That being said Char, if you're not comfortable putting the song out just yet, it's okay. We can work around it,"

"Hell, who's to say people will even figure out it's about Hemorrhoid?" Chloe said, trying to lighten the mood with a joke.

Maria glared over at her, unimpressed, "Why are you like this?"

Charlotte could understand where the girls were coming from, and the more she read over the words the more she could hear, feel the sound and energy it radiated. It was a passionate, desperate song that was edgy and heartfelt and frustrated. It was a song that she poured her emotions into, and it wasn't necessarily the emotional stint that terrified her. It was what everyone would think, perceive when they'd hear it.

"Look, I'm gonna' think about it," she admitted, flipping through her ink-wrinkled journal to her recently finished song 'Doctor Doctor', "I think this should be a contender, too," 

Meanwhile, crossing the country to the West coast the boys of 5 Seconds of Summer were sitting in a studio, listening to the demo they would record over for their new song. It was something written for them -- as opposed to something they wrote themselves -- for a new movie coming out in the summer, Ghostbusters.

If the marketing team played their cards right, and the movie was a mass success as producers had predicted, then 'Girls Talk Boys' would be the summer smash of the year. They liked the retro vibe and Ashton and Michael were already excited at the prospect of paying homage to one of their favorite movies. 

Going in two different directions, the bands spent the rest of the week planning, directing, and beginning to track for their new singles. The label wanted Catch the Caper's new song to be released somewhere between September-November, so the girls had a lot of work to do on top of their tour. 

Leaving to go back to LA was harder for Maria and Kimberly than it was for Chloe and Charlotte. Chloe had a bit of a strained relationship with her dad since she'd come out, so she didn't exactly have a happy-household to go back to. As for Charlotte, as much as she loved her mom, she could only take so much of her. And she made Troy promise to stay out of trouble. 

"Don't worry, you won't hear hyde nor hair of me," he said.

"That's see hyde or hair, smartass," she ruffled his scruffy hair, "And try not to piss mom off too much," 

Troy scowled, "Mom gets pissed off if I butter the bread wrong," 

The flight to LAX was shorter this time around, Charlotte figured it was probably because her mind was racing. Her long fingers tapped along the chair arm in time to the beat of 'Doctor Doctor' playing in her head. The song wasn't as passion-driven as 'You & I' yet it embodied the misery and heartbreak Charlotte was wallowing in months ago. 

God, Ben dumped her nearly six months ago, and look at her now. 

She waited patiently in the elevator, hauled her bag in tow behind her and threw the door to her little apartment open. It smelled of grapefruit and linen, just as she left it. The curtains were still drawn to close out any prying eyes. 

Tired, Charlotte didn't even bother bringing her bag to the bedroom, she simply shed off her coat and went to the couch, immediately falling backwards into the soft material. However, she was reasonably startled when she found she landed on a body.

"What the hell?!" she shrieked and shot up. But to her surprise -- and dismay -- Luke was sprawled out over her couch, just as terrified as she was. 

"Well, bloody fuck! Good to see you too, Shorty!"

Charlotte's blood pressure quickly descended and she relaxed, "Luke, what the hell are you doing? You scared me half to death!"

"I didn't mean to! I knew you were coming back today," he grinned, "Did you miss me?"

"Dude, I've been stuck with you in South Asia for six weeks straight," Charlotte huffed, lightly punching him in his shoulder "... Of course I missed you," 

Luke was partially honest when he'd told Charlotte he just wanted to drop by. He did -- but he also wasn't too comfortable heading back home right now. He and Mel had another blow-up, but knowing how concerned Charlotte would become, he didn't say anything about it. Not that she didn't have her suspicions...

They agreed to order in a pizza and settle in for the evening. Charlotte had kicked off her shoes and had her feet propped on the coffee table while she ate her pizza happily. Luke meanwhile had her guitar sat in his lap and strummed the strings gently with his fingers. Dr. Who was playing in the background.

Charlotte threw her head back into the cushion, "Can't be bothered to go into the studio tomorrow, I'm too tired," she huffed. 

Luke smiled and continued playing the guitar, "Sounds more like a 'you' problem,"

"You have to come with me tomorrow," she pouted at him, "Terryn said so,"

"No she didn't," Luke chuckled. 

"No, she didn't," she shook her head, "But it's more fun when you're there," 

"We'll be in with the guys tomorrow, anyway," he said.

Charlotte's face lit up, "You're recording a new song?" 

"For that new Ghostbusters movie coming out. I think you're really gonna' like it," he said.

Charlotte readjusted so she sat perpendicular to him, "Let's hear it," 

Luke's face tinted a shade of pink, but he refused, "Sorry, not yet,"

"Seriously," she whined, "You're really gonna' make me wait until the demo tomorrow? I let you hear my new shit all the time,"

He poked her in the ribs, "Fair argument," he pulled the guitar forward and re-tuned some of the strings until they were in the key he needed, "Now, you're sworn to secrecy. You can't tell anybody I showed you this," 

"Knock it off. I'm gonna' listen to it tomorrow anyways, Tony Soprano," she replied.

Luke figured he was just trying to stall because he was nervous. He always was playing new music for Charlotte, and even though she knew he'd love anything he wrote there was always a small hint of anxiety plaguing him. Kind of like how she would get when she'd play music for him. 

He began playing an sang softly,

"When the girls, when the girls talk, When the girls talk boys,Oh, when the girls, when the girls talk, When the girls talk boys,"

Charlotte nodded along in time to the bouncy tempo he set,

"When you're talking to your girls, do you talk about me? Do you say that I'm a sweetheart, do you say that I'm a freak? Do you tell them white lies, do you tell them the truth? Do you tell them that you love me the way that I've been loving you? 'Cause every night you and I find ourselves, Kissing and touching like no one else, Falling and falling until I fell, For you"

Charlotte clapped as he finished, "You didn't write that, did you?" 

Luke froze momentarily, "How could you tell?" he asked.

"I just can. I know how you write," she shrugged, "Don't get me wrong, it's catchy. It just needs more... you. You guys need to put your spin on it," 

Luke knew where Charlotte was coming from, she never called him out from a bad place. She was right, she knew him just as well as the guys did. And even if they didn't write the song, she knew they'd still smash it. 

"You want to write a song?" he asked suddenly.

Charlotte raised her eyebrows, "Right now?"

"Why not?" Luke shrugged.

She smiled happily, "Alright. Let's do it,"

Their creativity flowed right until two in the morning when they finally fell asleep. They were writing and rewriting, experimenting with new chords and melodies. They didn't name it, didn't have plans to take it to their producers, it was just something fun they could keep for themselves. It was a perfect combination of emotional angst and punk rock vandal rolled into one. 

Charlotte was a phenomenal songwriter, Luke wasn't sure how she did it half the time. The poetry she stitched together was so profound it sometimes had him near floored. Paired with the voice of an angel, Luke couldn't help but be captivated by her talent. The first time they had an all night writer's session, they came out on the other side with 'Outer Space'. Needless to say, Luke was exceedingly proud of that song just because of Charlotte's contributions. 

Luke never was much of a morning person. He was grumbling incoherently when Charlotte was already up and clunking around to make coffee.

"What if we just fucked off for the day and skipped the studio?" he groaned, pulling a pillow over his face.

"No, get up. And you can't complain about your tiredness, I just got off a damn plane," Charlotte replied.

"Five more minutes, Mum," he turned over. 

"Five more minutes?" Charlotte marched around to the couch, "You're the one that wanted to stay up and write a song,"

"You're the one that wanted me to sing in the first place," he mumbled back.

Charlotte placed her hands on her hips, an evil idea coming to mind. She grabbed the edge of the couch cushion and yanked it out from under him. Luke rolled and was suddenly lying flat on the wooden frame. 

"Ouch," 

"Time to get up, sweetie," Charlotte grinned, tossing the cushion to the floor, "And don't ever call me 'mom',"

Luke watched her circle back to the kitchenette, "How would you feel about 'Dad' then?" she flipped him off. 

He eventually managed to pull himself up and stretched out his back, an annoying little kink had formed overnight. He joined Charlotte at the counter for a fresh cup of coffee and a plate of shortbread cookies, fresh from the packet.

Charlotte stared at him tentatively as he sipped his coffee, "So... you uh... you want to talk about it?"

Luke glanced at her over the mug's rim, "Nope,"

"okay,"

♛♛♛

Ashton was curious when Luke showed up to the studio wearing the exact same outfit from yesterday, but he didn't press on about it. For now. 

The bands were supposed to be working in separate studios in the building, of course the separation didn't last long. They didn't mind, it was more the producers who had a problem with the constant interruption to work and the shenanigans that would take place. 

It was just before noon when Luke tore himself away from the mock guitar battle between Michael and Maria, his phone was buzzing. Melody texted him that she was downstairs with a change of clothes, coupled with an apology. 

No one really paid attention when he stepped out, all except for Charlotte who knew better. 

Calum and Michael were playing a demo of 'Girls Talk Boys' for the girls when Luke returned, freshly changed into a new flannel and skinny jeans. Trailing behind him was Melody, much to the girls chagrin. Nevertheless, they put on smiles as she entered.

"Hey! Long time no see!" Maria said. Charlotte and Kim stayed quiet.

"You mind if I hang out for a bit?" Melody asked.

"The more the merrier," Michael replied, giving away his spot on the couch for her, "The girls were about to play their new song for us,"

"You're getting first exclusive rights, here," Chloe said.

Her dark almond eyes lit up with intrigue, "Ooh, I'm down!"

Kim rolled her eyes.

They boys were thrilled to have a first listen on Catch the Caper's new song. The three boys crammed in together on the one couch while Michael sat on a rolley chair. Mel sat on the arm of the couch next t The girls were ready to play their first full performance of 'Doctor Doctor'. 

Luke gave her a subtle wink that made Charlotte's heart race, and she couldn't help but smile and blush.

"Alright," Kim started, "Now remember, no heckling until the song is over,"

"Shut up and play," Calum bit back. 

"Shut up and kiss my ass," Maria smirked. 

Despite the song being written about her breakup, Charlotte couldn't help but have Luke at the forefront of her mind. It was hard for her to look at him as she sang, let alone with her being right there, so she kept her gaze averted to the floor. Luke was just all that she could think about, every morning, ever show, every love song, every lyric they wrote together. Every time she looked at him she felt overwhelmingly happy to have him in her life.

"Just a heart broke bitch, high heels six inch In the back of the nightclub, sippin' champagne I don't trust any of these bitches I'm with In the back of the taxi sniffin' cocaine Drunk calls, drunk texts, drunk tears, drunk sex I was lookin' for a man who was on the same page Now it's back to the intro, back to the bar To the Bentley, to the hotel, to my old ways" 

Ashton was the first to break into an overly enthusiastic round of applause, "Somebody get these girls a Grammy! Stat!"

"Oh, shut up, Ashton," Kim giggled. 

Calum was curious as he raised his hand, as though he was in school for some reason, "Hold on -- Lottie... have you actually done cocaine?"

Charlotte cocked a brow at him, sliding back, "Have you met me, Cal?"

"She's only addicted to Doctor Who," Chloe added.

Michael snorted, "Is that the 'Doctor' you're referring to?" he asked.

"Gosh, however did you know?"

The others gave praise where praise was do and near immediately they jumped back into developing their new songs. Charlotte noticed however that Melody had been a little too quiet since she finished singing.

[agentnico]

Overlord (2018) Review

This is NOT a Cloverfield movie.........?

Plot: On the eve of D-Day, American paratroopers drop behind enemy lines to penetrate the walls of a fortified church and destroy a radio transmitter. As the soldiers approach their target, they soon begin to realize that there's more going on in the Nazi-occupied village than a simple military operation. Making their way to an underground lab, the outnumbered men stumble upon a sinister experiment that forces them into a vicious battle against an army of the undead.

So basically it’s Call of Duty: Zombies and Wolfenstein but in movie form. Which as a concept is a safe bet from the get go. Nazis are probably the only group of people that are hated by everyone unanimously. Heck, even modern day Germans hate them. So who better to be villains in your movie than Nazis. And of course our heroes in this film are Americans because.....well, America, that’s why! But moving that overdone stereotype aside, Overlord is a pleasant little surprise, I must say. It is a result of a B-movie getting a big budget. It’s not particularly artistic or unique, but it never sets out to be that in the first place. We want to see some Nazi zombie gore, and you get some Nazi zombie gore. 

The film doesn’t take itself too seriously, nor should it, but seriously enough to actually have a cohesive story and characters that you care about. However there is one thing it does take with full seriousness, and this is actually something the movie excels at, which is the war setting. In the first half hour, before all the crazy zombie shenanigans kick in, the movie straight up goes full blown out Saving Private Ryan on us, with a particularly chaotic opening sequence that throws us right into the horrific action of war, as these paratroopers are shot down from air into Nazi-occupied France, and this opening really successfully re-imagines the intense and disorienting nature of what it must've been like for those who did the deed for real in WWII. And through-out the film, even during the more ridiculous parts the movie continues to hold on to the war thread, with one memorable scene involving a German captain (or more accurately an SS Hauptsturmführer) intimidating and threatening a French woman into sexual submission by putting her younger brother’s life at stake, and though the film never follows through on the possible dreadful outcome of that (this is at the end of the day a Nazi-zombie movie and not actually Saving Private Ryan!), it is still an interesting reminder of that time, and I appreciated the movie for sticking true to its time on that aspect. That being said, don’t expect this movie to be fully historically accurate. For example, our main lead in this movie is played by Jovan Adepo, who does a good job by the way, however if we are looking at historical accuracy, African heritage soldiers were not integrated with Caucasian units in WWII. Why am I saying this? Just to show off my knowledge really. Am I using this to complain about the film? Not really.

I need to mention the directing and cinematography of this movie, since both of these are surprisingly above average, which is not what I expected from this style of film. A new comer to the business, director Julies Avery does some interesting camera techniques throughout the film, with his use of one-shot takes being especially visually appealing. The script on the other hand at times is quite cheesy with some one-liner comebacks being quite cringe-worthy. But luckily we didn’t come into this movie craving some Aaron Sorkin level of writing. That would have been weird.

A flaw could be that this movie is fairly predictable, though that being said the film does also try to set certain stereotypes aside, like for example there is no forced romance between our lead and the female character. There is no random moment in the midst of a battle where the two in the moment of the adrenaline rush turn to each other and share a passionate kiss (yes, I’m looking at you Jurassic World!). I mean, I guess there are suggestions for a possible future romance between them, but it’s only in the small looks. In fact, I feel like there might have even been a kissing scene between them in an earlier draft of the script, but then they realised to take it out. It is interesting though, if....wait, I’m getting a bit too side-lined on this non-existing romantic angle of the movie. Because there is no romance. So why am I still talking about it?...I gotta get out more.

Overlord offers little surprises, but is a hell of a good time, if you are a fan of this genre. With this being a J.J. Abrams produced film, there were rumours that Overlord might be part of the Cloverfield universe, to which as far as I can tell it is not. But (of course there is a but!) at the same time it could be. The question comes courtesy of that last Cloverfield movie, what’s-it-called, the bad one that was released on Netflix, I can’t remember the title and I cannot be asked to look it up. But anyway, that one basically explained how the Cloverfield films are connected. It’s basically all parallel universes. I know, such a cop-out of a reason. From that stand-point, Overlord could be a Cloverfield film, because you know, parallel universes!! But its not official. But heck, with that reasoning anything could be a Cloverfield movie. Star Wars, Blade Runner, heck even Pulp Fiction, it all must be in the Cloverfield universe, right? More like bullsh**, that’s what it is! Any-hoot, Overlord, go watch it, it’s a good time. 

Overall score: 7/10

[spideybpy]

peter parker x reader || the newspaper (part one)

part two

summary: the reader is asked to start a school newspaper with a certain budding photographer... only the one story on the reader’s mind is Spiderman’s... this is a little bit introductory so please bear with me I swear it gets better over the next couple of parts!!

warnings: nada

She stood at the door. It looked different this time, different to all those other times when they had fallen through the doorway, barely making it into the hall before collapsing onto the floor laughing; different to how it looked when she glanced back after leaving, her skin still electrified with him. Him. Him, always him. She didn't know when or how or why but at some point on their reckless adventures she realised that she had fallen recklessly in love with him. And she was going to tell him. She was. She was. She held her hand up to the door, knuckle hovering in front of the wood. What if someone else answered? What if he answered? What if she really had to tell him this time, not just another rehearsal in her bathroom mirror, the real thing? She took a deep breath. Three knocks for her three-word confession, how sickeningly poetic. Her chest imploded as she heard a noise from inside the house, him tripping down the stairs? His dog falling off the sofa like he always does when there's a knock at the door? No- she couldn't do this- she would rather suffocate in this silence than have to tell him- but there he was, opening the door, his eyes already smiling her name. She had to. She had to or the horrible longing, yearning, craving, would continue to eat her alive until she was nothing more than an empty shell. She had to. Her lips parted and wavered and closed until she opened them again, determined to utter those three hateful words that had destroyed her. She looked him in the eye with a shaking breath,-

"Y/N?" You looked up from your laptop to see your English teacher standing over you. You cursed to yourself as wherever that sentence was going was long gone. You tried a civil smile; it came out sour.

If your teacher noticed, they didn't acknowledge it.

"I was wondering if you could not only help me but the school as a whole," they perched on the bench next to you, "and maybe even yourself. I'm sure you're aware our school community is operated by the student body and yet I have noticed one integral missing part to our society: a school newspaper!" Your teacher made a gesture as if this was the greatest news you were ever going to hear in your life and even when your enthusiasm inevitably failed to match their's, they continued undeterred. "You're probably wondering what any of this has to do with you. The fact is, we want our most talented writer on the job and it would seem a tragedy if we ignored you. At the moment it would just be you and the photographer working together to publish a weekly newspaper, however there's no reason that with some work you couldn’t have a whole team of writers behind you in the future." They gave you one, last trying smile to win you over, "What do you say?"

"I have to decline." you said, turning back to your laptop.

"What? Why? I thought you wanted to be a writer?" Your teacher was somehow still surprised despite your obvious disinterest the whole time they were talking.

"I want to be an author, not a journalist. I write stories, not articles."

"But journalists do write stories! Only they're happening in real life rather than in your head. Even if not for the writing, do it for your CV. You'll have a specific extra curricular to what you want to do and I'll give you extra credit." Your teacher raised their eyebrows, tentatively watching you for some sort of response to their offer.

You had to admit, Chief Writer and Editor of the school newspaper would look pretty cool.

You sighed and closed your laptop. "So, who's my co-worker?"

-

Weaving through the corridors, you made your way to the art room. You had never liked school: it killed artists. You had to stifle a laugh at the irony, there was always a home in hell.

As much as you didn't want to, you couldn't help but be pulled down by a wave of nostalgia. The walls had always been a prison but now? Now you could look at the trophies and the esteemed alumni that littered the photo frames and cabinets and believe that maybe, just maybe you could be up there too one day.

You had to shake your head. It was just a stupid school newspaper.

With your laptop folded under your arm, you pushed the art room door open with your hip and was hit by that familiar smell of whatever materials they had been using that day. It smelt like unreined imagination, forever refreshing after being surrounded by everyone's overworked personalities as if they had walked straight out of some horrendous book.

You turned to find two pairs of eyes glued to you and very quickly realised that you had barged in and interrupted their conversation.

"Oh! I'll, uhm, just be-" you jutted your thumb in the direction of the door so you didn't have to finish your sentence.

"Wait!" Your art teacher exclaimed, "That was perfect timing actually, Y/N, I had just finished explaining to Peter what our plan is. I'm sure you know Peter?" The boy's face went straight pass red and into magenta at the mention of his name.

Your stomach dropped; you couldn't believe your luck. Of course you knew Peter- everyone did after the whole Peter-knows-Spiderman incident... and suddenly you had an interesting story.

You extended your hand to him, "My name's Y/N. I guess you're my new coworker?"

"So it seems." He smiled, shaking you on it.

"I was just telling Peter about the big game on Friday, perhaps your first project together?" You tried a smile. You always avoided games but you sensed you wouldn’t be able to escape this one.

"Sure, that sounds great!" You glanced at your watch and cursed, "I better get going now or I'll be dead if I'm late home again. Thanks again for organising this and thinking of me." You added before turning to the door.

"I'm going that way." You turned and looked at Peter; you weren't sure who was more surprised by his outburst. "I mean, we can talk about the newspaper and... stuff?"

You smiled at him and held open the door.

-

It didn't take you long to realise that Peter wasn't the sort to lie. Besides, it made sense that he would have at least seen Spiderman at that Stark internship.

Maybe this was actually going to work.

"Well, this is my stop." You grinned, looking between Peter and your house. You liked him, which was saying a lot. You didn't have the patience for most of the kids at school... but Peter? Peter- Peter was different. You mentally rolled your eyes at yourself for being so cliché.

He was though, you couldn't deny that much, he was smart and kind and funny- you were in stitches the whole way home- and your heart couldn't help but do the thing whenever he looked at you and laughed and the skin around his eyes crinkled.

"I almost forgot!" You said, jolting yourself out of your thoughts, "We should probably meet before the game, how about tomorrow after school at the coffee shop around the corner?" It was your turn to go red,"I mean, to talk about the newspaper and... stuff?"

Peter laughed. You already loved his laugh.

"Sure. I have a feeling this is the start of quite a partnership."

From your top step you mimed tipping your hat to him, "Well, goodnight partner."

"And goodnight to you too, partner." Peter said with a flourished bow.

You both laughed, even if yours was tinged with melancholy because you knew you were going to have to turn away.

part two

[iv-kplpt]

on being in love

so i’m now a part of a group dc rp, about batman villains escaping from arkham asylum. i rp as penguin and i got GM’s permission to put charlie in the universe, so... this happened, between playing ovw, cooking rice and having depression. a short vignette about oswald and charlie and promises and doubts.

the original in polish can also be found on this blog.

Oswald had been in Arkham for six long, tiring months. He shouldn't be there - he should be in Blackgate; but there he was, Oswald Chesterfield Cobblepot, in this one part of Gotham he hated.

(His mother walked those corridors once. Sometimes he could hear her voice, sometimes he could feel the tender touch of her fingers on his cheek.)

He spent six months waiting for his chance to escape. Six months of loneliness, because he firmly refused to integrate with other "patients". Especially with the Joker. Especially with Dent, whom he created.

(Harvey Dent, Two Face, his opus magnum. Their cells were exactly across each other... Every day Oswald was standing face to face with the consequences of his decisionsand every day he wasn't able to force himself to feel even the faintest sting of remorse or regret. He destroyed this man's life - so what? It was meant to be...)

His biggest problem during those one hundred and eighty days was not Dent's presence; nor it was his lack of empathy and his slowly dying humanity. No, his biggest problem was absence. The lack of another person at his side - or him not being present at her side.

Her name was Charlotte, Charlotte Schiller-Aberdeen - but she demanded to be called just Charlie. She was a young widow; she had hair red like blood on their hands and eyes blue like forget-me-nots he was trying to grow for her. They met shortly before he started to bring his half-baked plans to life; they met in Peperoncino, a bar belonging to Carmine Falcone. Oswald had a free pass there, due to being a protégé of Salvatore Maroni, gangster's close friend; but Charlie wasn't supposed to be there. That night he saved her life, lead by impulse and a sting of sympathy for the resolute young woman. That night he stole a first kiss from her; as well as many others. That night he left a mark of his teeth on her neck, for which she repaid him by scratching his back with her fingernails, drawing blood in the process. The next morning Charlie snuck out when he was still asleep, his heart in her pocket, and hers on a pillow next to his face - but tey only realized it one month later, when she returned to Gotham in search of a new start and him, him, him.

They fell madly, clumsily, shamelessly, agonizingly for each other - he fell in love with the softness of her hair and gentleness of her smile and the light way she spoke of matters terrible and dark; she fell in love with blood on his hands and the darkness in his heart and a scar running through the bridge of his nose. Nobody knew, except for them; they had to hide, because he was a criminal, and she was a young millionnaire, looking for her place among the members of Gotham social elite. Charlie was emanating a mysterious aura - she wouldn't let anyone into her life, she never gave out any details. Her gaze didn't carry a promise, and her smile wasn't an invitation to ask questions. She was kind, charming and funny; and it was enough for keeping people from asking questions. For keeping them from pushing any further.

In whole Gotham only Oswald knew that Charlie killed her husband. She took his life with her cool, pale hands, with which she'd stroke Oswald on his scruffy chin; in whole Gotham only Oswald knew what does Charlie look like without makeup and high heels, how she looks like when she wakes up in the morning, how she tilts her head when his teeth - like fairytale vampire's fangs - find her neck. In whole Gotham only Oswald knew; and in whole Gotham only she knew a handful of his own secrets. In whole Gotham only they knew; and they liked it that way.

And it was her absence that had been causing Oswald the most pain during those six months. Nobody knew about their relationship; nobody knew about the woman who stole Penguin's heart. That was the ultimatum he gave her one night, before everything went to hell - "I will not drag you down. Nobody will know about us. If this fails, if they catch me... I won't as much as mention you."

"If this happens, Oz..." she then whispered back, sliding something into his hand and looking him in the eye. "If this happens... I'll be waiting for you. Here, in this house. There will always be a place for you here, and I will always love you."

(Later, when he was left alone, he finally looked at what she gave him; a pebble. An ordinary - though very blue - pebble. Only after a long while he realized the full symbolism. He did the same in return - his pebble was yellow.)

He missed her every day and every night; and she couldn't even visit him, because that would make the meticulously built facade to fall. She couldn't visit - and he didn't want her to. There were people he was willing to drag down with him, but she was never on that list.

(Lying on his uncomfortable bed - that was nothing compared to a luxurious water bed in the bedroom of her home in Crest Hill - and throwing and catching the cool, smooth pebble she gave him he wondered if he's on her mind half as often as she was on his.)

He desired very few things more, than to show up on her doorstep, take her in his arms and shower her face with kisses, one for each freckle; to feel her hands on his shoulders, close his eyes and let her place a thousand of kisses soft like butterfly wings on his narrow, cruel lips.

Yes, Oswald Chesterfield Cobblepot, Penguin, monster, terrorist, thief and a con artist - was in love. He found someone who looked at the blood on his hands and a promises of murder in his words and burning hatred in his eyes - and then said "you're awful, I adore you".

(They were saying "I love you" in so many different ways. "Kiss me", "I bought you camembert", "come to bed", "be safe", "I missed you", "I want to raise a dog with you", "I want to conquer Gotham and destroy Bruce Wayne with you", "I put some flowers at your father's bust today", "let me know if one of those elite schmucks disrespects you, I'll cut them into pieces".)

Six months with no contact, six months without her warm body at her side, six months without her soft hair between his fingers, six months without her fingers on his cheek. Six months without love.

Sometimes he'd find himself in doubt. Was there still someone waiting for him out there? Maybe Charlie changed her opinion on him, maybe she changed the locks, maybe she abandoned Gotham same way she abandoned so many other places, so many other hearts? Maybe there was no "us" anymore, maybe there was nothing for him to come back to?

Usually simply putting a hand in his pocket and squeezing the cool, smooth pebble she gave him was enough. A symbol of promise, a symbol of loyalty. Penguins mate for life.

He missed her presence. He missed her gaze and playful cynicism with which she was taking his needlessly complicated, painstakingly eloquent confessions and declarations.

("You have my heart in your hands... And it's more fragile than it seems. Be gentle with it." "I like solving puzzles, Oz. If it breaks - we'll piece it back together, it'll look brand new. You know, the Japanese turned fixing broken pots into art...")

Oswald spent long six months on longing, daydreaming and muffling his own fears. When the grand night came, the night of judgement, the night to remember - he hesitated for only the briefest of moments.

(The pebble felt heavy in his pocket, giving him courage with its dead presence. For a moment Oswald felt like he's at her side again.)

He made his decision, putting his doubts off. The potential heartbreak and resulting dilemmas could wait; Oswald had a plan to realize. It wasn't his plan, and Penguin kind of felt like he wasn't even a part of it - but he wasn't going to complain.

In the company of the Joker, Harley Quinn, Two Face, Scarecrow, Deadshot and Poison Ivy Penguin started his tenacious endeavors, meant to take him to Asylum's exit. They spilt a river of blood in the process; but it didn't matter. Penguin knew Charlie doesn't mind the blood on his hands and face. The moment when he'd be able to finally take his beloved into his arms, to hear her voice was only a few hours away.

(I'm coming, my love, I will burn Gotham down if anyone tries to stop me; and then I'll kiss you among the ashes.)

***

In another, better, quieter part of Gotham Charlie Schiller-Aberdeen was watching the news with bated breath. Jack Ryder was reporting on events in Arkham, his voice shaking; a group of prisoners (oh I'm sorry, patients) took the matters in their own hands - among them her beloved.

(Mom, dad... I met somebody. His name is Oswald and he has nothing to his name, nothing but old shame and spilled blood...)

Every day for the past six months Charlie had been beginning her morning with tears, when after opening her eyes she couldn't see her lover next to her. Every day would begin with tears, which Pingu - a Shiba Inu they adopted - would at first try to lick up, doing whatever he could in order to cheer his mom up.

(The dog missed Oswald as well; he was mopish and was spending a lot of time staring at the garage door, as if he was expecting he'll manage to get his second own home by sheer willpower.)

At first they weren't planning to get a dog; they never planned anything. The dog showed up in their life because of Bruce Wayne - a man Oswald hated more than anything was very persistent in his attempts to befriend Charlie, blissfully unaware of who stole her heart. One day she told him that no, he can't come over for tea, because her domesticated penguin won't like her.

"Domesticated penguin?" he repeated, visibly surprised.

"I have a puppy, named Pingu." she improvised quickly. "He hates strangers... Especially men."

Charlie loved Oswald - and she knew he loves her back. She knew that Oswald - a hardened criminal, a boxer, an arms dealer, con artist and a killer - is nothing like her well-behaved husband, whom she killed; Harry had been lying to her for months, hiding his treachery behind a mask of a poor boy with heart of gold. After finding out about her doubts regarding him, Oswald - who wanted to get his fortune back and was prepared to do everything in order to achieve it - almost robbed a bank, just to prove her that no, he's not using her for her fortune, that he wants her, and not her money.

She fell for this monster... Maybe not at a first sight; but for sure at a first "you alright?" when they were in bed for the first time, and he just bit her just a tad too hard and her blood was on his lips, and she winced in pain, and he - still holding her hands above her head, just the way she liked it, just the way he liked it - got up a little and looked her in the eye.)

(When is monster not a monster? Oh... When you love it.)

"Monster", people were calling him when he got arrested; "my beloved" she'd call him in hushed whispers, when nobody could hear her. This murderer was kissing her in the morning and was making her scrambled eggs and was arguing about the second season of Twin Peaks with her and was listening to her emotional thouths on House of Cards. She loved Oswald and all his baggage - all the darkness, all the sins, the past, the future, the present. Maybe he was a monster - but he was her monster. And she knew this beast is not going to hurt her.

(Oswald was proudly parading around with his sins and his darkness exposed; and she preferred it over people who were hiding their demons. She preferred Oswald and his honest "yes, I killed the mayor and I enjoyed every single moment" over Harry Spencer, whose honeyed smile and warm eyes were hiding cold, venomous indifference and greed.)

So when it became clear that Penguin is escaping from Arkham Asylum - that he's coming home (his arms wrapped around her feel like home, his presence fills her with familiar warmth) - Charlie first danced a triumphant dance around her living room, wearing only Oswald's shirt and boxers, slightly confused Pingu jumping and barking around her.

"Oz is coming home, Pingu!" she informed the dog joyfully, to which he tilted his head and wagged his tail. "You hear? Oz is coming back!"

In response, the dog barked.

Next Charlie did some laundry - just in case - and went to the grocery store, where she bought out their entire supply of camembert. Oswald loved camembert; she never understood this love, but something was telling her Arkham never gave him a chance to indulge in his favorite culinary disaster.

(She also bought champagne, strawberries, peanut butter cookies and a whole lot of other things he liked.)

And then... She waited. She waited for the moment when Oz would barge into her home, bringing the smell of danger and death and blood of the innocent with him. She waited to hear his voice and his awful cockney, here and there sprinkled with Polish.

("I grew up among the Poles! They took me in... Apparently by their standards I'm a delight."

"Mmm. Not only by their standards.")

*** Finally the moment came. Oswald - with his heart in his mouth and and his mask under his shoulder and some blood smeared on his face - put his hand on the doorknob and pushed.

The door weren't closed; why would it be? Charlie stopped locking the door the moment she heard about the events at Arkham Asylum.

Pingu grew during those six months; but he still had that familiar spark in his eye and still very obviously loved Oswald a lot, considering how he started to instantly and adamantly demand love and attention from him.

All the lights were turned off in Charlie's home in Crest Hill when Oswald showed up for the first time in six months. He put his mask down on a kitchen table and turned around, to go up the stairs, where he was sure his beloved is, fast asleep-

Charlie was standing at the top of the stairs, staring at Oswald downstairs. Her sight stole the air out of his lungs; she was more beautiful than he remembered, with her hair messy and her eyes sleepy and the skin of her cheek slightly red and her night gown sliding off her right shoulder.

(Oswald Cobblepot was standing downstairs and he was staring at her without a word, blood smudged on his face. He looked almost as beautiful as he did when they first met; moonlight was luminating his face and even from the distance Charlie could see his stubble he loved to tease her skin with and a scar on his nose she loved to kiss and his eyes, focused and serious.)

"Hey, darling." he finally softly said and Charlie ran down the stairs crying and threw herself into his arms, tightly wrapping her arms around his neck and desperately kissed him, not minding the blood and ash he was covered with.

All of Oswald's doubts vanished without a trace when he wrapped his arms around her, pulling her closer.

Gotham City was in a state of red alert and the flames were still dancing in Arkham Asylum and Batman was carefully listening to Jim Gordon's every word on the roof of the police station and Joker and Two Face started to argue over leadership in their group of runaways, but none of this mattered, everything could wait till dawn.

"Did you miss me?" Oswald whispered between kisses, to which Charlie scoffed.

"Every day." she whispered back eventually and Penguin smiled with poorly hidden satisfaction.

They were together again, they were still in love and that was all that mattered to them, on their tiny island among the crashing waves.

[ratherhavetheblues]

INGMAR  BERGMAN’S ‘WILD STRAWBERRIES’ “He’s on such a high level…”

© 2019 by James Clark

 I think the film, Wild Strawberries (1957), though quite aptly described to be a paragon of hard-won affection, contains a field of sophistication which has not been noticed and needs to be unlocked. In the absence of this factor, one would tend to overplay an outset of wrongness in order to amplify the change. (One of the challenges to recognize in this matter is the litany of hearsay about the protagonist, Dr. Isak Borg, being “cold” and monstrously aggressive, in the style of Scrooge, the protagonist of Charles Dickens’ famous melodramatic novella, A Christmas Carol [Being a Ghost Story of Christmas, 1843].) Onscreen he is nothing of the sort. His lacuna would be more to the point of befuddlement in reaching for an equilibrium between his serious career and his serious heart. (An instance, in flash-back, reveals the protagonist’s young girlfriend flirting with his brother. She thought to mention that the studious one was “cold,” thereby, on her reckoning, an inferior to be duped.)

We should begin our discovery by taking seriously the fact that our film today was, remarkably, the second production of that year! The earlier entry, was that primordial bat out of hell, namely, The Seventh Seal, packing the mainspring of the Bergman cinematic reflection, namely, death-defying acrobatics and “impossible” juggling. The Seventh Seal, itself, is rooted in the oracular iconoclasm of Smiles of a Summer Night(1955), its contrarian energies still a matter of nearly complete oblivion. In light of these proceedings, we would be on strong grounds to look to Wild Strawberries’ telling us something new and amazing—not, then, reporting a geezer’s finally feeling good about himself and the world. (The dowager/ oracle in, Smiles of a Summer Night, and Jof and Marie in, The Seventh Seal, do not trade in normal gratifications. Nor, for that matter, does the protagonist’s grandmother, in, The Magician [1958].) Charming little personal moments are not what Bergman is looking for. His métier, like those scientists and artists of the avant-garde over the past 200 years, want more than that, nothing less than a new world, however small a number might convene. As we look closely at the dynamics of our saga here, we should look for gold, wherever it may come to pass.

In direct correspondence to the dowager/ oracle of 1955, who paradoxically avers, “I am tired of people. But that doesn’t stop me loving them,” we have at the very outset of Wild Strawberries—now having elaborated the oracular audacity by way of The Seventh Seal’s portals of acrobatics and juggling—the protagonist of our film today, writing down in his study a more formal disdain than the dowager’s smack-down of her flakey daughter, being an indirect soulmate of the girl, Sara, who was quick to call young Borg “cold.” “In our relations with other people, we mainly discuss and elevate their character and behavior. That is why we have withdrawn from nearly all so-called relations. This has made my old age rather lonely.” Whereas the dowager was addressing her tiresome daughter, Borg was addressing us—an instance, therefore, of juggling, well along in his studies. He adds to this transaction, “My life has been full of hard work, and I am grateful [here he lights his cigar, and the flash of flames and the trail of smoke speaks in another form]. It began as toil for bread and butter, and ended in a love of science.” A bit later, he adds, “Perhaps I should add that I am an old pedant [he fusses with the composition of the material on his desk], which at times has been rather trying for myself and those around me.”

Then, as he lies down to sleep, he introduces us to the major area, “trying for myself…” “I had a weird and very unpleasant dream.” In a ghost town, our avowed science-lover has no answers as he becomes ambushed by the reality of death. (In The Seventh Seal, a skittish knight displays a roaring pedantry about  surviving death.) As he crawls along in bewilderment, he notices a large clock on a wall which has lost its hands. He checks his own watch, and the result is the same, namely, the end of time as he is situated. A horse-drawn hearse comes by; there is a breakdown, the coffin falls into the street, opening the entrance, and the corpse’s hand is seen. Borg comes forward, the hand pulls him toward it; and he sees that it is his own corpse beckoning him. Though the confluence with the oracle essentially maintains for Borg another love, another gusto (acrobatic and juggling), which does involve a sense of death being far more courageous, on this occasion all he can do is shudder. On waking, that humiliation—that unfinished business—by a pedant who has slipped up (perhaps caught in an error as to pedantry itself), continues to rattle his day. But this is not the baseline of a ghoul needing supernatural guidance; instead, we have a person of considerable integrity, clawing himself back to notable equilibrium.

The narrative, thus shaken, embarks upon Dr. Borg’s travelling from Stockholm to Lund in order to receive an honorary degree to mark his fiftieth year as a medical practitioner and researcher. The plan was for him and his long-standing housekeeper/ fixer, Agda, to fly that day the 300 miles and then stay with his   son and daughter-in-law there, for the duration of the festivities. But the incursion of the sense of terrifying death prompts him to announce, “Miss Agda, please prepare some breakfast. I’m taking the car.” This ignites the first of several angry attacks upon a far from blue-chip sensibility, seen intuitively by others to be a license to cut down to size a commanding force. Agda, who had counted on the prestige and easy timing, goes so far as to say, “Just give me the word and I’ll leave tomorrow [and never come back],” does settle for flying to Lund, alone; but a painful statement had been added to the relationship, which demands juggling. (How many such dust-ups had they endured?) The so-called giant had been heard to peeve, “Incredible, that I have put up with your bossing so long…” But he also found, within this second nightmare, the reservoir of his years of consideration with her, which translates to her packing his suitcase. “No one can pack like you, Miss Agda.” She asks, “Shall I boil you a couple of eggs?” Borg, coming a bit closer to himself, embarrassedly declares, “The faculty should have made me honorary idiot.” Trying to kick-start some fertile acrobatics as they refuse to budge, he reaches for his purchase upon a sterling track record. “I happen to be a grown-up.” That much said, that the celebrated benefactor had a way to go before he could seriously belong with the very best, is amply shown by his imagining that, “I’ll calm the old girl down with a present. I hate resentful people. I wouldn’t harm a fly, let alone Miss Agda,” belongs in a grown-up life.

His second, and far more venomous adversary, of this rather hellish but also blessed day, comes in the form of his daughter-in-law, Marianne, who had been visiting for a week or so. She joins Isak for the ride home; and for the opportunity to express in private how much she hates him. Her broadside commences with the claim that, “I would take the train if I could afford it.” The name, Marianne, rather odd in Sweden, denotes the Gallic lamplighter who leads the people to their fertile destiny. (Thus, from the get-go of this relationship, the quality of mood is paramount. Marianne’s smash-and grab campaign soon comes to light as also involving her independent wealth. Therewith, in the confines of Borg’s huge black sedan, we have a shaken and shaky life-long student of emotive logic, and an essentially dishonest opportunist, having settled for life to make do with cornball gratifications.) As the carriage, perfect for a funeral, heads for the countryside, there is also the matter of her husband, Evald (included in Borg’s orientation at his desk, with his large and probably loyal dog), also being a successful surgeon, hardly poverty-stricken. The optics of their take-off on the roadways of Stockholm—virtual emptiness, like the streets of his nightmare—set the stage for another setback. Borg and Agda were nonplussed about the hitch-hiker; and soon his nocturnal malaise reappears. Marianne, her presence persistently confrontational, begins to smoke a cigarette. Borg, unable to overcome this intrusion on the heels of his previous failures of the day, resorts to his socially dominant station and tells the supercilious guest, “Please don’t smoke. I can’t stand cigarette smoke.” She promptly butts it out, and remarks, being insulted, “I forgot…” Tasting some metaphysical blood in hopes of regaining the real powers he affords, he continues, “There should be a law forbidding women to smoke.” She posits, to this, “Beautiful weather” (the countryside now doing far better than the two self-styled forces in the front seat). He contradicts with, “Yes, but sultry.” (Isak wears several layers of apparel, including a winter overcoat, while all around him summer lightness prevails. Does he inhabit another world? Does his breakdown include, over and above the horror of obliteration, the second horror of facing billions of people fundamentally indifferent and hostile to his way of life?) In the confines of that hermetic vehicle, Borg, far from his best, thinks to disregard nuance and civility (juggling) in favor of squashing what seems to him in his face an instance of insectile scandal having overrun the planet. (His register, here, could be compared to Desiree’s Count, in Smiles of a Summer Night.) “No, give me a cigar anytime. That’s stimulating and relaxing. That’s a vice for men.” She retorts, “And what vices may a woman have?” He answers: “Weeping, giving birth and speaking ill of her neighbors.” To that she asks, “How old are you, really, Uncle Isak?” “I know why you asked,” is his grim non-pleasure—as we see the sunny day, the rich foliage and the stream of the road going by. Disregarding those tonics, he launches a wider offensive. “Don’t pretend. You don’t like me. You never have.” Her distemper—brilliantly covered by Bergman’s designated badass, Ingrid Thulin—expertly crafted, is, “I only know you as a father-in-law” [she having no curiosity about his work; and having no work experience, at all; and, for us, on the brink of seeing another idle rich girl, who bears scrutiny]. Hoping to put her in her place, he reminds her, “Evald and I are very much alike [a rather large misstatement, we’ll discover later]. We have our principles.” On to her comfort zone��money, and its prestige—and a loan Evald incurred, no doubt at her initiative—at the outset of their marriage. She needles him with, “It’s a matter of honor for [Evald] to pay back 5000 a year.” Borg, knowing more about this than we do, tells her, “A promise is a promise.” This shakes out the impudence, “For us, it means that we can never be free together and that your son works himself to death.” Being tripped up here about “your own income,” she, dead-eyes to the fore, adds, “Especially when one considers you’re filthy rich and don’t need the money.”

Though, by now, he’s been touched by the flow of the drive, the gift of respectful and stimulating colleagues and an uncanny shaft of light in one lens of his glasses (to be seen again in Damien Chazelle’s First Man), a motif also connoting being semi-blind—perhaps, in an instance of always darkest before the light—Borg loses his temper in being hounded by an entity not merely perverse but alien. “You’re utterly ruthless,” she whines, “and never listen to anyone but yourself. But you hide it all behind your old-world manners and charm… I had a stupid idea that you might help Evald and me.” Remember what you said [a glimpse of Borg’s rather chronic instability about first principles]: “Don’t try to draw me into your marital squabbles [this in face of her transparent predatory violence]. I don’t give a damn. You and Evald must make the best of it.” Hoping that this disclosure might bring him onboard (like the image of Marianne rounding up the faithful), Borg merely feels bad about his loose lips there, and gets on track to a course whom the one he’s temporarily stuck with will never know. “I have no respect for mental suffering” [knowing that everyone has to pretty much face the music alone, if depth is the question]. For a coda, he prescribes “a shrink” or a minister. “It’s in fashion, now.” (That, in hearing about his failings of composure, Borg can derive both shame and proof of transcending it, represents the dramatic versatility and depths of Bergman’s theatrical dialogues.)

Here we see the fine trees above the road, and here we see Isak’s experiment in reaching the wretched. “I have liked having you about the house.” Her wry response is, “A cat or a human being?” He counters with, “You’re a fine young woman and I’m sorry you dislike me.”  But, there she goes, explaining that, “I feel sorry for you.” Hoping to get something moving beyond her fatuous statements, he swings into telling about his harrowing and now significantly recovered from, dream. Unsurprisingly, she has no time for agendas not of her making. “I’m not interested in dreams,” she brags. / “No, of course not,” he digs. And here hums a little tune. He turns off the (lost) highway, into a country road, and tells her, “I want to show you something…” He announces with gusto, “We lived here every summer during the first 20 years of my life.” Whereas, for him, the moments of special wildness are to be cherished and pondered, the stiff in the death-seat can only think to go for a swim, lacking, you can be sure, the riches of dynamics.

No doubt pleased to be rid of her for a while, he carries through his sanguine momentum by invoking, “the place where wild strawberries grow…” What could have been another assault in the contents of his bruising day, being hardly a piece of cake, rather magically shoots upward to disinterestedness and whimsy. The strawberry patch comes back to life, in a flash-back, as the site of Isak’s losing his fiancée to his brother, stunned but fun. The vignette covers the stalking opportunist, sweeping cousin Sara, the hitherto love of Borg, off her feet and causing to show, by way of his audacity (in small things), her pronounced cynicism and obsession with intercourse. Borg follows Sara into the house (in the spirit of reflection, not jealousy and resentment), where, after being teased (by peeping toms) for her disloyalty, she expresses her dilemma to the boys’ mother. As Borg overhears the tattlers of his candidacy, he revisits not merely a painful crisis of the past but a comprehensive survey of his being massively out of step with nearly everyone he encounters. Sara tells his mother, “He wants to read poetry [this whole film being a Nietzschean poem] and talk about the next life [the phantom which reared up and bit him the night before]. He’s on such a terribly high level, and I feel so worthless… But, sometimes, it seems to me that I’m a lot older than Isak. He’s a child… And Sigfrid [the brother so dissimilar] is so bold and exciting, and I want to go home… How unfair everything is…” Left by himself, he admits, “I was overwhelmed by feelings of emptiness and sadness… but was soon awakened by the voice of a young girl.

The “young girl” (played by actress, Bibi Andersson, who has also played the role of Sara; and has also played the role of Petra, the unsteady servant and even more unsteady metaphysician, in, Smiles of a Summer Night ) is also called Sara, in aid of x-raying the cycles of “a terribly high level.” With Marianne still off in the lake resisting mightily any rhythms of dynamics to sidetrack her Cartesian banquet, we come within the sprightliness of Sara-2 (Sara too), whose father owns the property and has provided for her a trip to Italy, the preamble of which is to begin that day. This Sara (and her two boyfriends, also along for the ride) introduces for Borg, now fully back to couth, a series of figures upon which to resume his (somewhat hidden) real career. With the rich and self-overrated Sara, he practices an interaction calling upon forbearance in hopes that not all will be lost. In referring to his long-ago tenure at the site and the vintage of his sedan, he quips, “… it’s antique, like its owner.” The girl, presuming to be an auditor of cool, praises, “So you have self-irony, too. That’s fantastic!” The local trio counts themselves fortunate to be going the same direction as Isak’s, who warmly welcomes them; and therewith a small treasure comes about. (Therewith, also, we have that rather ponderous black caravan becoming a portal of wisdom, on the order of Jof and Marie, in The Seventh Seal.) A template, of our protagonist’s working on the highway, surfaces, soon after the group departs. Sara, perhaps wanting to test the chauffeur as to having pure irony, thinks to shock him concerning her blazing modernity. She implies that both young men share her beauties. “Anders and I are going steady. We’re crazy about each other. Viktor’s in love with me too… I may have to seduce Viktor to get rid of him. I’d better tell you I’m a virgin. That’s why I’m so cheeky…” Smiling about that, he thinks to share that he’d once been in love with a woman called Sara. Good luck, getting her focused on his life! (Recall Marianne’s disinterest in his dream and his early days.) “She married my brother Sigfrid and had six children. She’s 75 now and quite a beautiful old lady.” (This finds the cheeky one suddenly troubled.) “I can’t think of anything worse than growing old.” Anders glares at her. “Oh dear,” she adds, “I have put my foot in it…” Borg laughs merrily. Welcome to a new logic. Sara strokes his cheek, and resumes sunniness. (Feel the strangeness. Feel the real irony.)

A while later they barely escape a deadly collision. More perversity. More chivalry. A Volkswagen (that godsend of the common man) bears down upon the polyglot assembly. The intruder is on the wrong side of the road. And the woman who was driving explains, “I was just going to hit my husband when that curve appeared.” Curves being the norm, what to do about them becomes an imperative, an imperative universally underestimated. “I have no excuse,” the husband explains. While Marianne turns her back on this complication, Borg organizes pulling the bug out of the ditch. The newcomers, being driven to the first repair stop, send up a non-stop clash between them, so venomous that Marianne, the regulator, kicks them out. (Sara also found the bad form unconscionable.) The girls may have had a point with pulling the trigger on those with “no excuse.” But it is Borg’s sang froid and an inquisitiveness which matters here. The wife, in the midst of her lostness, does find a correspondence in our student of irony. “Some people are unselfish [disinterested], though you [the husband] don’t think so…” One other gem from this hurricane, redounding to Borg’s recovery, is (apropos of hypochondria), “It happens when you catch a glimpse of death.” One more irony: in expelling the infidels, Marianne argues, “This may be sudden, but,  for the children’s sake, will you please get out?” The “children” are college age and hard as nails. Her as yet unannounced pregnancy, and its ulterior motives, actually drives this bit of tidying up.

The next stage of the trip, now in the region where his 96-years-old mother lives, rains down upon the irony of Borg being seen to be a phony by Marianne and a basket-case by Sara-2. Marianne drives into a gas station, and the proprietor immediately recognizes Isak as, “the world’s best doctor… Let’s call the baby [his wife also on the job, and pregnant] after him. Mom and Dad and the whole countryside still talk about him!” The beautiful people are left inside the car, and it is the understated traveler who shakes things up. Of course, such a VIP would merit the gas without charge, despite Borg’s wanting to pay. “Don’t insult us, Doctor. We can do the proper thing too! There are things that can’t be paid back… We haven’t forgotten, ask anyone around here…” A cut to the driver finds the prosecutor with a bemused half-smile on her face. Such renown only stems from a uniqueness far beyond technical prowess and politics. How many such wonders of breakaway had he experienced in Stockholm, where science and its mountains and mountaineers alone counted. “They all remember your kindness.” This elicits from the big name, about to be enshrined, a thought that he had allowed himself to skimp upon his full calling. “Maybe I should have stayed here…” Characteristically, he dismisses the idea. “Let me know when the new son arrives, and I’ll be the godfather.” (The gas-jockey, sort of bucking a trend, has, however, skimped upon his sense of the sublime. “Isak Akerman—not a bad name for a prime minister.”)

Before the visit to Borg’s mother, including Marianne as only too well-known by the razor-sharp old skeptic (another appearance of the factor of the oracle, in Smiles of a Summer Night, and, to come, The Magician, where there thrives, under pressure, a woman of acuity and warmth) who nails that distant relative as a money-mad, decorative, sentimental twit, the party pauses for a late lunch at an outdoor café overlooking a fine vista which only the two “so worthless” females would fail to respond. In voice-over, Borg, braced by the adoration at the pumps, still can’t resist securing a big share of the limelight. “During lunch I was in good spirits and told the young people about my years as a district medical officer. My stories were quite a success… I don’t think they laughed merely out of courtesy.” He lights a (top-dog) cigar and the brief flames and smoke comprise a small, whimsical shortfall. Anders, the religious boy, a far less deranged version of Egerman’s son, in, Smiles of a Summer Night, recites, “Ah, when creation shows so much beauty, how radiant must be its source.” Viktor, the science zealot, headed for a medical career, complains, “Reciting poetry is against our agreement… How can anyone today study to be a minister?” (This contretemps implying the onus upon Borg’s commitment to some facsimile of a synthesis of both forces.) Anders pouts, “Your rationalism is dry as dust.” And the not very friendly friend replies, “I say modern man believes only in himself and his biological death.” The opponent lobs, “Modern man is a figment of your imagination.” The retort runs, “Once you believed in Santa Clause, now in God.” Sara adds, “How sweet they both are! I always agree with the one I spoke with last.” The boys want to hear Borg’s take, and he declares, “Whatever I said would be met with tolerant irony. So I’ll say nothing.” But,  attending to the imperative of juggling, the only “modern man” in sight, recites, “Where is the friend I seek at break of day? When night falls…” [here he falters]. And Marianne, also conversant with the well-known poem, conversant in the style of a Jeopardy contestant, easily finds the words, without the meaning. “… when night falls, I still have not found him…” The theologian takes over: “My burning heart shows His traces…” Viktor, not liking the old man’s drift, asks, “Are you religious, Professor?” And Borg, ignoring the jargon, goes on, “I see His traces wherever flowers bloom. His love is mingled with every air…” Then, irony rampaging, there is clever Marianne: “His voice calls in the summer wind…”

The race to the ceremony is peppered with irony—sharp, but also dull. The oldest one, whose contemporariness needs love to notice it, remarks to the only plebian in the room, that one of her long-dead daughters would declare, “I’m going to marry Papa… Isn’t that funny?” And Marianne knows there she’s on a firing line the likes of which she’ll never again be so roundly despised. She’ll go on, during the resumption of the drive, with the three youngsters meandering during a break, to reveal to Borg her being pregnant and having to face down her patrician husband’s priorities being intent upon other developments. During their first volcanic displeasures (at a site beyond the town limits, a place like Sister Alma’s       discovery of the treachery of  Elisabet in Persona—Alma being played by Bibi Andersson, as a competent, though limited, career girl, implying that subtle resolve is well within the powers of blondes), she yells to him, “You’re a coward!” He informs her, “Yours is a hellish desire to live and create life…Mine is to be dead. Stone-dead…” On the cessation of this disclosure, Borg, not unmindful of the painful irony, quietly remarks, “If you want to smoke a cigarette, I don’t mind.” He goes on to ask why she has revealed this to him. Her response is that she had had a clear and terrible sense of the old lady’s “coldness, like ice” and therewith she had become ever more resolved that the newly recognized virtues of Borg might transcend the gesture of death. “All along the line, there’s nothing but cold and death. It must end somewhere… I want this child. No one can take it from me… I don’t want us to get like those two in the car today…” So easy to salute; but, in the world of Bergman, nothing is easy.

Prior to Borg’s getting presented with his son and daughter-in-law’s “marital squabbles” for the second time that day and the thorny irony of this day’s evolution finding him still unconvinced by either of the combatants, he, perhaps due to the poor sleep that night and the fine wine and liqueur at lunch, had fallen into a sleep seeded with nagging failures of resolve. The nightmare is introduced by a shrieking flock of blackbirds darkening the sky (a-la-Hitchcock’s The Birds). Then there’s Sara-one, putting a mirror into the face of aged Borg. “Have you looked into the mirror, Isak? Then I’ll show you what you look like [that is to say, you’re too slow for a lively heart like little-old-me]. You’re a worried old man whose going die, but I have all my life before me… We don’t speak the same language…” Borg smiles, and finds it painful. “As professor emeritus, you ought to know why it hurts… You know so much and don’t know anything…” On to more high heat, in a version of Kafka’s novel, The Trial. A prosecutor plays cat to Borg’s mouse; and the supposed verdict is, “You are incompetent, in addition to being old and ugly. Your wife has made the charge.” On, then, to Borg’s wife, having one of her affairs (with a totally unlikeable figure played by the same actor who shone in Smiles of a Summer Night and was about to shine in The Magician). She tells her paramour that Borg is a softy and a fake, and “cold.” (She being, like Marianne, unfit for fully serious endeavors.) The terrible dream, that is more than a dream, runs to, “Now I’ll go home and tell Isak. I know just what he’ll say—‘My poor girl…you mustn’t beg my forgiveness. There is nothing to forgive…’—Just as if he were God.”

Pulling himself together under hostile and massive fire, he struggles to deliver inspiring, powers closer than he imagines. Getting nowhere with the population, he’s doing quite well in another forum. Straggling into his son’s place, very close to the ceremonial church, Agda, having sensibly flown (but having missed quite a roller-coaster), takes over, and the scary patrician (one of a trio, here; but with only two on the site) regroups basking in punishing heights few ever notice. The three rich kids, now aware of a viral moment, see Borg in a different light, but still missing the real adventure. Sara-B gushes, “…a doctor for 50 years! We know you must be a very wise old man! You must know everything about life and have learned all the instructions by heart…” The smile on Borg’s face is both a juggle and a piece of acrobatics. Although the pomp and circumstance of the parade and the cathedral does take place (unlike the ending of the fantasy pomp and circumstance at the end of the imminent film, The Magician [1958]), and Borg fully plunges himself amidst his colleagues, such hullaballoo leaves him vaguely morose. (The highlight for him there has to be pulled out of the Latinate terminology of the citation: “experimentation.”) In a voice-over, he tells us, “It was this event that decided me to write down what had happened. In the jumble of events, I seemed to discern an extraordinary logic.”

In the jumble of events, Marianne and Evald civilly opt to do what they can. Borg gets nowhere in his outreach (juggle) for him and Agda to address themselves by their first name. The three new fans sing him a folk song as they depart. Sara-the-rich adds, ironically-Hollywood, “It’s you I really love, you know, today, tomorrow, always.” (This coincides with Marianne, the squirt, getting chewed up by Borg’s no-nonsense mother.) “Let me hear from you,” is Borg’s finding a register, about to be part of the jumble of events. (The protagonist, Victor Sjostrom, a former silent-film director whose main opus was titled,  The Phantom Carriage [1921], and constitutes the major feature of caravans for Bergman’s career, died three years after the film was launched and constitutes a tribute to what can be done by film.) Marianne comes by and they say they like each other. Later that night Agda gives Borg his sleeping pills and he dreams of that summer place. Sara-1 tells him, “Isak, there are no wild strawberries left.” (He being a more remarkable exponent of wildness than of medicine.) He’s asked to find Papa and Mama; but they are nowhere to be found. Sara-1 disappears. He stops to see the quiet activity at the distant pier. There, with a harp motif, he finds a moment of vision at the heart of his life. His life of disappearances becomes a rare delight, in being consumed by the beauty of that moment by the lake, a beauty comprising a little bit of his own generous agility and a little bit of a generous cosmos.

A few weeks ago, I suggested that The Magician just might be Bergman’s best film. Does it hold a candle to Wild Strawberries?! What I was getting at, however, is the factor of enmity given a strong position in the former work. Wild Strawberries, surpassing in charm even the masterpieces of Yasujiro Ozu, is truly breathtaking. But its subtleties are very hard to manage, and its conflicts, though shattering, do not rise to the physical, persistent idiocy of traditional power.  There is an almost Nietzscian poetic to Bergman’s theatrical dialogue here, somewhat foreclosing upon the communication of film. How fortunate we are, to ponder such a dilemma.  

[mylifeatwar]

Book 2, Chapter 5, Page 12

Archived Text Follows:

Hello,

Looks like this Dhuvalian fortress is better secured than it appears.

Thanks for reading,

– Luther out

Comment Text Follows:

Arthaxas234  - Wonder if the Dhuv’s have any game breaker tech in that fortress? Also I’m not sure if I’ve asked this question before,but have the Marketeers ever salvaged and at least try to reverse engineer any of the Dhuv Limbs

The Toravich - Yeah, that bears wondering. If they do have tech like that, this whole endeavor is gonna go downhill even faster than it is already.

Tiwaz - It just is not easy to reverse engineer stuff. And in field conditions it is basically impossible realistically. You need full staff of qualified and skilled engineers who take things apart carefully to be able to rebuild it, documenting every step, nut and bolt. Maybe if they get something in working order you could try to jury rig it to run on one of your own vehicles without fully understanding the workings. Assuming it is one independent component and not integral part of LIMB.

dwwolf - What was common was using captured equipment till it broke. The germans used beutepanzer. Mostly kv1s and t34s till they broke. So did the Russians with captured tigers and panthers. The other allieds didnt bother since they were awash in m4 Shermans. Though they utilise captured tanks ( sans turret ) as artillery tractors.

SteelRaven - Keep in mind whoever is in charge of the Dhuv’s counter attack ordered their infantry to attack the Limps first and THEN fired on the Limbs… If I was a Dhuv grunt, I would be seriously questioning my career decisions right now… unless the grunts are draftees, then I would just hate everything without question.

Arthaxas234 -  If that’s the case,then how come Dhuvalia hasn’t had a full scale Napoleonic revolt yet. 

Radical Dreamer -  It must be because they don’t feel their lives are being wasted. We’ve seen people who would be considered the upper parts of their society willing to ride limbs into battle. Maybe the grunts feel that the ones giving the orders are worth giving their lives for. If you, your family, and your society as a whole feel that such a death is worthwhile then it is.

Kasper - How would you launch a revolt here? The nobility is riding around in hi-tech weapons platforms, we’ve yet to see anyone without a title carry something heavier than the military rifles. If the best personal weapon available to both rulers and citizens is muskets, then you can have a functional equalizer (US 2nd Amendment style). If the powers that be hold all the good cards, the revolution would end up looking like present-day Syria or Egypt, depending on how fast the conflict was resolved. The Free Markets need to pull out some “Hearts and Minds”-trickery.

Tiwaz - They opened fire when LIMB-section came out of cover of the houses. There are no more obstacles between fort and LIMB-units.

Tanis - And the other shoe drops; makes good sense actually, the soldiers would have made sure that section of the city was completely evacuated, and then they ambushed the attackers to try and bog them down for the missile launchers to engage.

Radical Dreamer - Well played. Its easy to forget that such technology wouldn’t be limited to just Limbs. Being able to have your static defenses out in the open without having to worry about artillery gives a nice advantage. I wonder if they have the same missile defense system the Limbs have as well. Also nice to see Lawman-3 improvising by throwing battlefield debris. It might not be ideal but when you don’t have any guns left it beats standing around being a target.

Kasper - It’s not just direct fire they don’t have to worry about, if they can keep this running, the enemy might not know it’s even there.

Sazuroi - Any more cloaking? Cloaked Helicopters? Cloaked Support Vehicles? Cloaked Infantry (well, invisibility cloaks, not dustcoats)? Either this is a very high-value installation (and possibly the actual target of this mission, hidden behind a few small-time installations) or Dhuvalian cloaking technology is not actually limited to the chosen few and there may be any number of cloaked ambushes waiting when our favourite PMC advances deeper into the country.

Tanis - Personally, i would expect the cloaking tech is limited to hard bodied vehicles or installations, that also have enough spare power to maintain the field; its already been pointed out though that any vehicle using the system cant vent heat while its active, meaning it can get real toasty in there, real quick.Its probably also expensive as hell, the Dhuvalian’s may spend a lot of money on their equipment, but no matter how good your budget, you still need to draw the line somewhere on how widely you field the really expensive stuff.

Sazuroi - That was part of my question, actually: How costly is it really? The cloaked infantry was simply hyperbole to illustrate how a lot of cloaked things seem possible now. Dhuvalian Limbs are akin to Knight’s mounts, so it’s only proper that they would have immensly fancy stuff, but the equipment of all the other units seemed to be equal or even worse than the Free Market’s. However, missile launchers on a fixed installation, even a high-value one, feel like a different kind of category for me. If that is possible, why not also cloaked heavy helicopters, which are traditionally one of the most powerful anti-tank platforms (mostly due to the limited vision of a tank, as far as I know, so it wouldn’t fully apply)? The sound alone isn’t enough to be able to get a hit in, and if you can make a cloaking field, why not also a sound canceller. This situation illustrates Dhuvalia has quite a lot more surprises in store, since it isn’t just “squishy grunts, techy ‘mechs” with a few support vehicles thrown in occasionally, there might be a lot more depth and sophistication to their lineup. Perhaps the units seen so far were only first responders and mobile units? It would be terrible intriguing, though I reckon a bit of a balance problem since mobilizing terribly more advanced stuff seems to require a few hurdles to be cleared on the Free Market side, and I also don’t think the creators are looking for the Gundam kind of Arms race with everybody upgrading to Limb² as soon as the second half of the season starts.

Tiwaz - Power most likely. Helicopter has to use a lot of power to stay in the air. Add to that strain of cloaked system and you might have flying cooking pot. Making sound canceller is not same as cloaking field as one is electromagnetic radiation and other pressure difference. To cancel noise you would need to counter the pressure difference. What I am curious of… Why no railguns on t fort. They have those, they are wicked mean and fort should have sufficient energy to power them and sturdy enough to build compensation for the kick. Way those things mauled the flier, it could go through 2-3 LIMBs without noticing them.

Tanis - Rail guns have to fire in a straight line, which in this context can mean having to punch through multiple buildings to reach a target, guided missiles can steer between the buildings, though its a damn good thing for the Free marketers that the Dhuvalians haven’t yet figured out the brutal effectiveness of plunging missile trajectories. As far as helicopters gunships go, we haven’t yet seen anything of the sort being fielded by either side, in fact the closest thing to a helicopter we’ve seen so far is the Fatbird airships. the authors have stated repeatedly that neither side has yet figured out the nature of modern warfare, they haven’t had two consecutive game changer multi-continent wars the way we have in real life. both sides are displaying the sort of tactics that where typical of WW1 commanders, the principal difference being that neither side has nearly enough troops to make this thing bog down into trench warfare, the way things eventually did in WW1.

Tiwaz - Last picture shows fort visible with nothing between it and marketeers. Also, the positions appear to shoot at downward angle, not ballistic. Thus I have assumed them to having been in direct LOS with fort when fort fired at them.

York - You know, I’m wondering if the cloak is just a ‘Special Forces’ kind of weapon. First time they used it, they considered 1st RCB to be a big threat already, and they use a heavy amount of infantry and IFVs.

Sazuroi - There was a mention from the comic writers that the weapon is actually unpopular with Limb pilots since it unbalances the unit, preventing glorious melee combat. Given, it being unpopular with Limb pilots and at odds with Limb combat doctrine does not make it any less likely to be a special dispensation weapon that is only trusted to the select few, but if it is so unpopular, I would expect it to be found at likely high value installations like this fortress more often than in the hands of unhappy Limb pilots who have to sacrifice glory for operational success. Though it could be a “we must win now” weapon that is only deployed when serious business occurs, meaning those cloaked turrets are not actually supposed to defeat enemy Limbs, but to weaken them so allied Limbs can engage them in glorious melee easier. We’ll see in a few pages, probably.

Beanman - Love Dizzy grabbing a chunk of building here to improvise as a weapon, nice touch. Keep up the good work guys.

nweismuller - A question I’ve had for a long time- given the lack of any central political structure in the Free Market, what exactly does the ‘M and downwards arrow’ that seems to be the symbol for the Free Market actually represent? Why is it commonly used on Free Market equipment?

a guy - I assume it’s the artist’s signature. Each page has it somewhere. Sometimes it’s in the grass and on Dhuvalian stuff, so I do not think it’s part of the world.

[ghoultyrant]

FoZ Notes 19

We’re hitting the end-game stretch!

Does that mean the series is impr-hhahaahaha I can’t type it with a straight face.

No.

-----------------------

There are no magic air conditioners, and we're given a bunch of reasons why... which apply to the magic ceiling fan we're promptly introduced to.

If I were reading this for pleasure, this would be the point at which I put the book down and indulged in vivid fantasies of murdering the fuck out of the author. As-is, I'm still having a hard time forcing myself to soldier on. I know, it’s a tiny thing, sort of ridiculous to be my breakpoint, but something about how the author is not actually trying to make sense but is still going to try to pretend like this makes sense just provokes me like nothing else. Before I could sort of imagine the magic lamps and so on were some kind of worldbuilding, even if in practice they seemed to serve the purpose of having a medieval aesthetic while having modern functionality (eg the Academy is a Japanese high school, but magic), but this nonsense about trying to explain why we have a rotating ceiling fan but not magic air conditioners (By which we mean we do have magic air conditioners, they’re just unpopular aaaargh) is just... no.

Assertion that Lightning is a high level spell because it can “hit anything." (ie including the caster, if they’re not careful) More typically mages uses Lightning Cloud, which spawns a cloud a short distance away to spit lightning.

Oh, remember that ominous foreshadowing with the Elves last volume? Yeah, fuck that, time to be attacked by the Elemental Siblings again.

Who apparently can all do Ancient Magic? The FUCK?

Tabitha was apparently number seven in the hierarchy of the blah blah Northern Spyknights. So who were the other two?

Something I probably ought to have mentioned eons ago: BIG FEELS make regular magic stronger too. I've... tended to ignore it because it's blatant Protagonist Power rather than an integral part of the setting, though.

Elves apparently live about twice as long as humans. Really? That's all?

Oh, the Elves are here, watching the fight with the Elemental Siblings and spewing racist bullshit. Also, asserting that 'barbarian' mages don't use weapons, which is so hilariously wrong I would applaud it as a nice bit of Ignorant Elves if it weren't for the fact that the author is so incapable of consistency it seems far more likely this is just one more piece of his own canon he's forgotten.

Oh, and elves have magic heat-seeing goggles, which has caused humans to think Elves can see in the dark. I fucking hate this setting's magitechnology. It's stupid nonsense that in no way fits to the setting's barebones magic rules -which is quite the feat of incompetent writing, given that the setting's rules ARE so barebones!

It's really sad watching how FoZ's artist gets better and more ambitious while the author descends into inane drivel. I really hope the artist does other work for something actually deserving of such craft.

The Elves have set up a base camp surrounded by a "barrier of Ancient Magic." We later learn this barrier makes it impossible to even realize the camp is there, with someone approaching it directly ending up going around it without realizing it. Basically? Fuck you, Elves can do ANYTHING, so long as it's conveniently in line with the author's current intentions. You know, just like regular magic! Aaaargh. [And no, they don’t use this craziness to protect their homeland or anything of the sort. This is a one-off piece of nonsense to justify the Elves sneaking into Halkeginia successfully]

Oh, and they're kidnapping Saito, when all their prior dialogue indicated they were here to capture one of the Void SPELLCASTERS, not one of their goddamn familiars. Because of course everything is about Saito, even when it EXPLICITLY ISN’T.

Aaand here's Louis appearing in a teleport and instantly casting Explosion before Ali has even noticed she arrived. So remember all that crap about Void spells taking forever to chant?... 'cause the author sure as hell doesn't!

Okay, something I haven't been mentioning: the story CONSTANTLY shitting on Louise by saying her body isn't attractive and her personality is outright repellent. Why am I mentioning this? Well, Ali sees her, and his first thought is that she's extraordinarily beautiful, even by Elven standards. aaaaaaa

And now Louise rapid-casts Explosion to nuke a bunch of arrow-branches. I hate. So. Much.

Oh, and the Elves have been hanging out nearby for SEVERAL DAYS before this stupid kidnapping plot went off. Why? How are they already here? What the fuck is even going on??

Where humans hate half-Elves because of their paranoid fears about evil cannibal Elf blood showing true, Elves hate half-Elves because their existence "brings shame on Elfkind". Except Luctiania, who is all about SCIENCE!!!!

We keep getting bizarre assertions that Ancient Magic gets weaker the further you are from the ground. No caveat for wind-based spells or anything, and so far no explanation as to why Halkeginian airships haven't tilted things more toward humans. This is dumb. [Future note: Next volume we learn that Elven airships are much better than human airships, for inadequately explained/outright nonsensical reasons. This doesn’t explain shit unless you accept the author’s nonsensical convention that mages don’t cast spells in airship combat, never mind that the scale of spell damage in personal combat from Dot mages is such that they should be very much relevant. This story is awful, is what I’m saying]

Even Luctiana turns green with nausea at the idea of taking on a human appearance. (Oh, and of course Elves have a spell for changing their appearance that has had no practical impact on their culture or daily methodology, because I'm reading FoZ)

Elves have a sleep spell that can keep someone asleep for more than a week, because of course the magic is always convenient for the story-of-the-moment. Don't think too hard on, you know, basic physiological functions and how the Elves avoided having Saito and Tiffania die of dehydration or soil themselves during the trip, because the author sure as hell didn't.

Elves have vertical slit pupils like a snake?! What the fuck, why is this the first we've heard of it??

Elven country is called "Neftes".

Elves consider the "Holy Land" to have always been their territory, and believe humans just arbitrarily declared it to be the Holy Land.

Luctiana's house has some standing enchantment she claims will reduce Saito and Tiffania to ash if they attack her. How? What does this have to do with anything we’ve heard about how Ancient Magic works?

Tiffania is willing to die to pass on her Void magic to someone else. Why? Because she thinks nobody cares about her, and that she's just a burden on others. sigh

The Elves would've used Crazy Poison on Saito and Tiffania if Bidashal hadn't vigorously argued against it because for some fucking retarded reason Bidashal thinks Saito is "different" from most 'barbarians'.

Elven tradition holds that Shaitan's Gate was opened six thousand years ago and a devil came out and killed half of all Elves. So they don't want it being messed with.

Adyl is the name of the Elven capitol. It's a city that extends far out into the ocean.

Apparently the Elves DO have their own language. Which they never use except this one time, for some fucking reason. And they all know the Halkeginian language, even though Halkeginians are filthy dirt-grubbing barbarians and imitating them on any level disgusts them. Yeah, that makes sense.

Elves have super-clean buildings. Um. How?

Tentacle porn scene with Tiffania because of course. Oh my god.

We finally come back to that Anubis/Gandalfr connection. Bidashal is fairly certain they actually are the same thing. Anubis is a saint in Elven culture because he supposedly defeated the devil.

Fouquet and Wardes are being instructed by Vittoria to rescue Saito and Tiffania... or kill them if that's too hard. Goddammit.

Turns out this "device in the Holy Land" story is a lie! lol noobs you trusted Romalia lol. (Seriously, why did these morons give them an inch of trust?) In actuality Vittorio just intends to cast a big spell using all the Void folk and their familiars. It also involves the four "treasures" somehow. You know, those things that don't matter except when they do?

"Lifsrasil," the heart of God, the last Familiar. Brimir's Elf familiar was this one, in addition to being Gandalfr. No, we're not getting an explanation on what this familiar's thing is, or what the fuck is up with this doublefamiliar thing.

Holy shit TIFFANIA is capable of intelligible moral calculus? What?? [Reader note:... dammit, I forget what this was in reference to]

Holy shit Tiffania with the sick burns. "You bring shame to all Elves." "Yeah well YOU bring shame to EVERY LIVING CREATURE ON THE PLANET" And the asshole Elf has no good response to that. Damn, why couldn’t we have had this Tiffania this whole time instead of the “lol big breasts” Tiffania?

Luctiana objects strongly enough to using the Crazy Poison to rescue our hero and her idiot friend... on some conditions.

Elven aesthetic with boats involves imitating nature: fish, birds... and lightning?

Bafflingly, the Elves have dragon-drawn vehicles running through roads like a modern city's cars, with sidewalks and glass windows for storefronts. Everything about the Elves is retarded.

Sort of surprised at Luctuania casually guessing an Elf stole her boat, with all this utopian society bullshit.

Passing reference to the idea that a given individual exerts dominance over the local spirits/Ancient Magic. As in, Caster B can't do anything if Caster A has dominance over the area. If this weren’t Familiar of Zero we’re talking about here, I’d wonder if maybe this was a hint as to why Ancient Magic was abandoned by the ancient Halkeginians in favor of wand-based magic. As-is it is, in grand FoZ tradition, a one-off reference unsupported/actively contradicted by any other part of the text that sounds logical and interesting.

Water Dragons finally showing up in the plot. They're the biggest and 'strongest' of all dragons, can't fly, seem to spray water instead of fire.

Aaaand Derflinger has come back by possessing the katana Saito has been carting around. Oh and he can catch lightning and hold the charge to enhance his next attack. What is this, Dark Sector?

Allusion to willpower limits applying to Ancient Magic. Since when? Oh, duh, since just now. Because FoZ.

Elves use dolphins to pull sea carriages. Fucked-up.

I hate this author. Write Luctiana being naked without giving it any thought because lol titillation, then later have Tiffania show off her breasts and have Luctiana act like it's obvious that getting naked is a big deal. Fuck you and your shitty, blatantly inconsistent writing.

Apparently Elves routinely give swords some degree of intelligence...and only Elves do this. So why is it back in Volume One nobody was wanting to melt Derflinger down as an obvious Elf artifact?...

Brimir's familiar stabbed him through the heart with Derflinger. Derflinger corroborates.

End volume 19.

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In which Saito and Tiffania spend a lot of time in elfland and depressingly little actual plot happens, somehow.

Instead, the story just seems to be getting shittier and shittier. I actually miss the no-notes-taken-about-it-because-goddammit-FoZ crap with Scarron’s “Dancing Fairies Inn”, by comparison.