#i write so much toxic bishop for keeping count that I need this you know?

[nerevar-quote-and-star]

Chapters: 3/? Fandom: Elder Scrolls V: Skyrim, Elder Scrolls, Baldur's Gate (Video Games) Rating: Teen And Up Audiences Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply Relationships: Astarion/Female Dovahkiin | Dragonborn, Astarion (Baldur's Gate)/Original Female Character(s), Female Dovahkiin | Dragonborn & Original Character(s), Astarion (Baldur's Gate) & Original Character(s) Characters: Original Female Character(s), Original Male Character(s), Astarion (Baldur's Gate), Female Dovahkiin | Dragonborn (Elder Scrolls), Dovahkiin | Dragonborn (Elder Scrolls) Additional Tags: I don't know how to tag this, Parent Astarion (Baldur's Gate), Parent Dovahkiin | Dragonborn (Elder Scrolls), Dhampir Children, Family Feels, Vampires, Dovahkiin | Dragonborn (Elder Scrolls) in Faerûn (Baldur's Gate), Cottagecore, Original Character is Not Dovahkiin | Dragonborn (Elder Scrolls), Modern Girl in Tamriel, But It's Actually the LDB and Astarion's Daughter, Post-Game: Baldur's Gate 3, Post-Skyrim Main Quest Summary:

Ilmarien always knew her mother was odd. Where did Mama come from? Why didn't she know the things other people's mothers knew? Asking questions doesn't always get her answers, but that never stops Ilmarien from asking. But Ilmarien may learn more than she ever expected—or wanted to know—about her mother when she ends up in a land of snow and war. She knows nothing about Skyrim, and yet everywhere she goes, people seem to know about her mother.

What is the Last Dragonborn, and why do people keep calling her mother that? So many questions and not enough time—especially when it seems that even if she makes it home, time itself will stand in her way. How can Ilmarien reckon that in the six months since the Last Dragonborn vanished from Skyrim, Leara Ancunin has spent nearly fifty years being her mother?

In which the LDB and Astarion's daughter has a mishap and ends up in Skyrim. And she thought going away to university was scary.

[verytiredowl]

A character analysation of IdV’s Bloody Queen

Bloody Queen AKA Mary is a hunter in the mobile/PC game Identity V. She is personally my favorite hunter because she is easy to learn but hard to master. Her backstory is something that has always interested me though, so i decided to compile my thoughts onto this one post.

Something i appreciate about IdV’s character roster is that some of them are based off of historical characters, and interesting ones at that. So expect a lot of history lessons and references that should be explained in order to understand a character fully (especially with Mary considering how there isn’t a lot shown about her backstory through promotional content, and im talking about stuff like the official website here).

With that in mind, let’s just get into it.

There is not a lot we know about Mary other than the fact that she is inspired from a mix of stories, those being about a French queen named Marie Antoinette and Bloody Mary. These two are used in seperate ways, Marie Antoinette’s story being used as heavy inspiration for Mary’s backstory and lore, while Bloody Mary is a visual/gameplay inspiration.

Mary’s description on her info page and on the official idv website is 

This is strange because it really tells little to nothing about Mary besides her being aware that the position of a queen means a lot of vulnerability. It also strikes me as weird because every other hunter has a fleshed out backstory being written under this tab. (With the exception of Guard 26)

So overall, the ground to work on is pretty small, we dont have a lot of info revealed to us, and therefore leaves her to be a character who loses a lot of potential on a writing stance.

Intro Video

Mary does have an introduction video, though, which explains the base of what happened to her Pre-manor. 

The video explains how Mary was the queen of a country that had a bad financial crisis which was so bad people couldn’t afford food (if we are sticking fully to the Marie Antoinette inspo, this was in the 1790′s) and the public felt as if Mary didn’t care enough to help her people, the citizens voted her to be beheaded under a guillotine. Truth be told, Mary was actually trying to help her citizens by giving them cake.

We have probably the most lore information about Mary from her deduction descriptions, which explain her career as a queen more in detail, about struggles she had and her situation in general.

Deductions

(Credits to u/mawile94 on Reddit for the images)

The first conclusion is clearly telling us that the king Mary married had a problematic family, and the king’s family probably only looked at Mary as someone who will keep the family’s name up, someone who will have a child with the king. (Also, dont get confused: Maria Theresia is Mary’s mother’s name, not her actual name.)

Mary used to spend a lot of time away from the palace in Petit Trianon, which is a manor located in Versailles. The secret letter tells us that Mary was egoistic, naive, and was kind of a glutton. The letter mentions how rumors are powerful, and are going to spread really fast once word comes out about the “incompetence” and lacking abilities witihin the royal family, which will eventually be Mary’s demise.

Princess Lamballe is once again a historical recreation of actual Priness Lamballe, a part of the Savoy House (Western EU country). In real life, Lamballe was actually the confidante (someone who you would discuss private matters with as a royal) of Marie Antoinette after her 1 year old marriage came to an end. IRL, Princess Lambelle dies along Marie Antoinette’s side as she gets killed in the French Revolution. 

The shameful secret can really only be assumed to mean that Lamballe was actually Mary’s secret affair, especially looking at how all evidence suggests that the actual royal family Mary is connected to seems to be a mess. Mary is kind of confirmed to be wlw from this deduction which is fucking cool, but this rumor mightve been what also caused Mary to be beheaded. (But, IRL, the king Artois considered Marie to be physicially unattractive or even smart enough for him, in contrary to him, where he apparently was attractive. He did end up making up with quite a number of mistresses. But let’s not get into a conversation about how unhealthy or toxic royal relationships were in the 1700′s)

this is obviously saying Lamballe is being replaced by the Yolande (Countess of Polignac) as her confidante. IRL, this happens because the Countess of Pilognac and Lamballe start having quarrels against each other, in which they try to win over the queen’s heart, and over time Marie ends up preferring Yolande’s company. But Lamballe feels as if Yolande was a bad influence on the queen, yet she could do nothing about it. The friendship between Lamballe and Marie remained regardless, and she constantly admired Lamballe’s loyalty toward her.  "She is the only woman I know who never bears a grudge; neither hatred nor jealousy is to be found in her." 

Mary finally has a child, and it is a girl. Here we see the reinforcement of Lamballe’s loyalty, but with this conclusion also being titled as a rumor, it is also telling that this is one of many reasons people will start getting suspicious of Mary’s possible affairs.  

This conclusion only leads me to believe that one of the several reasons why Mary was treated the way she was by the public was because of jealousy towards her life and the things she achieved at a young age. The description of the people who are spreading the rumors are bitter, sour people who take joy out of seeing the bad in successful people. Here is where it all goes downhill (as evident by the subtitle under the deduction title.)

We will once again need a little bit of a history lesson for this one:

Koblenz, first of all is a city in Germany. The reason why the French would ever think of even setting up anything in Germany was because of the French Immigrants, and the reason why the Germans were cool about this was because the archbishop-elector (one of the chiep bishop electors) was the uncle of Louis XVI-a persecuted king of France. Along with the refugees that entered the city, two of them was Louis XVI’s brothers: The Count of Provence and the Count of Artois. them, along with Louis XVI’s cousin, Prince Louis Joseph formed an army of aristocrats who would seek to fight for the Ancien Regimé (The name of the political and social system that was popular in France at the time.) In the meantime back in France, the Royal Family gave in and decided to adopt the  Constitutional Monarchy, which was very modern at the time. This deduction description just basically explains that this is where Mary and the royal family fucks up, i just thought it would be interesting to know what they actually meant by what they wrote.

Yolande has left behind the Royal Family and made a run to escape the country. If you’re wondering, at the start of the revolution Princess Lamballe was actually in Switzerland, but as soon as she got notified of the situation she revisited the royal family to aid them, and reassumed her position.

This letter in particular is pretty cut-and-clear: the intention of the revolutionists was to smudge the royal family’s name in the dirt once and for all. What real-life anti-monarchist propaganda would consist of at the time was promiscuous imagery of Lamballe and the queen as lovers to further “besmirch” the queen’s reputation.

This is just obviously hinting at the aftermath of the French Revolutions and also telling us the present (at the time the letter was written). Mary gets executed by the Guillotine, and-well we all know how the rest of the story goes.

Overall, Mary’s deduction story is just a short summarization of what actually happened before and during the French Revolution: it even added the details of how actually sketchy and corrupt the royal family within was, not just the dissatisfaction of the public. As a summary of what this meant for Mary, as the Hunter, she feels pure bitterness, and anger towards the citizens for the way they treated her and the people around her. And as we can see, there was no reference towards Bloody Mary what-so-ever, and the reason why that is is because according to the Chinese version of IdV (which is what the original game’s region/language is) Her name actually would translate to “Madame Red”, not Bloody Queen. I think it was just the translators having fun with words, and since her design is very similar to that of what a person would think Bloody Mary looks like, i guess it made sense to them lol

But regardless, we’ll still take a look at Mary’s design.

Mary’s design is simple compared to other hunter designs in IdV. A simple, ball gown which was originally white, but turned red due to Mary’s beheading, pools of blood dropped all over her body. Mary also used to have long hair, but assumed by the very broken looking locks of hair, her hair probably was cut down by the guillotine. Eagle-eyed people will also take notice to her neck, which is stitched back onto the rest of her body, which the designers wanted to include really bad since its prevalent even in concept sketches as well:

Mary’s gameplay design is based solely on mythologies about Bloody Mary, however, which makes things kind of confusing, but i guess thats what idv excels at the most lol

anyway, you’ve reached the end! if you have read this far, thank you so much, i put so much effort and research into this and i hope people will make good use of it. I also hope i made you more interested in playing mary and/or the French Revolution, lol  but thank you for reading this!!

references:

The Count of Artois and the Coming of the French Revolution by Vincent W. Beach 

The Princesse de Lamballe; a biography by Hardy, B. C. (Blanche Christabel)

My history textbooks

And wikipedia lol

[vmheadquarters]

What Goes Around...(part 24)

This is PART 24 of a story that is being told in segments by twenty-six different authors, campfire-style. Each author will take over the story with no prior planning and then pass it on after putting their own spin on it! Expect the unexpected! :)  You can check our vmhq campfire tale tag for all of the previous installments or read the story as it develops on AO3. — Part 24 is written by @mysilverylining 

[Part 23]

Screeeeeeeech.

The high-pitched cry comes from somewhere in the near distance, and despite Weevil's thick leather jacket, a full-body shiver runs through him. He can't identify what species of animal made the sound, but he's confident it's nothing he wants to run into in the dark. 

What's taking so long, anyway? At least thirty minutes have passed since Mr. Mars disappeared into the mansion, promising he'd text once it was safe to follow.

His cell rests in his pocket, right next to his hand. He would've felt it if it buzzed. Nevertheless, he checks it again. Just to be sure.

Nothing. There's plenty of battery life left, and his signal strength...Oh. Well that explains it. 

The animal shrieks again, closer now, and hair lifts on the back of his neck. Crossing himself, he scans his immediate surroundings, detecting no movement in the fading light.

 He doesn't know what – if anything – is going on inside that house, but he'd rather take his chances with bad guys than end up as an hors d'euvre for some rabid animal. And anyway, who's to say Mr. Mars hasn't tried texting him for backup? The more he considers it, the more he's convinced he's needed inside that house. But, just to be safe, maybe he shouldn't burst through the front door.

 Weevil puts his bike in neutral and silently rolls it around the side of the house. He parks next to an ornate garden patio, climbs off, and creeps to the French doors.

 On the other side of the glass, an immense wooden table dominates the center of a fancy dining room. A large rounded doorway, looks into what appears to be a formal library. Shadows bounce against the wall indicating multiple parties within. The question is, who?

 A series of slamming car doors jolts him from his thoughts. Ignitions start, and he spins around just as two vehicles speed away down the long curving driveway. He's not familiar with the truck, but he'd recognize the driver's big old head anywhere. Echolls. The passenger could be Veronica, but he's not positive. Keith Mars follows in his own car, an unidentified man riding shotgun, and someone else in the back seat.

 Well shit. Now what? Should he hop back on the bike and catch up?

 Movement inside the house catches his eye. Raised voices. Somebody leans against the doorframe, fiddling with their watchband.

 He'll decide whether to join Veronica's caravan later. After he's shaken an explanation out of Mr. Rolex.

 It takes thirty seconds to pick the lock. Oh yeah! Still haven't lost my touch. He slips inside, closing the doors silently behind him. Creeping up behind the unidentified man, Weevil grabs him by the wrist, pushing forward while twisting it up behind his back. "You have thirty seconds to explain what's going on with the Mars family."

 Up close, the guy is tall, tanned, with shaggy blond hair and... Oh hell. He releases his grip, and Casablancas whirls around, belligerent. "What the hell, Weevil? Did somebody order a pool cleaning? Because it's not a good time right now. Come back next week."

 "Ha ha." Weevil speaks, monotone. "You've been milking that lame joke for how long?"

 While Dick scowls and rubs at his wrist, Weevil examines the other two occupants (maybe three, if that blanket-covered lump on the couch is what he thinks it is).

 To his right, a slender man with a familiar face sits, stiff and sullen, in a leather club chair.

Tilting his head, Weevil points a thumb at the guy. "Is that my high school History teacher?"

 "Maybe?" Dick shrugs. "I know he taught something at Neptune High, but then he got shitcanned for boning a student."

 "Boning a student?" At first glance, the sequined blonde on the other chair resembles Veronica, but even seated, she has half a foot of height on V. She speaks, harsh and judgmental. "That student was Susan Knight, and you weren't good enough to lick her boots."

 "Fine!" Casablancas holds up both hands, defensively. "So, he made loooove to her, or whatever."

 She lifts her lip in a sneer. "You're as repulsive as that pedophile."

 Weevil squints, mentally peeling back the thick false lashes, heavy makeup - and blonde wig (if he's guessing correctly).

 "Ruby Jackson." Lips stretching into a wide grin, he crosses the room and bumps her fist. "How the hell are you doing?"

 "Could be better, Weevil." She sweeps a hand out, indicating Casablancas and Rooks. "And it's Ruby Jetson now. Just fits my brand better."

 He can't argue that.

 Casablancas stares back and forth between them. "How do you know Logan's stalker?"

 "Who, Ruby?  We go way back." At least three names ago.

 “Weevil came to my rescue in high school when a couple asshole 09ers were bullying me. Playing keep away with my glasses and backpack."

 Dick chuckles. "Ha! I used to do stuff like that in high school."

 They both stare at him until the nostalgic grin slips off his face. "Oh." He drops his eyes, rubbing the back of his head. "Sorry. I guess."

 Dismissing him, Weevil gestures to Ruby's 'look'. "So, what's with the VMars impersonation?"

 "Maybe I just wanted to find out if blondes do have more fun?"

 "Obviously she's trying to lure Logan into her bed." Casablancas volunteers. "She's as much as admitted it."

 Weevil runs a hand over his face, and blows out a breath. "If you’d like to write some goodbye letters, I'll be sure to get them to your loved ones, after Veronica murders you."

 Ruby's nose crinkles, offended. "For your information, I can hold my own against Veronica Mars. In fact, I've been one step ahead of her all along."

 Doubtful. As much as he likes Ruby, she lacks V's killer instinct. "Speaking of Veronica...Does somebody want to explain what's going on? Why did Mr. Mars request backup and then leave without talking to me? Why did they just tear out of here like a bat out of hell? And who the hell is that dead body on the couch?"

 "Wow." A muffled voice speaks from under the blanket. "That's just harsh, man."

 Weevil crosses the room, and throws back the cover. "Fennel?"

Wallace's eyelids flutter, pained by the overhead lighting, and his rib cage heaves with labored breaths. His complexion is...well...alarming. It's as if he's been dip-dyed in a giant vat of neon pink highlighter ink, tinting his flesh, and staining his teeth and eyeballs. In fact, some kind of gooey pink residue clings to him even now, like the skin on the top of his abuela's Jell-O.

 Alarm bells go off in Weevil's brain. "What the fuck happened to you?"

 Fennel moans, speaks in a pained voice. "Should I start at the beginning, or just skip to the part where Einstein here ran me down with his truck?" He gestures to Casablancas.

 "Yeah, I'm totally sorry for that, dude. My bad."

 Weevil turns his glare on Dick. "Why the hell isn't he in the hospital? He could have cracked ribs. Punctured lungs."

 Casablancas shrugs. "Got me, man. Veronica took off out of here to track down an antidote for him. She didn't mention anything about hospitals. Just told us to watch him and keep him alive."

 Ruby adds. "We couldn't have done anything anyway. We're stuck without a vehicle, there's no cell reception, and the phone lines were cut."

 Damn! All he has is his bike, and Wallace is in no shape to hold on. "What did you mean by antidote?"

 Casablancas looks at him like he's an idiot. "Umm...antidotos? You know, they cure poison and viruses and stuff."

 Weevil sighs, and counts backwards from five. "I meant, what's wrong with Fennel? Other than the results of your vehicular homicide attempt."

 "Ohhhh" Dick nods, getting it now. "The antidote is for that sludge stuff that was being piped into his coffin."

 "Oh, give me a fucking break." Weevil spins around. "Coffins? Sludge? What the hell is this? A Toxic Avenger reboot?"

 Rooks crosses his legs, pulling his lower pant leg tight enough to reveal a bulge. He’s sullen and silent, in the same room, but not with the others. And from the look of those bruises, has already run afoul of Echolls. All of it together indicates that he’s probably shady.  If not? Well, he can always apologize later.  

 Weevil turns back to the others, casual and at ease.  He counts to three, turns, and dives on the man. Before Mr. Rooks even knows what hit him, Weevil’s confiscated the pistol.

 "Great job checking him for an ankle holster, guys." Holding it by its barrel, he passes it over to Ruby, who tucks it down the front of her jeans like a TV gangster.

 Casablancas rolls his eyes. "Um...we've been a little occupied running for our lives. God, you're judgmental."

 "Running from who?"

 "Him." Dick points at Wallace.

 "You ran for your life from Wallace Fennel?" Weevil snorts. "What did you think he would do? Make a three-pointer on your face?"

 "How many times do I have to tell you?" Wallace groans. "I wasn't chasing you. I was trying to escape."

"Maybe you were when I hit you, but what about all the other times? You've been chasing us all day, with your super speed, and stuff."

 "WHAT other times?" Fennel seems clearly baffled.

 "Hold on." Weevil puts up a hand. "I want to hear the whole story, but first can somebody have the decency to clean this guy off? If that residue is toxic enough to require an antidote, he shouldn't be left wearing it." He points to Rooks. "You. Make yourself useful and help out your fellow educator."

 The man speaks for the first time. "And get that stuff all over me?"

 "Call it karma for Susan Knight." Ruby sneers. "And Carrie Bishop, too. She would still be alive if you hadn't traumatized Susan."

 "I didn't traumatize Susan. She loved me, and I...cared for her."

 Weevil holds up a hand, halting Ruby's imminent tirade. "I'm sure you have a lot to say, and he's clearly scum of the earth. But arguing right now won't help Fennel."

 Dick speaks up. "If we let him leave this room, how do we know he won't dump Wally somewhere and take off?"

 "Wallace." The blanket mumbles.

 "I don't know." Weevil touches his chin, pretending to ponder. "What stopped him from taking off before I showed up? You weren't even watching him, he had a weapon, and if I wanted to get away badly enough, Dick Casablancas wouldn't be much of a deterrent."

 Ruby seems to think this over for a second, but isn't convinced. She pulls the gun, and aims. "Let's go pervert."

 "Go ahead. Shoot me." Rooks lifts his pointy, belligerent chin. "The only way to get him to the bathroom would be to carry him, and if I get that substance all over me, I'll die anyway."

 With a feral snarl, Ruby leaves the room, returning thirty-seconds later with a wheelchair. "Lift him onto this."

 "Where'd you get that?" Weevil asks.

 "It was in the sister's room." She points in a vaguely Northeast direction.

 "No way! That Lydia chick making Ronnie jump through hoops is a gimp?"

 Ruby whirls on Dick. "Don't even speak to me if you're going to use ablest slurs." 

 From the way Dick's forehead scrunches, Weevil guesses he'll be checking the dictionary later.

 She continues. "It was the other sister's room. The little one. The one Sean Friedrich is holding as leverage over Jeff and Lydia."

 Wait. What? Weevil feels a migraine coming. "That sniveling twerp, Sean Freidrich is involved in this, too?"

 "To the teeth."

 "Her name is Katie." Rooks is staring at the wheelchair, skin tight around his eyes, and wearing an expression of pure nausea. "She's twelve years old."

 Oh fuck. Not a kid. That sticky-fingered freak better hope Weevil doesn't find him first. You never mess with kids.

 "Well?" Ruby waves the gun, to get Rook's attention.

 He sighs, and stands, pulls his sleeves over his hands and gingerly transfers a moaning Wallace into the chair. They leave the room, Ruby muttering, "I dare you to try something, Pedo. Go ahead. I'll shoot your nuts off."

 Weevil stares out the window, while Casablancas rolls a thick doobie on a priceless antique game table.

 It's full dark now, the only light coming from the solar powered garden stakes lining the front bed. He tries his phone again, but still can't get a signal.

 Hopefully Veronica and Echolls are having some luck, but antidote or not, Wallace needs to be in a hospital. He's barely holding on.

 Then again, if he's been exposed to a toxin, maybe they should get him to the CDC. It's in Atlanta, if he remembers his Walking Dead canon, but maybe there's a local chapter. He'd look it up on his phone, but...

 At the sound of squabbling and squeaking wheels, he shakes his head, refocusing on the here and now.

 Wallace appears marginally better when they return. He's clean, at the very least, with white bandages taped and wrapped haphazardly. They've managed to round up some fresh clothing for him, and a cap to shade his eyes. The jeans are about a mile too long, but it's not like he's going to be tap dancing.

 Weevil pinches the bridge of his nose. "Feeling any better?"

 "I still feel like I've been hit by a truck." Wallace slants angry eyes at Casablancas. "But I suppose not sticking to myself and everything around me is an improvement."

 Grabbing a side chair, Weevil drags it over to Wallace and sits at eye level. "Tell me what happened to you."

 "Most of it I don't remember." Wallace gives a helpless shrug. "They got me when I came here looking for…a friend. Lydia seemed nice enough. She invited me in, offered me refreshments, and pretended not to know anything.  I think she must have drugged my tea or something.  Next thing I know, I’m in a damn coffin, covered in some kind of gel or plasma, with a breathing tube shoved down my throat.”  He shudders, and Weevil can't really blame him.

 So, the nice white lady invites a black guy inside. Coffins, and toxic sludge, and drugged tea. Forget the Toxic Avenger, this is starting to look more like the Get Out Sequel, “Get the FUCK Out.”

 “Hey,” Weevil begins, choosing his words carefully. “I’ve been meaning to ask you.  Remember that redhead that was with me the first time we met? At that diner?”  

 Wallace’s scowls. “Have you been sniffing glue? The first time we met, you and your gang ambushed me in the parking lot, stripped me naked, and duct taped me to a flagpole.”  

 “Sorry.” Weevil exhales. “Had to be sure.”  

 Wallace stares at him, brow crinkled in confusion, and then rolls his eyes. “Yeah, I saw that movie too, and I would remind you that it’s fiction, and therefore, impossible, but I’ve seen – and done – some things today. And I’m not sure I can tell the difference anymore either, so…?”

 Weevil guides him back to the explanation. "So, Veronica was okay with you coming here without backup?"

 "I don't need to clear every decision with Veronica, you know."

 "Considering what happened to you, maybe you should." Dick licks his rolling paper and glances up. "I'm just sayin'"

 Interesting. So, Fennel purposely kept Veronica out of the loop. Why would he do that? Unless... Weevil leans forward. "Who's the friend?"

 Wallace’s face forms that obstinate expression he remembers from high school. "I can't tell you."

 "Like hell, you can't."

 "No man. I promised. I swore I wouldn't say a word." Wallace rolls his shoulders and then winces. "Man. My ribs are killing me. Maybe I should take some Ibuprofen."

 "Nice try, Fennel." Weevil shakes his head. "Who did you come here to help? And why didn't you want Veronica to know about it?"

 Surprisingly, it's Ruby who answers. "His name is Piznambia."

 Dick perks up. "Piznarksi? From Hearst?"

 "That's what I said."

 "Damn." Dick chuckles. "Last time I saw that dude, he was getting his face smashed-in at our high school reunion. I have pictures."

 "I know." Ruby pins Casablancas with a stare. "Why do you think he volunteered?"

 Dick's brow furrows, confused. "To get beaten up?"

 Ruby sighs. "No. He signed up to be a test subject for an experimental drug. A drug developed for the express purpose of creating super soldiers. Super-fast and super-strong, super-soldiers."

 Something in Weevil's peripheral vision catches his attention, and he turns back to the window. "Um...guys?"

 "Piznarski?" Dick snorts in derision. "I'll believe it when I see it. Super-tool is the best he can hope for."

 "He spent a lot more time under that goo than this guy did." She waves a hand at Wallace. "And you saw how fast he could run."

 "Guys!" Weevil raises his voice, and they all turn to him. "Don't look now, but Piz is coming this way, and I think you made him angry."

 Despite the darkness, the skin not covered by the figure’s shredded tee-shirt and tighty-whities glows with a pink, phosphorescent light.

 "Holy shit!" Dick whispers.

The whites of Piz' eyes are the same neon hue as his skin, and his lips are pulled back in a rictus grin. "RONNNKA! RONNNKA! 'SMEE PIZ!"

 "What language is that?" Ruby asks.

 Weevil can't take his eyes off the monster. "He's calling for Veronica."

 A variety of bright, colorful flowers spill artistically from a two-foot terra-cotta planter. Piz bends down, picks it up, and holds it out in offering like a hostess bouquet. "COME OUT RONNNKA! WANNA TALK TO YOU." The planter cracks in his grip and breaks into a dozen pieces, contents tumbling to the ground. He looks down, confused, and then back to the window.

 "Fuck. My. Life." Weevil crosses himself. "We need to get the hell out of here. He's going to bust in, and I don't want to be here when he realizes Veronica's not around."

 "How?" Dick asks. "We have no cars and no phones."

 "I know what to do. Follow me." Ruby crosses to the far side of the room, out of sight from the picture window.

 Dick watches her, forehead wrinkled in thought. "Wait a second. You haven't limped in an hour. What happened to 'I can't walk. My ankle’s broken.'?"

 Ruby glances back over her shoulder, rolls her eyes. "Logan's not here to carry me. Guess I'm on my own." She tugs on an antique brass wall sconce, and a wide section of bookcase swings open, revealing a darkened tunnel of some kind.

 Dick gasps. "No. Freaking. Way. Where does it lead?"

 The flashlight on Ruby's cell illuminates only a few feet. "Catacombs. They run under the entire property." She turns to Weevil. "Think you could roll your bike through here?"

 Weevil rubs the back of his head. "I think so. Can we get it back up?"

 "Yeah. There are ramps at each end."

 "How do you know all this?" Dick asks. "Jeff and Lydia give you a map?"

 "They don't even know the tunnels exist." Ruby turns a sad glance to Wallace - no, the wheelchair he's sitting in. "Katie discovered them. Gave me the underground tour before Sean took her away."

 From outside. "RONNNKA! TALK TO MEEE. MISS YOU!"

 Dick hooks a thumb at the window. "What about Pepto Pizmal out there? If he figures out the house is empty, he might search the property for us."

 "For the first time in your life, you may be right," Weevil says. "We need somebody to stay behind and play decoy long enough for us to get a head start." 

 All eyes turn to Rooks. He lifts both hands, shaking his head adamantly. "Nope. I won't do it. You leave me behind with that...thing...I'm out of here. I'd rather take my chances running."

 Weevil turns to Ruby. "Know where we can find some rope?"

 "You can't leave me here defenseless!" Rooks shrieks. "That's murder!"

 He's not wrong.  "Fine." Weevil sighs, out of patience. "That leaves Ruby or Dick. Wallace needs to be hospitalized, and I need to take him."

 "Not me." Ruby crosses her arms over her chest. "You'll need me to guide you, if you don't want to get lost."

 Four sets of eyes turn to Dick.

 "No. No way." When nobody budges, he whines, "Come on, guys! How the hell am I supposed to convince him I'm Veronica."

 A wide smile stretches across Ruby's face. She plucks off her golden blonde wig, placing it on Dick's head, and adjusting it until it covers all of his own hair. "Wow. You're kinda pretty."

 Despite his predicament, Casablancas smiles, enjoying the flattery.

 "For a douche," Ruby continues.

 His smile drops.

 Weevil rolls his bike in from the patio, choosing not to fret about parquet flooring. Leaving it next to the tunnel, he makes a quick loop of the manor, locking exterior doors and reinforcing them by stuffing chairs under the knobs.

 The monster formerly known as Piz is still howling when he rejoins the others. Ruby returns seconds later with a handful of flashlights, and a machete. She's changed her clothing and now wears tight khaki pants, tall brown boots and an olive-green tank top under a Veronica-style leather jacket. The gun is still tucked into her pants, and her long dark hair falls in a braid down her back.

 Weevil keeps his laugh on the inside. If role-playing helps her find her confidence, who is he to judge? At least she didn't go with hot pants and thigh holsters.

 Straddling his bike, he puts it in neutral and turns on the headlight. "Ready to get this show on the road?"

 "As ready as I'll ever be." Without a backwards glance, Ruby clicks on her flashlight and steps through the opening. Rooks follows, pushing Wallace in the wheelchair.

 Dick stands next to the tilted wall sconce, bewigged and trying valiantly to conceal his fear.

 Shit. Hell has officially frozen over if he's feeling sympathy for this asshole.

 Weevil gives him a manly nod. "I've never liked you, Casablancas."

 Dick bites his fist, the image of contained devastation. "Somehow, my heart will go on."

 "But..." Weevil continues. "I don't want you to die. At the very least, it would hurt people I care about."

 "Is that violins I hear?" Dick cups his ear. "It's like we're almost...friends."

 "Don't get ahead of yourself." Weevil chuckles. "Anyway, stay visible from the window. Once Piz wanders off, wait a few minutes and follow us." He aims his flashlight inside the tunnel. “There’s sand on the tunnel floor, so you should be able to follow the track of my bike.  If Piz gets inside the house..." He pauses. "Hey Ruby, come here."

 She returns from the tunnel. "What's up?"

 "We need to give Dick that gun."

 "Are you crazy? We can't give him our only weapon."

 "What do you call that machete?" Weevil raises an eyebrow. She still looks resistant, so he puts a hand on her arm, appealing to her emotions. "He's taking a huge risk to keep us safe. We can't leave him defenseless."

 "UGH! Why do you have to make sense?" Roughly yanking the gun from her waistband, she hands it butt first to Dick. She returns to the tunnel, muttering, "The idiot will probably shoot his own foot off, but what do I care?"

 Wallace gathers enough energy to make threats. “He’s still my friend, man. Don’t you dare kill him, unless it’s absolutely necessary.”  

 Dick’s eyes lift to the ceiling. “Yeah. Sure. We’ll just toast marshmallows together, and sing “Come Buy Ya.”

 Weevil snickers. Idiot. "Best of luck, my man." He hands his flashlight to Dick, pushes off and rolls his bike down the ramp. The secret door closes behind him, leaving only his headlight, and three small flashlights to guide the way.

So, this is it. Alone with the freak.

 The bookshelf swings closed with a loud creeeaaak, sounding much like the final nail in Dick's coffin. Not a nail being hammered, obvi, but maybe one being stressed. Like if the coffin was wood, and he was inside doing a lot of wiggling or something.

 Wonder if Wally did a lot of wiggling in his coffin before he got freed?

 A wet motorcycle track runs from the patio entrance straight to the secret door, like a neon sign saying 'they went this-a-way'. He grabs a towel from the nearest bathroom, and using his foot, wipes it out. Kind of. He's not trying to win any housekeeping awards, or anything.

"RONNKA! RONNKA!"

Dick shudders. If he's going to be forced to stick around listening to the world's pinkest Stanley Kowalski, he's going to need a bit of...herbal relief. Luckily, he’s already anticipated this.

Bringing flame to the end of his joint, he inhales deeply, holding the smoke until his ears start to ring. Little by little his rigid muscles relax.

Piz still stands outside the window, staring in at him. Dick's skin crawls, but he forces a smile and gives him a little finger-wave.

Damn, why can't Logan be here? He wouldn't stand around waiting to be hulk-smashed. He'd head out there and take a shovel to the fucker's head. Of course, he'd probably end up hospitalized, but at least everyone else would get away.

Wait...am I the Logan tonight? Smiling, despite his predicament, he takes a seat in the club chair next to the window - still warm from Ruby's fine ass.

It's almost miraculous, the way she'd transformed from a simpering, clingy, hot-mess when Logan was here, to a competent, bitchy, take-no-prisoners, hot-mess, the moment he was gone. Something about her utter disdain for him, well...it's disturbing how much that turns him on.

He’d bang her. Probably. It’s not like Mac will ever give him the time of day, so why not?

He fluffs the long blonde wig over his shoulders. If only he had some props or something. A fan, maybe.

 Bugs Bunny would flutter a fan when he was hiding in plain sight as a woman. Sometimes he’d do the Knitting-Granny thing, or the bonneted Southern Belle, or chick with the fruit-basket hat.

 And you can never forget blonde, Viking-Braids Bugs. That was kinda hot. Huh. My man, Bugs, REALLY enjoyed going drag.

 "RONNKA." The Piz thing howls. "LOVE YOU!"

 Despite the danger, Dick can't help but snicker. Raising his voice to a feminine pitch, he shouts back. "I LOVE LOGAN! NOT YOU!"

 "RONNNKA! I FIGHTS GOOD NOW, TOO!"

 Dick calls back. "BUT YOU STILL CAN'T FUCK WORTH A DAMN!"

 Piz lets out a roaring shriek and runs straight at the window.

 Oh shit! Why did I do that again?

 Dick backs away - all the way, until he bumps into the bookcase. The glass picture window shatters into a million pieces, and he pulls the gun from his pants, holding it straight out in front of him.

 Piz-zilla stands among the debris, barefoot and unaffected. His eyes lock on Dick, and his head tilts, confuse. "Ronnka?"

 He stalks closer, ignoring the gun and leaving a trail of bloody footprints behind him.

 Something hot and wet runs down Dick's leg, and in desperation, he rips the wig off his head, holds it out in front of him, and waves it like a white flag.

 He squeezes his eyes closed and waits.  Piz doesn’t attack, nor does he retreat.  He waits there, breathing like a bad porn star and smelling like wet dog.

 When he can’t take the suspense another second, Dick cracks an eyelid.  

 Piz is staring at the wig, horrified. "Wha you do to Ronka?"

 "No! I didn't fucking scalp her. It's a wig. See?" He turns it inside-out, displaying the woven cap section. "Not Veronica. Ronnie left an hour ago."

 "Ronka here. Saw her."

 "No man. That was me! Look!" Dick demonstrates, putting the wig on and pulling it off, repeating the gesture several times. "I'm Veronica. Not Veronica. Veronica. Not Veronica. See what I mean?"

 "Not Veronica." The Pizmonster repeats.

 "Not Veronica," Dick confirms. "She left an hour ago. With Logan."

 "LOOOGAN!" Piz roars!

 Dick cringes. Way to poke the beast, genius.

 Piz spins away, howling, "LOOOGAN! LET RONKA GO!  SHE LOVE MEEEE NOW."

 "Yeah. Logan stole yo girl!" Dick gently shoves Piz into motion. "Go get 'em, big guy."

 He waits until Piz is out of sight. Not daring to open the secret passage – the creaking hinges might draw him back – Dick hides instead in the coat closet to the left of the front door. He hears crashes and bangs as Piz stalks from room to room, screaming for Ronnie and Logan.

 Minutes pass, and the noise stops. Dick bites his lip at the sound of crunching glass outside his hiding space. He lifts the gun, swearing that this time, he'll shoot the fucker.

 Piz reaches for the exterior door instead, ripping it from its hinges with a loud, creaking crash. He heads out into the night, resuming his call for Veronica.

 It takes Dick several minutes to escape the closet with the debris in the way. He's forced, to sit, press his back to the wall, and shove with his feet until the door opens far enough for him to squeeze out.

 With one last look through the broken window – nothing pink, nor glowing in sight – Dick exits into the catacombs.

 Darkness closes around him, thick and silent, and this has to be what solitary confinement feels like.

 He flicks on his flashlight, but the beam is weak. If he doesn't catch up before the batteries die, he's going to be trapped down here in the dark.

 One wrong turn, and he could be lost down here forever. Would the others even search for him? Weevil has every reason to hate him, Fennel thinks he's trash, and Ruby would just use his passing as an excuse to console Logan.

 He trains the small circle of light on the motorcycle track, and moves with purpose. To combat his fear and loneliness, he lights his second joint, and tries connecting all the pieces he's learned or overheard since making the mistake of driving to this property.

 Jeff and Lydia VanVino - or whatever - traded their failing Cabernet production for vats full of pink level-up potion. There has to be a shitload of cash in that, provided nobody catches wind of the results.

 Lydia allied herself with that cockroach, Sean Friedrich, who's some kind of Fitzpatrick henchman now. Jeff, apparently, grew a conscience, and decided to work with Veronica. And her San Diego cop buddies. Separately. Whether that was before or after Friedrich kidnapped his little sister remains to be seen.

 Piz signed up for the Captain America makeover treatment, but ended up trading most of his IQ points for the ability to smash property and a permanent case of rosacea.

 Ruby’s in it because she wants to bang Logan. Piz wants to bang Veronica. Dick wants to bang someone. Anyone. It's been a while.

 "And Mr. Rooks shot at Ruby because...why? She's annoying? She can identify him? He's a bitter prick?"

 There's too many bad guys. Too many coincidences. Hell, even Beaver would consider this plan convoluted, and he engineered the whole...well...you know.

"We have to be missing something. They don’t call them the Fighting Fitzpatricks for nothing. There’s already a dozen of them, backbiting and jockeying for position. So…an army of braindead, pink, super-soldiers would just make things worse, right?”

 A tunnel branches off to the right, but Dick ignores it, as Weevil's tire track continues straight ahead.

That is, until he hears the moaning. Not moaning-moaning, really. Nobody's bumping uglies or anything, and he's not being haunted by the Ghost of Pizmas Past. It's more like…somebody with a mouth full of...something, is really trying to get his attention.

 He should probably check it out. On the other hand, his flashlight is growing dimmer by the minute, and with Logan and Mac across town with Ronnie, there's a zero percent chance the it's anyone he gives a shit about.

 A minute later, his curiosity gets the better of him. What if Ruby or Rooks, (or both), turned against Wallace and Weevil, stole the motorcycle, and left them behind? He doesn't much like those guys, but they're Ronnie's people, and he's Logan's, so they're almost like his in-laws.

 And anyway, this is going to make a helluva bar story someday – if they survive the night – and he'd be embarrassed to admit he got out alive without ever discovering the identity of the moaner.

 Dammit. He retraces his steps, and turns at the 'Y', dragging his foot to make a new path.

 The new branch curves sharply to the right, circling back toward the main tunnel, and dead-ending in a sort of cul-de-sac. Stacked crates line the wall, with shipping labels so old, the writing has all but worn off. Leaning against one of them, bound and gagged, sits...Ugh.

 "This is what curiosity gets you." Dick rips duct tape from Sean Friedrich's, noting the pinkish bald spot in the dude's 'stache with some satisfaction. "Funny meeting you, here."

 Sean spits a wad of white cloth from his mouth, pushing it with his tongue when it sticks to his lip. "Dick Casablancas. Last person I would've expected. I was afraid you didn't hear me."

 "I wish I hadn't." Hooking hands under Sean's arms, Dick helps him up to his feet.

 "Thanks. Hurry up, and untie me."

 "Yeah. Not happening." The nearest crate has been pried open at some point, and Dick pushes aside its lid, shining his flashlight on the contents. He lifts one of the remaining nine bottles of wine, blowing off the dust. He can't read the label - not enough light, so he tucks it under the arm holding his flashlight. "Let's go, before we run out of light."

 "Help me out, man! My wrists are numb."

 "Sucks to be you." Dick shoves him toward the tunnel. "Get it through your head, we're not on the same team."

 "We could be," Sean glances over his shoulder, preparing to start negotiations. "I can make it worth your while."

 Dick chuckles. "That shit doesn't work on me. I'm already rich."

 Sean persists. "What if I could offer you something better than money?"

 "Like what?"

 "I can make you a god." Sean says, without an ounce of irony.

 Dick plays along. "A god? What do you mean?"

 "I can make you invincible. Strong like Hercules. Fast like Hermes. Powerful like Zeus." Apparently, Friedrich has gone off the deep end, and thinks he's some kind of Bond villain now.

 "Smart like a box of bricks?" Back at the main tunnel, Dick nudges Sean to the right. "Pink like Victoria's Real Secret?"

 Sean sighs. "That was a... mistake. Lydia made a miscalculation in the formula. All the others were successes. Let me make you a success."

 "You're talking to the wrong guy. I surf, I get baked, and play video games. What do I need with strength or speed?"

 "Fine!" Sean snaps. "You don't care about money or power. What do you give a shit about? I'll get it for you."

 "Well, there's family. Logan Echolls, for instance. Remember him?" Dick shoves at Sean's back, causing him to stumble for a few steps. "You should. You turned his girlfriend into an addict, fucked her behind his back, and then soiled her memory before she was cold in her grave."

 "Hey! If it wasn't me, it would have been some other guy with good drugs. She came on to me, and anyway, I told Logan I was sorry."

 "So, to make it up to him, you turned Piznarski into a heat-seeking missile intent on bumping him off and stealing his current girlfriend?"

 "We humored the guy. So, what?" Sean's voice drips with condescension. "Do you think we're stupid enough to want Veronica Mars up in our business? She has a habit of ruining everything."

 "So, you were just—” Dick's flashlight goes out, plunging them into blackness. "SHIT!"

 Sean takes the opportunity to run, his footsteps shuffling in double-time.

 "Stop, you idiot. I have a gun."

 “Good luck aiming, sucker!” Sean calls back.  

 The flashlight hits the ground with an echoing clatter, as Dick pulls his cell from his pocket, and thumbs on the flashlight icon.

 Ahead, Sean stumbles and trips, unable to catch himself with his hands tied behind his back. "Arghhh"

 "Serves you right, sucker." Once again, Dick helps him up off the ground.

 A film of dirt covers Sean's face, shirt and jeans. He spits out blood and one of his front teeth. "I had to try, before I just let you deliver me straight to Logan."

 Logan? Considering the disgust and anger on Weevil's face after learning about the missing little girl, Logan shouldn't be Sean's main concern.

 "What's your deal with Logan, anyway?" Dick experimentally tucks his cell in the chest pocket of his shirt, relieved when it's tall enough for the light to show over the top. "It's starting to look like you have a grudge or something."

"Why would I have a grudge against Logan?" Sean asks, but he sounds belligerent and totally fake.

 "Whatever, man." Hands freed up, Dick relights his joint, inhaling deeply.

 "What's that smell?" Sean stops and turns around. "Are you smoking a fatty?"

 "What if I am?"

 "Let me hit that."

 Dick blows smoke into the douche's face. "Nope."

 Sean sighs like the bitch that he is, and resumes walking. "When did you become such an asshole."

 "When wasn't I an asshole? Do you even know me?" Just to fuck with him, Dick aims each of his exhales at the back of Sean's head.

 Rounding a bend in the tunnel, pinpricks of light come into view. Finally!

 Cupping one hand around his mouth, Dick shouts. "HELLLOOOOOOO."

 Silence follows. He's about to try again, when Weevil's voice calls out. "CASABLANCAS?"

 "YEAH, IT'S ME."

 Weevil doesn't answer, but the lights stop receding, growing bigger and brighter as they approach.

 "Piznarski give up and go away?" Weevil asks, when they're within spitting distance.

 "Yeah. After he busted the window and rampaged through the house, he took off to look for Veronica outside."

 A flashlight beam swings in their direction, forcing Dick to squint and shield his eyes.

 "Ugh. Why the hell would you bring him with you?" Ruby asks.

At the sound of her voice, Sean lets out a furious snarl and hurtles forward into the blackness in-between. "You double-crossing bitch!"

 "Did you really think I was going to let you hurt Logan?" She laughs, cruel and cutting. "You're lucky I stopped at tying you up."

 "Lucky you conked me over the head and left me there for oomph--" Sean's voice cuts off.

 Dick closes the remaining distance to the small - but glorious - circle of light. As he joins the group, Ruby greets him by plucking the joint from his hand, and lifting it to her lips. To her left, Wallace slumps in his wheelchair, eyelids at half-mast, as if fighting against unconsciousness.

 Weevil has Sean pinned to the wall, a forearm pressed to his windpipe. He leans in close enough to tongue Sean's ear drum – what's up with this dude and his homoerotic posturing? – speaks in a menacing whisper. "Whatever my friend Ruby did to you is going to feel like a picnic by the time I'm done with you."

 "What the hell?" Sean squirms and struggles. Tries to head butt, but misses by several inches. "What did I do to you?"

 "Me? Nothing. But you took a disabled little girl away from her family, and I have a BIG problem with that."

Mr. Rooks closes-in from Sean's other side, almost comical in his attempt to look intimidating. As if Weevil needs backup from him.

 Ruby seems to be thinking the same thing. She rolls her eyes and hands the joint back to Dick, now sticky, and tasting of Dr. Pepper flavored lip gloss.

 "I'll give her back." Sean speaks slowly, as if trying to regulate his seething contempt. "She's useless to me now, anyway, thanks to that idiot, Jeff."

 Weevil casts an appraising glance at Wallace, and sighs. "We'd better get a move on. This guy needs a doctor." Pulling out a pocket knife, he cuts Sean's remaining bindings and releases him.

 Sean rolls his shoulders, and rotates his wrists back and forth. He only manages to take two steps away from the wall before Rook swings, planting a fist in his face. He stumbles backwards, hitting the wall and clunking his head.

 Weevil side-eyes their old teacher. "You done, tough guy?"

 "Yeah." Rooks whimpers and clutches his fist, as if surprised by the pain. "That was for Katie."

 "Obviously." Weevil swings his leg over his motorcycle and pushes up the kickstand. "Let's move." He kicks off the ground, rolling the bike forward.

 Dick and Ruby fall in behind, with Sean circling around to walk on Dick's left side. He wiggles his jaw, and spits a second front tooth into his open palm.

 Dick snorts. "I hope Team Bad Guy has a good dental plan."

 Sean isn't amused. He eyes each of them like they're vipers capable of striking at any moment.

 Rooks - pushing Wallace's wheelchair - brings up the rear.

 They walk in silence at first, the only sound being the squeaking of wheels and sizzle of paper, as Dick and Ruby pass the joint back and forth.

 Cross-tunnels appear more regularly. Most, they pass by. Twice, Ruby instructs them to turn.

 "Just out of curiosity..." Sean begins. "Has anybody considered the possibility of Ruby getting us thoroughly lost, and then slipping away when we're not paying attention?"

 "That's a great idea," she answers. "Now let me just split Weevil and Wallace from the pack for a totally unrelated conversation..."

 Dick bumps her shoulder. "Not a lot of loyalty on Team Bad Guy, huh?"

 "I'm not on their team."

 Wallace speaks up. "Well then, whose team are you on?"

 "Good question," Weevil says. "How did you end up with these guys?"

 "Team Logan, obviously.  Should I start from the beginning?"

 Obviously.

 "Yeah. Sure."

 "I was at the 09er Club, just minding my own business one day—"

 Sean scoffs. "You were our waitress, and you illegally recorded our conversation."

 She shrugs, shoulder brushing against Dick's arm. "As I was saying before I was rudely interrupted. That Piznambia guy was having lunch with Sean, Lydia, and Jeff, sniveling about Veronica Mars, and how she always rejected him for Alpha Males. Logan Echolls, specifically. Actually...hold on." She retrieves her cell and flicks her fingers over the screen. "Luckily, I saved a local copy of the recording." 

 From the speakers, comes Sean's prissy, over-annunciated voice. "Logan Echolls is an unevolved Neanderthal. Listen Stosh, you've seen the outcomes of our test subjects. They make Captain America look weak and puny. Once you've completed your treatments, you'll redefine alpha male."

 A woman speaks in a high-pitched voice. Lydia, presumably. "You can throw Logan around like a ragdoll, if you so choose."

 Piznarski giggles. "I choose. I very much choose. My occipital bone—"

Lydia interrupts with a bored sigh. "Yeah. We've heard the story already. Go ahead, kill him. Do whatever you want to him, as long as it can't blow back on us."

The recording ends, and Ruby resumes her story. "I cornered Lydia in the bathroom and played the tape for her."

"You blackmailed her?" Weevil asks.

"No. I told her I wanted in. I'd even help Piznolio get Veronica, but in return, I wanted Logan for myself, and if any harm came to him at all - even a scratch - the recording would go public."

"Do you realize how creepy that is?" Wallace asks. "Logan hasn't given up on Veronica since high school.  You honestly thought you could lure him away with a cheap wig and an elaborate scheme? Better people have tried."

 "Obviously, not." Ruby sighs, exasperated. "But I'm a great actress. It's not hard to convince people I'm looney and harmless."

 "For the record, you totally convinced me." Dick says. "So, you joined Team Bad Guy as a double-agent, or something?"

 Sean speaks, his voice venomous. "That's exactly what she did. I warned them not to trust the bitch, that she was sabotaging everything, but Lydia and Jeff thought I was paranoid. 'Ruby's harmless,' they said. 'We can use her as bait,' they said. I should've trusted my instincts."

"I don't trust her, either," Wallace says. "She says all this now, but why didn't she call the police? Why didn't she bring in Veronica?"

"I intended to at first, but then...I couldn't."

"He has a point," Dick says. "And what about today? You've had ample opportunity to tell the truth. You could've given us a heads-up on what we were walking into instead of simpering and whining and clinging to Logan. Hell, even that Jeff dude leveled with us."

"I couldn't okay? And Jeff doesn’t know it yet, but he probably won’t survive the day.”

"Talk to us, Ruby." Weevil halts his bike, and turns his head, speaks softly. "Why are you holding back?"

"The eyelashes, Weevil? That's not fair." She sighs. "I'm not holding back, now. I held back earlier today – and for the past few weeks – because Veronica Mars is working with the mastermind. Or at least I presume he's the mastermind, he could be reporting to others."

Wallace makes a derisive snort. "Veronica would never work with Fitzpatrick. He's everything she stands against in the world." 

"Liam Fitzpatrick is not the mastermind. He provides volunteers for a share of the cut."

"And where does he get these volunteers?" Weevil asks.

"You can find them in any bar. Pathetic losers, crying in their beers over being friendzoned, or having sand kicked in their faces, or whatever. He gets them drunk, whispers promises about how everything will be different after their treatments, and reels them in. An army of 'Nice Guys'" 

"Oh hell." Wallace makes a choked sound. "This is my fault! Piz was staying at my place during his visit from New York. Something came up at work on the second night, and I had to cancel plans to meet him for drinks. Fitzpatrick must've gotten to him then." 

"No, it's not your fault." Ruby turns around, and lays a hand on his shoulder, ducking to look into his creepy pink eyes. "For every one volunteer, there were ten who walked away. Ten who opted out of quick-fix revenge or power or dominance or whatever. Piz stuck around because he was bitter and jealous, and delusional. And that says a lot coming from the me."

Dick is still working through the logic in his head. "So Fitzpatrick is out as the mastermind. It can't be Sean, because Ronnie wouldn't work with him. She is working with Jeff, but he seems to be on the verge of a nervous breakdown, so...not the boss. It's not me or Logan, obviously. That leaves...oh God. Not Mac!" 

Now, we’ll NEVER get to second base.

"The hacker? Why would you even go there?" Ruby groans, slowing her voice to a condescending drawl. "Since I have to spell things out...the mastermind is Wei Breitski. How was that not your logical conclusion?"

"Detective Wei Breitski?" Wallace demands. "The same guy who left the winery with Veronica, Logan and Keith to go find my antidote?" 

"That's the one. He thought he was being sneaky, meeting Sean and Lydia in secret, but Ruby Jetson sees everything. These catacombs don't only run under the house."

Sean groans.  “I told her I heard footsteps in the walls.  ‘It’s an old house, Sean’. ‘It’s Great Uncle Percy’s ghost, Sean’.  When will anyone ever listen to me?”

"What's the connection between a cop and hot pink, chemically-engineered, super soldiers?" Weevil asks. 

"Technically, only Piznabbit turned pink. And Wallace, I suppose. Lydia had this great plan to speed up production, or something. It didn't work, obviously. As for the connection? I'm not positive, but they whispered about some kind of West coast private army or mercenaries." 

"Okay, that's super fucked-up, and I'm admittedly, damn lucky to have escaped that fate," Wallace interrupts, "But I'm still stuck on part where Veronica thinks she can trust Wei, and you let her walk into danger."

"How was I supposed to warn her? He was always there, pretending to be innocent in that stupid bowler hat. I had to play dumb as long as he was around."  

Rooks speaks up. "You should have played dumber. Wei's the one who forced me to find you and shoot you."

Ruby spins around to attack, but Rooks shifts the wheelchair, using it a shield. "Hey! You already payed me back.  You knocked me unconscious, remember?"

"Maybe I'm in the mood for a replay." She stalks to the right.

He compensates with the wheelchair. "He didn't give me a choice, okay?"

"Stop it!" Wallace hits the manual brake lever, locking the wheelchair in place, and scowls at Ruby until she hangs her head in shame and slinks away. He waits until they're moving again to address Mr. Rooks. "That's what I don't understand. Despite your gross and highly illegal predilection for underaged girls, you were a damn good teacher, and really seemed to care about your students. How could you have fallen so low that you would attempt murder and consort with those evil bastards?" 

"Isn't it obvious?" Weevil asks.

"Not really," Dick answers. "I'd like to know the answer to that as well." 

When Rooks doesn't volunteer an explanation, Weevil sighs. "Katie VanVliet, the missing little girl, is his daughter." 

Wallace shakes his head. "Shouldn't his daughter be almost grown by now? The math doesn't work out."

"My daughter Olivia, will turn eighteen in a few months." 

"Oh. My. God." Ruby gasps. Tone reverent, she continues, "No wonder I felt an instant connection to Katie. It's like...I was meant to befriend her."

Dick scratches his head. "What am I missing." 

Wallace fills him in. "I’m gathering that the Van Vliet family must have adopted Susan Knight's daughter with Rooks, and our friend Sean here, along with Detective Wei, kidnapped her to keep Rooks and Jeff in line."

"Took you long enough." Weevil says, pushing his motorcycle into motion again. 

Dick turns to Sean. "That's harsh. Even for you."

Sean exhibits zero guilt or shame, merely gives him a 'what-are-you-gonna-do-about-it-sucka' smirk. 

Something switches inside Dick, and, what the hell? Other than Wallace, he's the only one who hasn't taken a turn at this douchebag. Rearing back, he demonstrates how a real head butt gets done.

The sickening crunch of Sean's nose is worth the blinding flash of pain behind Dick's eyes. Totally worth it.

With that out of his system, Dick helps Sean up off the ground. "Any more teeth?"

"Fuck you." Sean's upper lip moves as his tongue takes inventory. "You missed, asshole."

"Bummer."

"Couple more minutes," Ruby says. "We're almost to the barn."

"Finally." Weevil exhales. "We should try to figure out what comes next."

"So, talk," Dick says.

Weevil glares over his shoulder. "The problem is, we have two people needing saving, and I'm only one person. As nauseating as I find the idea of anybody else touching my baby, I have to put Wallace's survival ahead of that, so..." He swallows and points to Dick and Ruby. "Do either of you have any experience riding a motorcycle?"

Dick shakes his head. "Not really, man. Only four-wheelers."

"I've only ridden as a passenger," Ruby says.

"Dammit." Weevil hangs his head in frustration. He breathes audibly for a second, and then straightens. "Listen. I've known both of you forever, and you've both spent your lives convincing people to underestimate you. Whether out of strategy..." he addresses Ruby, then swings his eyes to Dick. "...or laziness. I don't care. This is the moment for you to step up."

"Hold that thought." Dick lifts a finger, and pulls out his phone. "Imma find you some motivational speech background music."

Weevil slaps him on the back of his head. "Stop fucking around. Somebody needs to force Sean's cooperation long enough to rescue that kid. Since I can't be in two places at once, it's up to you two."

"And me." Rooks says. "I'd do anything to help Katie."

"Imagine if you'd tried something earlier, instead of...I don't know...attempted murder?"

"This is it," Ruby says, as they come to an upward-leading ramp. She toggles a switch and a door swings open, revealing giant metal vats.

They all file through the opening, into the strangest barn Dick has ever seen. Not that he's spent a lot of time in barns or anything, but...is that a coffin?  Wallace’s coffin?

Weevil parks the bike, and crouches down in front of Wallace. "Okay, Fennel. This is it. We're gonna get you on that bike, and I'm gonna need you to hold on like your life depends upon it, okay?"

"No." Wallace swallows and shakes his head. Tears fill his strange pink eyes. "I don't think I can hold on. I'm scared."

Weevil lifts his eyes to the sky as if praying. "I don't know what else to do. I could leave by myself, drive far enough to get a cell signal and then call an ambulance, but how much time would it take to get here? And can you afford to wait?"

"I have an idea!" Ruby disappears around one of the giant vats, returning with a silver, donut shaped item. 

Five minutes later, Dick returns the pocket knife to Weevil. "Why does this feel so familiar?"

"This is WRONG!" Wallace moans, cheek pressed to Weevil's back. "All KINDS of wrong!"

"You think I like it?" Weevil snaps. "I'm all for poetic justice and everything, but not at the expense of my favorite leather jacket."

"Can you two stop with the bickering?" Ruby stands with both hands on her hips. "Just be grateful that you're safe and it would take a hurricane to knock Wallace off that bike."

It's not an exaggeration. There has to be fifty layers of duct tape, binding Wallace to Weevil.

They'd stood on either side of the bike passing the roll back and forth. Dick to Ruby in front. Ruby to Dick in back. Front. Back. Front. Back. It might take hours to get the smell of tape off his hands.  

They move as a group to the small door in the southeast corner. Ruby opens it, and turns back. "There's a service road right behind those trees. Follow it for--"

"RONNNKKKKA? THERE YOU ARE!"

She slams the door and bolts it. "Now what?"

"Fuck! Fuck fuck fuck." Weevil mutters. He lets out a sobbing laugh, and lifts an eyebrow. "Well...it worked once before?"

"Huh-uh!  No! Nope!" Dick shakes his head. "Negative.  I've already pissed my pants once today. It's somebody else's turn."

"Don't look at me." Sean crosses his arms. "I'm the only one who can take you to Katie."

Mr. Rooks – who was tasked with holding Ruby's leather jacket while they were duct-taping – straightens up and slips his arms through the slightly too-short sleeves, flexing where it's too tight along the upper back. He marches over to Dick, snatches the blonde wig, and drops it haphazardly onto his own head, not bothering to adjust the fit.

Well that’s embarrassing. Would it have killed somebody to remind me I was still wearing that? 

“It’s been fun getting…reacquainted.”  Rooks unbolts the barn door and, with a sad wave to the group, runs out into the night, shouting out in girl-voice, "Here I am, Baby! Come and get me!"

"Well damn." Weevil shakes his head. "Didn't think he had it in him." He waits until they're out of sight, kick starts his bike, and pulls away, looking back over his shoulder once.

"And then there were three," Dick says. Because it sounds kind of ominous.  To Ruby, he asks, “Wanna make out?”  

“Ewww.” She scrunches her nose with disgust, but there’s a gleam in her eye that makes him think it’s all for show.  

He grins.  I’ve got your number. "In that case, let's go rescue that kid."

"Let's not." Sean fakes a yawn and stretches. "You're all assholes, and I think I've changed my mind."

Oh, hell no! 

Dick draws from his waistband, and pulls back the safety. "What was that? I couldn't hear you over the sound of my gun." He pauses for dramatic effect, and slips on his sunglasses, while the opening theme for CSI-Miami plays in his head.

Want to find out what happens next? Check back next Saturday for the next installment written by…  @nicemom93.  Tag, you’re it! Make sure to submit your segment to vmheadquarters@yahoo.com by Wednesday, October 11th. 

[stop-brunotime]

CW: I'm ranting about personal stuff, using bad language, feeling shit about myself and being a bad example, complaining about my emotionally abusive mother, etc. Proceed with caution. This is further to my post on Thursday. Thank you to everyone who reached out. It meant the world, and I'll reply individually when I'm done with this post. I'm going to list the questions that have been bugging me to the point of suicidal ideation, and if you know the answers, please help a sibling out!

Christmas

Am I the only one bothered by Christmas trees? Like, everyone knows Jesus was probably born in August/September, because that's when Judaism's 'go visit the family' holidays are and there's no way shepherds would've been hanging out in the pastures in midwinter. Christmas trees are a blind appropriation of European Paganism's customs (and, while we're at it, holiday, since it's not even Jesus's real birthday). We're all claiming to celebrate Jesus, when in reality we're just marking our homes as places the tree spirits can overwinter. How can we claim to live lives of peace and love and do ignorant, appropriative shit like that?

Santa. FFS, this one grates my carrot to the quick. Named for St Nicholas (who was an African bishop and very definitely Black, despite what the white supremacists will tell you on Twitter), Santa seems to be a combination of Scandinavian Pagan myths. Either he's a Christian appropriation of Odinn, who gave kids gifts at midwinter, or he's an erasure of Sami (native Scandinavians, traditionally marginalised) shamans (who were typically women) who apparently gave the grown-ups entheogenic mushrooms. So, we're erasing POC and Native women and getting toxic about it on socials. Nice. I totally want gifts from that guy! (I'm aware that in Spain and Germany [and probably other countries too] it's the Baby Jesus who brings the gifts. I'm not resident in one of those countries, so have to deal with all the Santa bullshit) Again, we claim to be all about the peace and love how?!

Bringing me to Christians. Now, I identify as one, so am spraying friendly fire here. Why are my choices of places to worship either the kind who preach heterosexism from the pulpit, regularly using 'the homosexuals' as our go-to example of unrepentant sinners bound for eternity in Hell, or the kind who just don't mention it, which feels like ominous silence? The church who don't actively hate on queers have asked me to play in their music group. I gave guy some bullshit reason about being too busy to do something I would actually like to do as a person of faith, because I was scared that, if I started doing it and they found out I occasionally fall for women and NBs/GNCs, they'd throw me out and publicly shame me and maybe sell me out to the cops (who are wildly heterosexist, backed up by the law, and allegedly not above a bit of corrective gang rape of queer prisoners).

And onto Trump. The man reminds me of my mother. And that makes me a terrible human, because he does so many worse things than triggering memories of her being consistently passive-aggressive and theologically inaccurate about "Christian values". He makes such rapey comments all the fucking time, and just dismisses anyone who tries to call him on it. He is the embodiment of everything that's wrong with the world, and yet I meet so many people who love him. We live in fucking Africa...what exactly are we doing supporting the guy who's defunding all the USAID healthcare programs that keep us in contraceptives? Like, sure, I've never had an abortion, and, barring medical necessity or a pregnancy from being raped again, am probably going to keep any pregnancy I achieve before menopause (which is only ten years away, and I don't exactly have the most active sex life from which to achieve a pregnancy)...but I've been the emergency contact on enough hospital admission forms to know that it's a necessary medical procedure and people need access to quick, cheap, and as-painless-as-possible abortions. We got that from USAID. Now Trump has fucked that up and we need to go private, which is a D&C under full anaesthesia, with associated risks. Sure, Trump blustered a bit about Mugabe, but didn't do anything real in the eleven months between him taking office and us having our coup-that's-not-a-coup. Tweeting doesn't count. How exactly is that asshole going to be 'the next Mordecai of Israel' and 'the one to rid the world of dictatorship'?

Speaking of pathological Machiavellian narcissists, does anyone have resources for recovering from a parent who used you to meet her needs from when you were really small? She never raped me or anything, but the long-term emotional neglect, belittling, passive-aggression, criticism, gaslighting, parental alienation (yes, for almost twenty years she had me convinced that my dad, whom I love and who I'm most like, was the angry abuser in their relationship and she was the victim) have taken their toll. My therapist says I need to adjust my expectations of her and my problems will go away. I see her point, but my mother is still mean as fuck. For example, she sent me a room diffuser that smelled like it came from a pound shop for Christmas. (It was called 'african spice'. It smelled of cinnamon. There are no African spices. Cinnamon is from Asia. She's heard me rant several times about people mis-labelling plant origins, so it's not like she doesn't know how much it bugs me.) This is after a quarter century of me saying variations on, 'Books or nothing, but please no cash or girly shit,' every Christmas and birthday. This is after coming out to her as genderqueer. She said she immediately thought of me when she saw it. Surely there's a more direct way to tell me that I or my house smell/s bad? Perhaps a way that doesn't subtly signal that she still frames me as the gender-perfect imaginary daughter she has in her head? She went to the effort of having it brought to Zimbabwe in a suitcase (what comes in suitcases isn't charged import tax). She could have spent that fiver on a second-hand book from Amazon, sent it out in a way that bypassed ZIMRA's human rights violation of a book tax, and given me the gift of freedom of information. But she chose to force her gender ideals on me in a way that says, yet again, that I need to be just a little bit better to be worthy of her love

I'm legit concerned that she's made me a horrible person. She gave me so many of her issues that I'm pretty sure everyone feels about me the way they do about her. I'm sure everyone looks at me and sees the lack of tangible results that come from being terrified of being publicly shamed as crazy and weird. I'm horribly awkward and say the wrong thing often. I've had dates end because I got awkward and up in my head and told him that wood cockroaches eat their parents' shit to replenish their gut flora after molting. I take days, sometimes months, to reply to messages. I hold opinions that are shared by a tiny minority of scientists and theologians, and everyone disagrees. And my writing output bears this out. The only time people say nice stuff about my writing is when I've written porn under a fake name that doesn't really have socials. The rest of the time, it's people calling me out or trolling me. Am I wrong? Is the internet just a toxic shit hole? Is everyone talking smack about me in DM, and I have no idea how many people are laughing at me? Should I just delete all my accounts, move to the Andes, change my name, and raise llamas for yarn and bees for mead?

What even is the right thing to do? I was raised with so much certainty, and have since found out things like the universe wasn't made in six days five thousand years ago, and nobody really knows where Mount Sinai is. It doesn't feel right to just pick the most convenient set of rules. I should be able to tell what the right choice is. Who died and bequeathed me the right to decide right from wrong? How am I supposed to help others when I don't even know the answers myself (and neither do any of the scholars, who are simply putting forward a best guess model) and will probably be wrestling with existential questions on my death bed? Put your own mask on first, sure, but how do I fit all these masks on one face?

[lindyhunt]

The Best Things FASHION Editors Bought, Read and Watched in 2018

Come December, there’s nothing quite like looking back at a year gone by and reflecting on the various things that brought us joy. Here, FASHION editors share the favourite things they bought, read and watched in 2018.

Noreen Flanagan, Editor-in-Chief

The Best Thing I Bought This Year A pair of “Spectator-ish” two-toned shoes at a little shop I like to go to in Milan, called Marco. These shoes attract more attention than a golden retriever puppy when I’m out on the street. They even charmed Manfred Mugler when I interviewed him in Montreal in the fall for an upcoming feature. I walked in the room and he got up and started tap dancing in front of me after declaring he loved my shoes.

The Best Thing I Watched This Year I had to chance to catch Network on Broadway starring Bryan Cranston and former FASHION cover star Tatiana Maslany. In this age of #fakenews who doesn’t love to be in a theatre and be asked to yell out: “I’m mad as hell, and I’m not going to take it anymore!”

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All the news that's fit to print 📰 #NetworkBway

A post shared by NETWORK Broadway (@networkbway) on Dec 16, 2018 at 7:52am PST

The Best Thing I Read This Year I just finished reading Educated by Tara Westover. Like The Glass Castle—another fave—this memoir is a compelling and ultimately inspiring story about survival and re-invention. But more than that, it’s a testament to the power of knowledge and the importance of seeking out the truth.

Benjamin Reyes, Video Editor

The best thing I bought this year It’s hard to tell if I’ve become complacent or if Netflix’s good movie selection is getting more diminutive every year, but I was looking for a change. That’s when I discovered (a.k.a was Facebook-ad-targeted by…) a new streaming service called Mubi, which is a catalog of 30 foreign/indie/ciritically-acclaimed films constantly on rotation. While not every film is a hit, it’s been a great way to open myself up to new cinematic experiences.

The best thing I watched this year I’m a sucker for coming-of-age films so Jonah Hill’s directorial debut, Mid90s, definitely makes my list this year. In the counter-nostalgic vein of The 400 Blows or Dazed and Confused, it focuses less on story and more on causality, while giving precedence to world-building and atmosphere.

The best thing I read this year National Geographic’s “Planet or Plastic?” issue was one of the most impactful things I’ve read concerning our plastic consumption. The scientific articles are accompanied by hauntingly beautiful photographs, including collages made from plastics found in dead animals.

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Hey! I'm @zooeydeschanel and on behalf of @farmproject, I'll be guest curating the @natgeo Instagram feed throughout the day to help launch #PlanetorPlastic—National Geographic’s multiyear effort to raise awareness about the global plastic waste that gets into the world’s oceans. Learn what you can do to reduce your own single-use plastics and take your pledge at natgeo.com/plasticpledge (link in bio). Doing so will not only benefit the thousands of marine animals that become entangled in or suffocated by plastics each year but will also contribute to the overall health of the planet’s marine ecosystems and all who rely upon them. Check the feed throughout the day to see more of the amazing pictures I’m posting.

A post shared by National Geographic (@natgeo) on May 17, 2018 at 5:00am PDT

Pahull Bains, Associate Editor

The Best Thing I Bought This Year I’d been wanting to add a Céline handbag to my collection for ages but it was only this year, after it was announced that the brand’s feminist creative director, Phoebe Philo, would be replaced by Hedi Slimane, that I decided to dip into my savings and nab a Philo-era bag for myself. I went with the classic ‘Belt’ bag in grey, and every time I swing it over my shoulder I feel like I’m carrying a piece of fashion history with me.

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CÉLINE & 24 SÈVRES // Belt bag • Delivery sneakers • Belted dress • link in bio

A post shared by 24 Sèvres • 24sevres.com (@24sevres) on Mar 15, 2018 at 9:15am PDT

The Best Thing I Watched This Year It’s a two-way tie for me between the independent film Mouthpiece and Nanette, a comedy special on Netflix.

Every year at TIFF, I watch dozens and dozens of films, up to five in a single day. Which means, by the end of the 10-day festival, it’s hard to keep track of which ones I loved or enjoyed the most. Despite that, there are always a few that stand out, usually the ones that deeply moved or intrigued me. This year, one of those films was Mouthpiece. Based on a play by two Toronto female playwrights, and directed by legendary Canadian filmmaker Patricia Rozema, the film focuses on a young woman in the days following the death of her mother, as she grapples with the fresh wounds of grief and also begins to reflect on the complex lineage of feminism she inherited from her mother. It’s a powerful, thought-provoking and deeply emotional film that stays with you long after you walk out of the theatre.

I am very late on the Nanette train, because this comedy special by Hannah Gadsby arrived at Netflix over the summer to massive acclaim and I only watched it, like, last week. After months of every single person in my social circle, not to mention all the culture critics I follow online, raving about it, I flicked it on thinking it would never live up to my expectations. But WOAH. By the end of Gadsby’s one-hour set, which was filmed live at the Sydney Opera House last year, I was in tears. Unlike any comedy set I’ve watched before—heck, unlike anything I’ve watched before—Nanette is a searing indictment of toxic masculinity, homophobia, and the self-deprecating practice of stand-up comedy itself. It’s funny, it’s clever, but it’s also heartbreaking in its honesty, and I genuinely think you will walk away a better human being for having watched it.

The Best Thing I Read This Year This year has been quite the rollercoaster for women. The Harvey Weinstein exposé last October set off a chain reaction, ushering us into a new year and a whole new world. A world in which women were DONE—done playing nice, done staying quiet, done following the rules of a misogynist system. Yep, women were angry. And Rebecca Traister, writer-at-large for New York magazine, captured the angry, righteous energy of the zeitgeist and distilled into a potent book. Good and Mad: The Revolutionary Power of Women’s Anger traces not just how women’s anger is ridiculed—because it means we’re overemotional, unstable, and oh you know, hysterical—but also the ways it has shaped history, powered revolutions, incited change. The book’s release was fortuitous—a week after the Kavanaugh hearings, when women’s anger had reached boiling point—but its message is poignant and timeless.

Greg Hudson, Features Editor

The Best Thing I Bought This Year I know I spent my money on stuff other than rent, food, and energy drinks. And yet, I’m having some trouble coming up with one purchase that could rule all of my other purchases. I guess I’ll mention the Rolex Submariner I bought this fall. I got it for a steal of a deal, too. Only $60, when a Submariner usually goes for about $12,000. You just need to know where to shop. Like for instance, a random junk shop on Canal Street in New York City. And so long as you aren’t that familiar with real Rolexes, this one looks pretty good! (It feels like it’s made out of tin though.)

The Best Thing I Watched This Year You know when you hear a song, and you fall hard and fast, and so you listen to it on repeat for a week, until you’ve memorized every lyric and internalized every chord progression? That’s how I am when I find a TV show or movie that speaks to me. This year, I can’t count how many times I re-watched The Good Place and John Mulaney’s Kid Gorgeous stand up special on Netflix. It’s a little annoying, even to myself, that I can’t talk for more than three sentences without quoting one or both. But at least the quotes are forking hilarious.

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Hi, we're broken! #TheGoodPlace

A post shared by The Good Place (@nbcthegoodplace) on Nov 5, 2018 at 8:00am PST

The Best thing I Read This Year

As soon as I was done reading Motherhood by Sheila Heti, I wanted each of my sisters to read it. Heti’s novel (of sorts) is like having a conversation with a funny, brilliant thinker about the pressures women face and put on themselves. So naturally, I wanted to know what my four funny, brilliant sisters thought of it. Also, I’d be remiss if I didn’t mention Hungover: The Morning After and One Man’s Quest for a Cure by Shaughnessy Bishop-Stall. Yes, he’s a friend. But as a friend I saw how challenging that book was to write, and I want everyone to see how sharp, wise, well-researched and fun the end product is.

Meghan McKenna, Associate Editor

The Best Thing I Bought This Year Nespresso pods. After 22 years of avoiding mocha chip ice-cream, tiramisu and Tim Horton’s Iced Caps, I — once a proud non-coffee drinker — was gifted a very fancy Nespresso machine. At the beginning of 2018, it was collecting dust on my counter top. In early spring, I decided on a whim to give double espressos a try. My reaction: WOW, why didn’t anyone tell me what I was missing out on?! I HAVE SO MUCH ENERGY NOW!!! And I’ve been starting my days with one ever since.

The Best Thing I Watched This Year I wanted to choose A Star is Born, but my colleagues told me that was too predictable. So then, I thought I’d choose another song-filled performance that moved me to uncontrollable tears in 2018: the Broadway musical Come From Away. But technically, that came out in 2016, so it doesn’t work either. So in this same spirit, I’m going with Mary Poppins Returns. I haven’t seen it yet, but I already know it’s going to be my favourite feel-good film of the year.

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You’re on the brink of an adventure! #MaryPoppinsReturns is now playing in theatres.

A post shared by Mary Poppins Returns (@marypoppinsreturns) on Dec 20, 2018 at 9:48am PST

The Best Thing I Read This Year We Are Never Meeting In Real Life by Samantha Irby. It’s a collection of essays, which means it is the kind of book I could keep in a miscellaneous tote bag and come back to various points throughout the year. The first essay is a faux application to be on The Bachelor, and in another, she recounts a romantic road trip to Nashville where she scatters her estranged father’s ashes. All of this to say, Irby is wildly funny and wholly unabashed, and for these reasons, you should already be following her across social platforms at @bitchesgottaeat and @wordscience.

Lesa Hannah, Beauty Director

The Best Thing I Bought This Year Thinx period underwear and a Keepcup for coffee to go. Both enabled me to put less garbage out into the world.

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Who loves Hi-Waist? 🤩 With two tampons worth of periof-proof protection plus shmexy mesh, there's never been a better time to Netflix and chill on your period 💆‍♀️

A post shared by THINX (@shethinx) on Dec 10, 2018 at 5:50am PST

The Best Thing I Watched This Year A Quiet Place: I’m not a horror movie watcher per se, but I randomly chose this on a flight and was curled in a ball from the moment it started. I didn’t finish it by the time the flight ended, so as soon as I checked into my hotel, I downloaded it because I HAD to finish.

RBG: The inspiring, ass-kicking life story of Ruth Bader Ginsberg should be required viewing for all. If you don’t walk out of this wanting to assume plank position then something is wrong with you.

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Attention #RBG fans! #RBGMovie is now available on iTunes! Link in bio.

A post shared by RBG (@rbgmovie) on Aug 3, 2018 at 8:18am PDT

The Assassination of Gianni Versace: Though I had to stomach Ricky Martin and Penelope Cruz’s weak performances, Darren Criss had me riveted as serial killer and scam artist Andrew Cunanan. Bonus points for the scene of him dancing to Devo’s “Whip It” in a red leather jumpsuit at an ’80s house party.

GLOW: Aside from the weird way it handled the AIDS plotline, season 2 was just as hilarious as the first. The inclusion of a Harvey Weinstein-esque incident was a reminder that this shit has been going on forever and thankfully Marc Maron’s Sam does the right thing and stands up for his gorgeous lady of wrestling. Also Annabella Sciorra’s ’80s look was nothing short of glorious.

The Handmaid’s Tale: Another show that was so consistently gut wrenching, it kept me curled in a ball. Elisabeth Moss was an absolute baller this season. And the scene where Moira successfully crosses the border and wipes away the dust on a license plate to have it reveal “Ontario” never made me more proud to be Canadian.

***Honourable mention With astoundingly terrible poofy hair and a smattering of rosacea on his cheeks, Matt Damon’s portrayal of Brett Kavanaugh during his testimony in front of the Senate Judiciary Committee on Saturday Night Live was the balm I needed after an emotionally exhausting two weeks. It was an amazing send up of Kavanaugh’s OTT white male privilege outrage slash absurdly choked up description of his beloved calendars.