#i'd have thought they were just as inaccessible as the others

[unknownersirius]

Spoke to my idol the other day.

[macfrog]

ghost

when i wrote jet, she was always a two-parter to me. two characters, two horses, two stories. equal and distinct. you guys loved the first part so much that i figured i'd leave it as it was, but recently i hit 2k and thought this could be a cool way to mark it. think of this as jet's sister story. walks right alongside her; same universe, same joel - but still very much a standalone. she can be read with or without her predecessor. thank you a million times over for all the love y'all show me on the daily. writing for you guys is so much fun. love you all the most. 🤎🖤 dedicated to @hellishjoel whose love for this pair inspires me daily

pairing: joel miller x fem!reader

summary: your loyalty to joel - and your ability in yourself - are tested in st. louis. the reward might just be worth the risk

warnings: 18+ (minors dni!!!) post-outbreak!joel, graphic violence, moderate threat, a horse is shot and killed (though i don't think i made this too graphic, more gutwrenching), reader and joel are separated, badass stealthy reader, near-SA (more intended than attempted), very protective & very violent joel, unprotected piv sex, like...bloodplay i guess? lil bit of consensual choking and spitting, creampie, possessive!joel, dom!joel but also softdom!joel, big fluff at the end, age gap (late 20s reader, late 40s joel), strong language. this fic is not sponsored by nike. lol.

word count: 10.1k

main masterlist

It’s been weeks. Weeks of just the two of you, shoulders brushing together, hips moving in stride. Horses parallel to one another, heads nodding in unison. The time you’ve spent without Joel since leaving the QZ amounts to a grand total of about ten minutes. What if something goes wrong? If he doesn’t cover himself properly? If you clear the building, come back, and you’re not only a horse down, but a partner, too? You’re standing by the hole in the wall, trying to convince yourself to duck under the bare brick when Joel’s urgent voice does it for you. “Go now. Now!” And you do.

St. Louis is quiet, still, but fruitless.

It’s been two long days of wandering around and you’ve found one building safe enough to camp in. One. The rest have either been inaccessible – boarded up, broken down, or otherwise already inhabited by infected – or Joel’s deemed them too close to the middle of town, too open, not safe enough.

Not safe enough in a world overrun by a brain-rotting fungal infection? you’d asked.

He shut you up with a sharp expression which you understood simply as: Enough.

It meant that you were wasting days, though. The night you arrived, Joel quickly combed the area surrounding the barber shop you were holed up in for supplies, and found none. He woke you at the crack of dawn next morning to set off, saying he didn’t like the fact nothing was around here. Meant someone had been through before you guys and taken it all.

Meant company, is what he was saying.

So you’d ridden around for – what, maybe three hours? You and Jet, following Joel and Ghost down cracked roads, under rusted street signs. Listening to the wind circle the buildings overhead, nudging traffic lights gently until they sang in distorted, off-key creaks to you. Always keeping your eye on the Gateway Arch between buildings, using it as some kind of north star – not for any reason other than you’d never seen it before up close, but when you mentioned this to Joel, his brows furrowed and he chewed on the inside of his cheek.

Which meant that no, you wouldn’t be paying it a visit anytime soon.

It was mid-afternoon when Joel pulled on Ghost’s reins, brought her to a halt, and held his hand out to you. Jet huffed to a stop, and you swear you felt her cock her hip angrily at him.

“Turn back,” he muttered.

“What?”

“I said, turn back. Ain’t nothin’ out this way.”

“Turn back ‘n go where?”

He jerked his head back in the direction you’d come, swerved the reins sideways and then clicked to the black-coated horse to set off. She nodded obediently, like she knew what he was thinking and she figured he was right, and began the long walk back to the barbers.

You muttered an expletive and Joel coughed a Ha, hearing you loud and clear. So you turned to silently praying for a rainstorm, for a horde of infected, for anything you could sling an I told you so in and whip it at Joel.

You followed him, though, deliberately a good few paces behind, knowing he’d keep twisting around to check on you, and letting him fucking do it. Asshole.

When you finally arrived back at your spot, the red sun low behind the buildings and bleeding skyward into twilight, you slept with your back to him.

He didn’t seem to mind. He never seems to mind when you’re distant. You wouldn’t be surprised if he didn’t even notice. He knows you’ll come back when you need something from him – want his words in your ear, want his body on yours, want…him.

The splintered sunlight through the boarded-up windows of the shop stirs you from your sleep. It wasn’t much of a sleep, despite Joel’s promise late last night that he’d let you lie for a little longer; knew you had a long day ahead if you were to get out of St. Louis, and he’d already drained your energy with the travelling yesterday.

You’d woven in and out of unconsciousness all night, dreaming of creaky farmhouses with clicking children inside, their skin torn and swollen and sprouting in swirls of pale white, singed with raw red and rotten green. And you dreamt of Joel’s shotgun blowing their moldy maws apart, blood and bone splattering across the floral wallpaper behind them.

You’re lying on your stomach, flat out on the floor with nothing but a worn comforter separating your fatigued body from the dusty tile. Joel’s out front feeding the horses on the street. You push yourself up, stretching your back, and a red-hot pain licks around your wrists.

“Motherf–”

You wince, falling onto your elbows, and your fingers link lightly around the red skin. The marks from Joel’s belt two nights ago still haven’t eased, haven’t cooled down so much as a degree. They’re still glowing, still burning, still painful.

Joel’s rugged face appears through a busted window. “Y’alright?”

“’m fine,” you mumble, turning over and examining the sores in the sunlight. The sting as your fingertips trace over the skin draws sharp tears to your eyes.

He feeds Jet the last handful of the hay you’d stocked up on and steps in from the golden morning to the dim light of the shop, dusting his hands on his jeans.

“You want more water on ‘em? Cold flannel?” he asks, avoiding the sight of your pained hands.

You shake your head. “Don’t think it’s helping.”

Eyebrows close, crease between them deep, he lowers himself with an achy groan and says, “We’ll find somewhere. You ready to go?”

You nod, tight lips blocking any words you think you’d probably regret later.

Joel helps you up, hands you a bag of beef jerky from his back pocket, and tells you to go get settled on Jet. He’ll pack up.

As you walk by him, he runs a hand from the crown of your head down to the nape of your neck. Gentle as air. And you almost fucking turn back. Almost catch his hand as it leaves your hair, almost wind your body into his. Almost.

Almost.

You follow at Ghost’s tail for another two hours, this time west instead of north. Joel turns to check on you more than he did yesterday; asks a couple times if you need more water, if you want any food. Even asks once if you need a break.

Each time, you reply with a flat, No. It seems to come from your throat more than your lips, more a grunt than an actual rounded word. Teeth locked tight around it, barely separating to let the sound through.

And each time, Joel turns back wordlessly. A mutual understanding; an unspoken agreement – as most of them are – to not talk any more than absolutely fucking necessary.

You spend most of the ride hunched over, your palms pushing heavily against the horn of Jet’s saddle. The sleeves of your jacket rolled up to stop them from brushing against your wrists.

The horse whinnies softly, and you reply to her as though she’s actually speaking. As though you can understand her thoughts, your forehead pressed lightly to the crest of her neck. You tell her you’re fine; tell her she’s doing a great job. You notice Joel’s jaw turn whenever you speak to her.

And then he whispers, “Hey,” and you lift your head, following the flick of his head to a tiny, lone pharmacy up ahead. You could fall off Jet’s back in equal parts shock and relief.

Joel winds Ghost along the road towards the building, stops by the curb outside it.

Its windows are smashed, broken glass decorating the sidewalk in front. There’s dried blood painting the white stone exterior, and empty shell casings dotted along the paved ground. You draw your eyes from the sight to look at Joel, and he’s already noticed them. He’s staring around the street, eyes darting from building to building, looking them all up and down.

The back wall inside the pharmacy is blocked, rubble and rafters hanging loose from a huge hole in the ceiling. Dusty insulation hangs between beams, and through the tears in the candy floss material, you can see the metal grate of the dispensing area. Joel sees it, too; notes it with a grumble and a click of his teeth.

“You stay here,” he tells you, dismounting Ghost.

“’n what if you get stuck in there?”

“Stuck in front of the collapsed ceiling? I ain’t gettin’ anywhere close to bein’ stuck. Stay put.”

You slide to the side, rubber-toed sneaker angling toward the ground to jump off of Jet. Joel swings back around and shoots you a look like fire on your skin.

“You got a death wish, or som’?”

“You just said you won’t get stuck. The hell’s gonna kill me in there?”

“Me, if you don’t listen to my damn instructions. Get back on the horse.”

“I ain’t off it,” you snap, a little louder than you intended. Sure, you want him to comfort you sometimes, but fuck, he pisses you off.

Joel stalks off without another word, head low between his shoulders. You hook your foot back into the stirrup and shake your head, averting your gaze to the other side of the street where the sight of an ill-tempered man-child won’t piss you off more.

The street is lined with stores and cafes, a bar on the corner with torn-up leather seats spilling out of the door like someone’s barricaded it. Your eye travels further down, where faded, moldy bunting ruffles in the wind, hooked around a traffic light.

There’s a red-brick building directly across from you, a truck with green tarpaulin parked out front. The doors to the building creak as they swing back and forth in the wind. The windows are still intact – surprising for this deep in the city. Other than that, the place looks pretty damn abandoned.

Ghost shakes her head, ears flicking. A heavy, shuddered breath jolts from her flared nostrils in the form of two white clouds, lit golden in the sunlight. She moves from foot to foot. You pat Jet gently, distracting yourself with the feel of her long, ginger mane.

You hum quietly, filling an eerie silence. Something to the beat of your heart, quickening with each second. Trying to calm the horses, calm yourself. Joel’s still wandering around inside.

You read an article once before the outbreak that said horses can smell fear on humans. It was for a school project. Said it affected their nervous system, like, made their heartrate pick up, though they never concluded whether it made the horses more afraid themselves or not.

Feeling Jet’s body weight shift from side to side as you swerve around atop her, analyzing every movement, every sound, every change in direction of the wind on this street, you figure you know the answer now.

Yeah. She feels edgy.

The wind picks up, carrying leaves across the broken road, fluttering by burnt-out cars. There’s a scuff from the store and your head shoots back to find Joel emerging from the shadows.

“Nothin’,” he mumbles, giving the street a sideways look as he walks back over to Ghost.

“Nothing I need, or nothing at all?”

He lifts his hands to take hold of her. “Nothin’ at all. Place is ransacked. Whole damn city’s –”

It all happens in the blink of an eye. One minute you’re looking at Joel, watching his lips form the words, his fingertips coming to land on the leather strap of Ghost’s bridle, and barely a heartbeat later, there’s a deafening crack from across the street.

Ghost’s body falls to the earth like she’s nothing but an inanimate sack. Her front legs buckle first, her chest crashes down towards the smooth stone, and then she’s rolling onto her left side. She’s dead before she hits the ground.

Dust and dirt are thrown skyward as she slams down, head falling heavy and still on the sidewalk.

“Ghost!” you shriek, and then you feel Joel’s hands on the sleeve of your jacket – rough. Painfully squeezing, canvas burning against your wrists.

He’s gripping the material, hauling you down to him, only you won’t let go of Jet’s reins. You’re being tossed to-and-fro atop the now-panicking horse. Ghost is bleeding from her head; thick, dark blood spilling out like tar and dripping down the curb.

You scream at Joel, fighting his grip off, eyes never leaving the black horse. But then another shot fires, ricocheting off of the ground by the pharmacy window, missing his head by less than a foot, and you fall limp.

You let him drag you off of Jet’s back and hurl you inside the pharmacy, shoving you out of view and into the dingy shadows. When you turn, you realize she’s still out there, a chestnut-colored blur as she rears and spins, fleeing from the noise. You scream her name but Joel whips around and plants his palm flat against your mouth, smothering your cry into a muffled whimper against the curve of his calloused skin.

“Shut up,” he whispers, free hand reaching into his holster for his own gun.

You drag his hand from your face, dropping it. “Jet’s still out –”

“They ain’t aimin’ for Jet,” he replies, switching the handgun into his right. “They’re aimin’ for us, and they’re gonna be down here soon. I need you to listen to me.”

“But Ghost –”

“Baby,” he says, laced with frustration and desperation and panic. Your sentence falls flat on your tongue. “Listen – to – me. Now.”

You nod, tears forming in your eyes. The horse is still lying out front; you can see her past Joel’s shoulder. You think back to your agreement: Do as you say. He’s shaking you by the shoulders, forcing you to look him in the eye, repeating those words to you. Listen to him. Focus on him. Stay alive. You don’t survive this if you don’t wake the fuck up right now.

And then he has his hands either side of your face, shaking you back to reality. “Hear me?”

“What? No, I didn’t hear. I didn’t fucking hear!”

He wastes no time chastising you. Just says it again. Calm, clear. Every word its own sharpened shape.

“I need you to move, need you to get out of here. They’re across the street, in that red building. There’s probably a gang of ‘em, right? So we gotta take ‘em out.”

“Take ‘em out? We gotta fuckin’ run, Joel! We don’t even know how many –”

“You,” his voice sounds like he’s about to break, “are gonna head out of there.”

He points past you, behind an upturned shelving unit, where there’s a small hole blown in the side of the pharmacy. Unnoticeable from outside, though if the perps across the street have ransacked this place, they’ll know it exists.

“You’re gonna make your way around the street, head low, quiet, ‘n get in the back of that building. You got it?”

“What the fuck are you gonna do?”

“I’m gonna distract ‘em. I’ll cover you, alright? Just do it.”

Just do it. Just fucking do it. I tell you what to do, and you just do it, because it’s me. Because you trust me, because we’ve kept each other alive this long.

Just do it. Because right now, what the fuck else are you going to do?

Your head’s still spinning. Pulse throbbing in your ears. Lungs hammering against your chest wall for breath. You can barely think straight.

“What do I do once I’m in?”

He’s kneeling down, swinging his backpack off of his shoulders. “Take – them – out. You’ve done it before, you know what you’re doin’.”

“Real noble of you, Joel,” you hiss, taking the spare gun he offers and slipping it under the back of your jeans, “sendin’ me in alone to kill who the hell knows how many fuckin’ guys.”

You pull the switchblade he picked up from that farm in Nebraska and flick it once, letting it glint fiercely in the light from out front, then close it and place it back in your pocket, ready to hand if – and when – you need it.

Joel’s loading his rifle, unable to meet your eye. He sniffs. “Do it quiet, you hear me? Sneak up on ‘em.”

You shake your head in disbelief, feet starting to carry you over to the side of the room. Powered by adrenaline only, letting go of any emotion that might keep you inside this stupid pharmacy. Forgetting anything in you that might convince you to stay glued to Joel’s side.

Yeah, you can fucking do it. You’re not a kid. You’ve been doing this long enough.

This was life before the QZ. You were in a group then, a collective of survivors whose only interest was staying alive. At all costs. And you got good at it. You’ve told Joel about it before – you were the first wave. Whenever you came across another group – no matter if it was hunters, smugglers, fucking FEDRA – they’d send you in, alongside Mila. The two of you lightest on your feet, best with a knife in your hands.

You started to find it fun, after a while. Thrill of the chase and all that. Creeping up behind them, dragging the blade along their throat, dropping them to their knees as they choked and gargled and bled out. The two of you could clear an entire building in ten minutes, not a single bullet fired.

Mila preferred puncturing them. She’d lift her arm and bring the knife down with the weight of her entire body, sinking it into their necks, under their jaws, sometimes through their fucking temples. You’d seen that girl do some pretty fucked-up stuff.

You’d seen yourself do some pretty fucked-up stuff. Stuff that’d have you avoiding mirrors for weeks.

And none of it scared Joel away. None of it made him think twice about setting off with you.

Certainly never made him think twice about sending you on what can only be described as a suicide mission, just to rid St. Louis of a few bandits.

Doing it isn’t the problem, though, is it? You haven’t had to do it in a while, sure. Joel takes care of you well enough that you barely have to look twice at a threat before there’s a bullet, a blade, or an arrow through it. And you’re not scared, either. Not of those guys across the street.

No. You’re scared of leaving him. Parting with him.

It’s been weeks. Weeks of just the two of you, shoulders brushing together, hips moving in stride. Horses parallel to one another, heads nodding in unison. The time you’ve spent without Joel since leaving the QZ amounts to a grand total of about ten minutes. What if something goes wrong? If he doesn’t cover himself properly? If you clear the building, come back, and you’re not only a horse down, but a partner, too?

You’re standing by the hole in the wall, trying to convince yourself to duck under the bare brick when Joel’s urgent voice does it for you.

“Go now. Now!”

And you do.

You emerge into an alleyway, concealed from the street by a rusty blue dumpster. Overgrown weeds at your feet, you stay crouched and still until you’re sure there are no eyes on you from the windows overhead.

I mean, you’d be dead by now if there were. So that’s hopeful.

You slink around the jagged metal, slow, silent. More gunshots sound from across the street, and you know Joel’s tossed them a bone. Maybe he’s shown himself – a flash of his jacket or scuff of his heel as he settles to fire back. Maybe they’ve already killed him. Who fucking knows?

At the end of the alleyway sits a black gate, bent and contorted into an archway which separates you from the street. Still covered by knee-high weeds, you kneel down onto your stomach and peer between the wiry green plant to get your first scope of the street ahead.

There’s a long-abandoned nail bar on the right, a few doors down from that bunting you spotted earlier. And right outside it, cast in shadow from the awning: a chestnut horse, saddle hanging lopsided on her back. Waiting, patiently, watching the shootout before her.

You breathe a sigh of relief. Stay there. Stay right there.

Joel’s on his knees outside the pharmacy, crouched behind a Jersey barrier. He lifts his head every thirty seconds, fires one heavy shot at the windows on the top floor of the red-bricked building, and then ducks for cover when they send a burst of erratic bullets back down to him, pelting against the concrete.

You watch for a minute, studying the pattern, and then slip back between the weeds like a lion hiding in the bushes. When Joel fires at the window, you push yourself up and make a swift run for it.

There’s a truck in the middle of the street. Black paint scraped, shot, and sun-burnt off. You take three good strides, kneeling once you’re at the tailgate. You peer around the rear of the truck, huge tires flat and melted into the broken tarmac. You spot your opening.

A gray fence faded by the sun, a few slats missing from the bottom half, guarding an overgrown yard, and, sitting wide open: the backdoor to the building.

Bingo.

It’s an easy enough route. Looks almost like someone’s laid it out for you this way, a perfect path. You wait for your signal – Joel’s gunfire – and sprint over to the fence, back flush against the rotting wood.

You pull the revolver from your jeans and open the chamber. Five bullets. Not bad. You snap it back and adjust your grip on it, finger ghosting the trigger. And then you hear them.

“The girl’s still inside,” a voice grunts from over the fence. Your blood runs cold.

“He’s gotta run out sometime. What the fuck’s Nico doing wasting bullets?”

“How often do strays come through? Let him have his fun.”

Strays. Like a little pet name. Like it’s sport for them. It pisses you off, your adrenaline channeling into rage, white hot across the nape of your neck, growing into determination to put your knife through every single one of them.

So, you return the gun, favoring your switchblade.

Old dog, new tricks. Yadda yadda.

You bend down, peering through the gap like a dog searching for scraps.

It’s just the two of them. One, standing by the door; looks about six feet tall by six feet wide, buzzcut atop a puffy face, tattooed arms hanging loose by his side. The other, pacing around the yard; when his worn jeans pass the opening in the fence, you scan up the tall figure and notice dirty blond hair, scraped back from a gaunt face into a greasy ponytail.

“And if anything hears him? Runners? Fuckin’…we ain’t ready for that.”

Neither of them seem to have a gun. Scrawny doesn’t, anyway, and if Buzzcut does, it’s not in his hands. Which gives you a few seconds’ advantage.

Once Scrawny turns away, you slip through and hook your arm around his neck, holding your knife to the spongey skin under the ridge of his jaw. Buzzcut steps forward, hands reach into his waistband. Fuck.

“Make a sound, I’ll cut him.”

It’s not hard for your voice to fall back to that pitch, that same old tone. Muscle memory. Hushed, so no one inside hears; serious, flat, not a hint of fear. Even though this guy can probably feel your heart hammering into his back.

There’s still shooting on the street. Buzzcut steps forward, pistol between his fingers, silver reflecting the sun into your eyes. He’s unsure if he should lift it or not. Unsure if he should do anything or not. There’s panic painted across his face the color of crimson. He’s not built for this stuff, and he knows it. His free hand comes up, palm forward. Half of a surrender.

Not good enough.

“Put the gun down.”

“Fucking bitch,” Scrawny mutters, wrestling around, long legs bent awkwardly as he leans into your smaller frame.

Fucking idiot, you think. He doesn’t know that this is the fun part. This is why you chose the knife, and not the gun. Blade over bullets. It’d be too easy to rip his brain apart with the squeeze of a trigger. Too quick. Nah, you want to hear him. Want to feel him writhe against you.

You let the blade sink into his whiskered neck. Ever so slightly. He hisses and settles.

“Put – the fucking gun – down.”

“Patrick,” your hostage spits, “just do it.”

Just do it.

Patrick glances down briefly and then nods, eyes flitting back to you. Your eyes stay locked on him, your grip tightens around the knife, but you deafen to the heaving of the chest under your elbow.

Just do it.

Where’s Joel? Is he alive? His voice is ringing in your ears.

Just do it.

There’s a pause between the bullets across the street. Have they hit him?

Just do it.

Patrick’s gun hits the ground with a blunt thud.

Just do it.

And then you feel it.

Searing pain, hot as fire in your upper thigh. A sharp scratch just below your hip, teeth cutting through denim and flesh, then a rutting feeling, twisting and digging and fucking burning as the knife is pushed further and further. You let an angry groan pass your lips and dig your own blade deep into his throat.

His skin bursts open like a bag of water. You pull on him, letting him sink to his knees flush against your chest. Before he’s even on the ground, you’re lurching forward, retrieving the pistol and swiping your knife at Patrick’s outstretched hand. He gasps, clutching his split palm, and then backs away a couple steps.

This time, he lifts both hands. That’s better, fucker.

“Don’t – don’t gotta –”

“Shut the fuck up,” you cut back, staring him down while his buddy writhes at your feet, taking his last few gulps of air. Fresh, warm blood seeps into the grass. Your thigh is on fire.

You edge closer to Patrick, and Patrick edges further away. Until his back is pressed against the wall, his knuckles scratching against the brick; his own blood streaming down his wrist.

“How many are in there?” you ask, head nodding to the doorway, barrel of the gun pressed into his cheek.

He gulps.

“How many?”

“Th-three. Please.”

“Where?”

“One in the h-hall. Two upstairs. Please,” he says again, and you drop the gun, leaving a white ring in his skin.

Mila would sink it in deep, right into his neck. The trapezius. Her favorite spot. She’d just plunge the knife in, push until he collapsed, and then leave him to bleed out. But this is a big guy. He’s gonna need more than that to floor him.

“Alright,” you concede, stepping forward. “Since you asked so nicely.”

You pull your arm down to your hip, knuckles white around the handle and take a fistful of his shirt with the other. Draw him in real close, and angle the blade to the sky, shoving it up under his chin. Nice ‘n snug.

It glides through his skin like it’s butter, and you catch the butt of the knife in your palm, pushing further up. You watch as his eyes widen, his pupils focus on yours long enough to take the memory of your face with him – and then they relax, roll back to check out the metal intrusion behind them.

Patrick gargles, chokes on blood and blade, then gasps as you haul it back out, bright red gushing down his front.

His body folds, both hands come up to cup his torn jaw, and with one kick which cracks into his knees, he’s flat on his face, breathing in dirt and grass and…the blood of his buddy.

“You’re welcome, Patrick,” you breathe, limping over him to enter the building.

Shots are firing again upstairs. It’s dark, your eyes take a few seconds to adjust, but you’re in a derelict store. Place is empty, probably looted by these assholes.

Patrick told you there was one guy in the hall, which you assume is through the door sat ajar on your left. Patrick, however, was most likely a liar. And even if he was telling the truth, you don’t know what this place looks like. You have no idea when or where you’ll come across this one guy.

The only things you have on you are your gun and your knife. So you open the revolver again, your trembling fingers fish one bullet out, and you toss it, aiming for the sliver of light between the door and its frame.

It rattles through, rolling over the solid floor.

“Patrick?” a voice calls, and footsteps begin to approach. “Tucker?”

You duck behind a battered, empty shelf.

A third guy, long brown hair tangled across his shoulders, thick beard patchy with white and gray, pushes the door open and sidles in.

“Pat–”

You’re on him before he can finish his pal’s name, same way you jumped Scrawny – now Tucker, out there. Your blade glides across his throat and he buckles, much quicker than his predecessor outside did. You settle him face down on the tile floor, nodding to him as some twisted form of a thank-you, and slip out of the room, swinging down to collect your bullet as you go.

Patrick, as it turns out, was not a liar. The bottom floor of the house is empty. You’re in a long, narrow hallway. A bloodstained runner at your feet. There are muffled voices upstairs – roaring, cursing. The sunlight streaming in through the arch-shaped window on the front door draws you nearer.

Your breathing is labored, with stress, exhaustion, and pain. Your thigh throbs under your jeans, pain shooting like lightning from the wound anytime you put weight on it. You drag yourself to the bottom of the stairs.

More shots. You swear they’ve only been coming from this building for the last five minutes. Where the fuck is Joel?

You lift your foot hesitantly, hovering over the first step. Don’t fuck this up now. You line it up, applying your weight bit by bit until you’re pushing up off the floor with a whimper, balancing on one leg, bracing for the inevitable creak of the wood.

Nothing.

You’re about to step onto the second, when the door behind you bursts open. Light screams into the hallway, shining on you like a spotlight, and three huge figures stumble in the doorway.

“Wh–? That’s the bitch on the horse!”

You throw yourself up the stairs desperately, taking them two – three at a time, but a pair of fists are in your hair, dragging you back down to the man they belong to. You cry out, swinging around, and catch him square on the nose with your elbow. He swears, retreating only momentarily, before looking you dead in the eye, blood pouring down his lips.

“Fucking – cunt,” he seethes, arms darting out to reach up for you.

His attempt is short-lived, for a number of reasons.

First: you kick his chest before he can grab you, sending him hurtling back down where he came from.

Second: one of the two Patrick said would be up here is at the top of the stairs now, taking you by the shoulders and hauling you up.

And third: Joel just opened fire downstairs.

The bullets pelt around the hallway, coming from the side you just snuck in through. He must’ve followed you across the street.

The last thing you see as you’re dragged off into another room is the three of them ducking for cover, and then you’re being flung onto a cold, dusty floor, knocking the wind out of your lungs and the revolver from your waistband. You roll over and groan, staring up at two men standing over you.

One of them – the one whose vice grip dragged you in here – is big and bulky. Like a brick wall. You realize you’ve no chance of getting by him. His fists are clenched, face reddened, black beady eyes boring into yours. Then he lurches forward, steals the gun from the floor beside you, and points it at you. The safety’s still fucking on.

The other looks younger, but still built. Toned. His shoulders swell in the green canvas jacket he’s wearing, patches on the sleeves. Short, black hair, face sculpted and smooth, chin hairless. Lips pursed as he surveys you, tosses over what to do.

“Cute little game you were playin’, down there,” he muses. “Took out half my guys.”

“Wasn’t that hard,” you pant in reply, “you’re all fucking idiots.”

You can hear Joel fighting off the rest of them, grunts and growls of pain echoing up the stairs. You don’t know which are him and which are them, and it sends fleets of panic through your chest, tightening your breath.

“Sounds like your man’s losing.”

You laugh, masking your fear with a roll of your eyes, head leaning back. “I don’t think so.”

The two men look at each other. The black-haired one nods down to you, then turns on his heel. “Do what you want to her,” he tells Brick Wall, bored, and begins walking away.

A repulsive smile pulls on the man’s lips as he glares down at you. Putrid pink cheeks swell, eyes disappear. Your heels dig against the floorboards, beginning to push yourself in a dizzy haze backwards as his huge, beefy hand reaches down for your waistband.

Something of a scream, warped by the way your body so quickly jumps away from him, escapes your throat, but it only makes him laugh. Your hand slips up inside your sleeve, fingers clutch the cold metal handle of your blade. It flicks open under the fabric, and, just as the noise draws the attention of the man now fumbling with the button of your jeans, you take one good swipe and cut through his forearm. One clean slice, separating skin and soaking the tip of your knife in his blood.

He hisses, stumbles backwards two steps, clutching his arm. You throw yourself to your feet, backing into the corner opposite.

“Nico!” Brick Wall cries out, and the canvas jacket spins to face you.

You clutch your knife, hunched, panting. The room slowly tilts, resetting every time you blink, then begins rotating again.

Nico laughs, pulling a gun of his own and aiming it straight at your face. It’s a nightmare – two on one, both of them armed. But it’s better than what was about to fucking happen.

“Fucking – bitch,” Nico snarls.

“Y’all keep saying that,” you utter, eyes never leaving the barrel of the gun, “I don’t get it. I’m goin’ easy on you here.”

“You’re gonna fuckin’ get it,” Nico spits, apparently not paying enough attention.

The building’s silent. The fighting’s stopped downstairs. And there are no loud footsteps making their way up here, which means one thing.

There’s a quieter, deadlier threat on his way up.

A brutal shot fires from the hallway, taking your breath with it, and Brick Wall’s body flops to the floor. Bullet hole in his temple. Spray of blood across the wall. Only three beating hearts left in the building.

Nico seems to gasp, whether from fright or the way he lunges toward you, wrapping a tight, choking arm around your neck and holding the gun to your temple, both of you waiting for Joel to materialize for two very different reasons.

His figure creeps around the doorway, footsteps slow and soft. His eyes flit over yours, shoulders hunched, rifle aimed ahead. Your breath lets go in one huge, shaky gasp, feeling your muscles relax.

“I’ll do it,” Nico hisses, panic strung through his voice tighter than the bow of a violin. “One wrong move and she’s dead, asshole.”

Joel shrugs. “Do it.”

Nico doesn’t move. He shakes your body, pushes the gun harder into your skin.

Joel looks you dead in the eye. “Do – it.”

Your fingers run over the handle of your knife, lowering it until you have a good enough grip to lock your fist and tilt the blade, lifting your right arm and hammering it backwards, stabbing deep into Nico’s side.

Your head leans to the right as he screams out; he falls to the left. And Joel takes his shot.

Nico’s hand bursts open, blood spraying everywhere. The revolver is thrown from his grip, rattling against the floor as your fist takes one good swing across his jaw and then you fall apart from one another – you, rocking into the steady weight of Joel’s body, and Nico, collapsing against a desk.

Joel catches you in his arms and straightens you up, shifting you to aim his gun back at the threat – though there’s not much about him that warrants such a name anymore. He’s slumped against the dark wood, dark stain seeping through his shirt, head rolled back and groaning. One hand cupping what’s left of the other, blood snaking through his fingers and down his hand like vines on a tree trunk. He looks…pathetic.

Joel fires another shot at him without fucking looking; it lands in Nico’s thigh, and he screams. Mouth full of blood and loose teeth, it’s a gargled, drowned howl of pain.

“They try somethin’?” the fierce drawl asks you, brows low, eyes dark. You know what he’s talking about. The button of your jeans is undone.

You want to say, It’s fine, I’m fine. You want to tell Joel to leave Nico to bleed out. He’s the last one, he’ll be dead inside of ten minutes. You want to go, want to climb onto Jet’s back and let her carry your weak, limp body as far from here as her legs will gallop, and then, once she’s rested, further.

But Joel won’t hear any of that, you know it. Won’t leave this little son of a bitch to slip into a half-conscious drowse, the dripping of his own blood ticking down the seconds he has left while the sound of Jet’s hooves fading into the distance lulls him to hell.

He knows you. Joel. He can read lies on your lips like they’re words scrawled into your skin, so that’s a waste of time, too.

You nod. Joel’s jaw locks. And his eyes flood black like ink.

He hands you the rifle, pulls his arms out of his backpack, and paces over to Nico. The bloody, injured figure begins to back up, push himself further away from Joel, who’s reaching down for something.

“Look, man,” Nico heaves, “you gotta see it from our point of v-view. You guys came walkin’ into our territory, you – you…”

There’s the sound of metal dragging across the bare floorboards, vibration strong enough that it rattles your entire body. You turn away, figuring you don’t need to see him pummel a man to death with a broken pipe.

You hear it, though. Every grunt from Joel, every cry from his victim. Every time the pipe bludgeons into him, the wet squelch of warm flesh and blood meeting cold, rusting metal. You wander off to the other side of the room, closing your eyes.

It’s like a pattern – like the shooting from earlier. Joel sucks in breath as he lifts the pipe above his head, groans as he hurtles it down. There’s the blunt sound, a ding almost of the metal whacking against Nico’s skull, the splatter of blood bursting. And repeat. Deep breath as the pipe winds back – groan as it uppercuts through the dusty air, crack of bone breaking when it makes contact.

Finally, he stops. Takes three deep breaths. Drops his weapon. You turn.

The limp body lies at his feet, a dent the size of Texas in the globe of his skull. Olive skin now splattered red, face unrecognizable. Blood pouring out of somewhere – everywhere in his head, circling his body in a thin, fast-moving pool.

Joel’s staring at you when your eyes lift. Sweat glistening on his forehead, lips apart. Shoulders tight. You’re standing face to face, both of your breathing heavy and labored. Exhausted. And yet…you fucking need him.

You take one step forward and suddenly Joel’s advancing, too, hands out to meet you when you collide into him. Your fingers scram for his collar, ripping his jacket from his shoulders while he messily tears apart the waist of your jeans.

His weight bears down on top of you and he pushes you to the floor, following you down. The floorboards are dirty, coated in a thick layer of dust disturbed by the scuffle you just had, and glazed by the blood of those who lost. You sit up only long enough to remove your jacket before Joel’s pinning you down, unbuckling his own jeans and taking a grip of yours.

You flinch when he tugs on the waistband, and he pauses. Looks up, watches your expression twist. Then follows your eyeline, down to your thigh, where the fresh stab wound oozes thick, dark blood.

Joel slowly peels your jeans down your legs and over the gash. When they pool loose around your knees, you bend them, angling your broken skin in the sunlight. It’s swollen, the cut, reddened and raw. Flesh dragged back and forth, torn and ripped around the edges. You can’t even feel the pain of it anymore, only a prickling heat leading up to the ridges of your broken skin.

And so, when Joel’s fingers run through the air directly above it, and he mutters something about cleanin’ you up, you grunt. Straighten your legs. Pull him by the shoulders back down to you. Reply with a rushed whisper, a Hurry the fuck up.

And he listens; he unbuckles his own jeans, sags them low on his hips, and bends your knees at his shoulders. His cock is already stiff, bead of precum at his wide tip, which he dips between your folds to collect your slick, and then fists himself slowly.

Hurryhurryhurry “– the fuck up,” you groan, watching your wet glisten off the smooth skin of his shaft.

He smirks, then pushes straight in.

Your head hits the floor, eyes rolling with it as he fills you up. His face buries between your breasts, voice muffled by the material of the fabric when he lets out an open-mouthed moan. You both adjust to the feeling – the stretch and the tightness – and then, with a couple more shallow thrusts, Joel begins really fucking you.

He drags his forehead up to yours, sweat mixing where your skin touches. Your jaw clenched; you’re hissing every time he hits that sweet spot inside of you. Holding onto him by the shoulders as he rocks his hips forward, pushing you closer and closer to your first release.

Joel lifts his hand, placing it flat on the floor above your head to steady himself. Then, he quickly glances up at it, an unusual look on his face. You crane your neck and follow his eyeline to find his hand gleaming wet with blood. Bright red. Fresh.

It’s the guy he shot. Bullet wound peering out from the other side of the desk you’re lying next to; his blood has travelled across the uneven flooring.

Joel studies his palm intently, thrusts slowing down some. His face looks…puzzled? As if he’s never had to physically encounter the result of him and his bullets. As if he doesn’t know where to put his hand, now that it’s covered in that result.

You do, though. You know exactly where you want him to put it.

You take his wrist in both hands and draw his gaze down to you. The blood drips from his almost trembling palm down your fingers.

His expression changes – softens, when he sees you looking up at him, watching him from under hooded lids. And then it darkens, when you pull his palm flat against your neck, and the red fluid stains your throat.

You can feel the warm wet between Joel’s skin and yours – the same warmth on the back of your head, creeping through your hair as it seeps further across the floorboards. You’re both covered in blood and dirt, anyway. Joel seems to consider the same, and his grip tightens.

His thumb and forefinger pinch, cutting into your windpipe. Your vision falters for a second, Joel blinks out of focus, and a tiny wave of euphoria crashes over your body. A sick grin pulls across your lips, mirrored in Joel’s.

He releases you and you gasp, oxygen surging through your throat like a burst of water in a dried-up pipe. You let go of his wrists to run your blood-soaked fingers across his face, through his hair. He’s still fucking you hard, and you need something to ground you as white-hot heat pools rapidly between your legs, and a knot begins to tighten.

“You like that?” Joel grunts, driving his hips harder.

“Mhm,” you reply, mouth falling open in a silent gasp when his tip punches into your cervix. The edges of the world start to whiten.

“You’re mine, you hear?” he says through gritted teeth. “Belong to me.”

You’re nodding, throat tossing out an, Uhuh.

“Ain’t no one gets this but me, h-uh?”

Joel’s hand is back around your neck, this time taking either side of your jaw between his fingers, keeping your eyes trained on his. Whatever the fuck makes you do it – the look in his eye, silently commanding, or maybe your own fucking desperation – you’re not sure. But you open your mouth wider, rest your tongue on your bottom lip, and plead with your eyes for him to do it.

So, he does.

His jaw slackens and a bead of spit falls from his mouth into yours. He watches as it lands on your tongue and you run it along your lips, coating yourself in him, before swallowing it.

Joel groans, lets a staggered, “F-fuck, baby,” pass his lips.

You smile in return, filthy, but needy, and beginning to crash hard as your orgasm bursts through you.

He fucks you through it, pace never faltering, still stringing wet saliva between your lips as he kisses you. You pull away when it becomes too much, burying your head in his shoulder and biting down on his shirt.

“Yeah,” he coaxes you, “that’s it. Fuck. Nice ‘n tight, baby.”

As soon as the room starts to return to your vision, the feeling back in your body, you’re rolling him over. Ignoring the burn of the wound in your thigh, you push him back down and straddle him, his cock still deep inside.

You roll your hips lazily, fingers coming down to toy with your clit as Joel stretches you even more from this angle. He groans, hands finding home tight on your hips, head rolling back. He bucks his hips and your free hand steadies yourself on his chest.

“Faster, baby,” he says, trying to move you with his hands.

“No,” you hum, “we go slow. I want to go slow.”

He grunts, pissed off. Good. Keep him that way.

You begin to slowly bounce, pads of your fingers drawing circles over your swollen clit, almost hurting with overstimulation.

“Tell me what you did downstairs,” you whisper, eyes falling shut.

“Downstairs?” Joel asks in a broken voice.

“Mhm. What did you do to ‘em?”

He catches on. “Shot one of ‘em under the jaw.”

You shake your head. “Next.”

“Ch-choked one of them out.”

“No. Not him.”

You want blood. You want Joel’s fists wrapped around someone’s vital organs. You want the sound of your screams in his ears, whether they were really there or not, driving him to commit acts so heinous he won’t look you in the eye when he confesses them.

That’s what you want: him to confess them.

“One of ‘em had a Bowie…” he breathes, knowing what you’re looking for.

You fall forward with a deep moan. “That’s it. Him.”

“…hangin’ from his belt. Shot his leg, right above his knee –”

You moan again, sighing as you sink down on his cock and that feeling creeps over you again.

“– then took the knife.”

“He on the floor?”

“He got up. He – fuck – he stood up, ‘n I put it between his shoulders.”

“Fuck, yeah?”

“Yeah. Ripped ‘im apart, baby.”

You cry out in pleasure, bouncing up and down faster and faster the more the image replays in your head. You’re leaning forward, hovering over Joel as your skin slaps against his every time his hard length fills you. Fucking him to the thought of him slaughtering anyone who posed any threat to you. Those guys didn’t make it upstairs, you’re not even sure they got a good look at you before you were hauled away. But Joel tore them limb from limb at just the possibility.

“Did he – did he scream?”

“Yeah, he fuckin’ screamed.”

Your head drops between your shoulders, hands splayed on either side of Joel’s head, and his fingers knot in your hair. He pulls your forehead against his again, whispering into your mouth.

“Begged me not to do it,” he hums, and you’re thrown over the edge for the second time.

Your hips stop moving to allow space for your high; a second blinding, screaming orgasm ripples through you. You’re gasping now, fingers clutching for Joel, but he’s already moving again.

He slips out from underneath you and lets you down gently on your front, taking your hips and pulling them up to him as he positions himself behind you. And then, without a second’s hesitation, he’s back inside you, chasing his own high. Your back arches as he fucks you, chest flat against the floor.

There’s blood fucking everywhere. On your clothes, in your hair, on the floor beneath you, streaming down your thigh. The entire room smells of it – that suffocating, sickly sweet bite of iron. The bitterness so thick that it coats your lungs with every desperate pant of breath.

And finally, fucking – finally­, all the adrenaline and momentum is brought to a climax when Joel releases deep inside you, and you feel yourself contract around him as a third orgasm pulses through you. Your cunt swollen, aching, you almost don’t feel it, but for the way your legs give as soon as he stills inside you.

He’s groaning, borderline fucking whining, before he draws out of you and slumps down beside you on the floor. You’re both staring at one another, almost afraid to touch each other – as if you’re made of glass. Fragile. Breakable.

Yeah. You’re his. And he fucks you like you’re his, like your only purpose is to relieve his stress, tire out his anger, but then…then he looks at you like this, the sunlight twinkling in his warm eyes, dust falling over him like snow. Then he shifts the hair from your face so he can take a proper look at you, study every detail on your face – the cracks in your lips, the curve of your nose. And you know you’re so much more than that to him.

Always have been. Always will be.

You lean over and run your fingers across his cheek, dried blood the color of wine all over your hands. Joel lies still, places a soft kiss to the pad of your thumb when it touches his lips. Your nails sift through his beard. His eyes close over, laying in the comfortable stillness as you trace his face, delicately drawing from his dark brows down to the patches of skin between the graying hair on his jawline.

He doesn’t move when you push yourself up and roll over onto his chest. Doesn’t flinch when you press your mouth to his neck, running from the bottom of his ear up to the tip of his chin.

And when you bring your lips up to meet his, he kisses you back.

His hand sneaks through your hair to the crown of your head and he sits up, rolling you onto your back and caging you underneath him, teeth grazing along your bottom lip, asking it to part. His tongue slips inside, wet and warm and comforting against yours. Your fingers lace at the back of his head, your own cradled in his hands on the hardwood.

It’s like he’s starving. Like he’s been holding off on doing this, for whatever reason. And now that you’ve been the one to open the floodgates – fucking, destroy them – everything comes rushing to the surface. Every time he wanted to, and didn’t. Every time he was buried inside you, and purposefully held his jaw apart from yours. Every minute he’s spent since he met you, without his lips on yours. It all comes rocketing up.

And before it gets too heated, before he begins winding that coil again, he’s pulling away. Lips leaving yours, noses bumping together as they part. You smile, and Joel breathes a laugh for the first time in what feels like weeks.

“Hey,” he whispers.

“Hey.”

You glance down at his flannel: stained with dirt, with sweat, with blood. It brings you down a little from your sun-kissed, golden-rayed eutopia. You suck in a deep breath, and his finger hooks under your chin to lift your face to his.

“Should get that leg covered.”

You nod, and he pulls up off of you, letting you sit up. He wanders around the room, checking the backpacks of Nico and his guys, and pulls some gauze and a bottle of alcohol from a side pocket.

He kneels slowly by your side, offers you the white pad. You shake your head. He has to do it. You don’t know why, don’t know what’s stopping you from wrapping your own wound – something you’ve done hundreds of times by now. But it has to be Joel.

He tips the bottle over the dressing, dousing it in alcohol, and settles it carefully on the floor by your hip. You look at one another, a Ready? and a No, but do it anyway pass across your gaze.

The clear fluid seeps from the pad down his hands, thinning the bloodstains and dragging them in light orange streaks down to his wrist. And when your eyes are distracted, watching the stream of blood and alcohol, he presses the gauze to your thigh.

“Fuck – you,” you stammer, eyes screwing tight enough that you see stars.

“I know,” Joel breathes, and pushes the gauze down harder. Firmer. It shoots heat up your leg, flashes the image of that plank of wood named Tucker who stabbed you across your mind. Your teeth grit, the tendons in your neck leap.

Still holding the pad to your skin, Joel winds a dressing around your thigh. He knots it, gives it a little tug, and then sits back on his heels.

“Okay?”

You tilt your head, lift your eyebrows in form of a Yeah. A half-truth – it feels better to have it covered, but fuck is it stinging. You lift a roll of spare bandage and wrap your wrists.

Joel nods, and then passes you your jeans.

“We should go,” he tells you. Then, softer, kinder, “Gotta go back to the pharmacy. Still supplies in the…”

You push yourself to your feet, unable to listen to the end of his sentence. Ghost was carrying most of your food. The map is still in her saddlebag. Ammo, too. The thought of seeing her again turns your stomach, and Joel seems to figure.

“Why don’t you head out back, go get Jet? I’ll grab everything.”

You stare down at him. Your head shakes before words filter through it. You don’t want to be apart from him again. Not today, at least.

He seems to figure that, too. He nods once, then stands with a low grunt. He fixes his jeans, shrugs his jacket back over his shoulders, and his hand finds the nape of your neck again. He pulls you nearer him, your lips brush against the shoulder of his jacket, and then you split, grabbing your supplies and searching the room for any that these assholes might’ve left to you.

When your pockets are full, you limp at Joel’s heels down the stairs and outside, glancing down the street. The silhouette of a horse slowly meanders back over to you, head bobbing, hooves clicking across the asphalt. Show’s over.

Joel stops and waits for her to approach, lets you bury your face into her strong body when she reaches you.

You squeeze your eyes shut against her muzzle, your forehead between her glossy eyes, and hope the message finds a way through flesh and bone – strong enough and sincere enough to push its way through your skull to hers. I’m sorry. I’m sorry.

Joel’s hand leaves your back and he walks slowly over to the pharmacy.

Your hands run over Jet’s soft mane, combing her gently, reassuring her as if she’s the one covered in blood, bruised and pained. You hook a finger around her bridle and follow Joel.

As you slowly approach, he’s emerging from the shadows of the pharmacy, a backpack in each hand. He reaches the same curb you were stood on less than an hour ago, and looks up to check on you. Your stomach lurches, glancing down to his boots.

There she is. Black coat shining, chest not moving. Legs splayed out on the road. Pool of blood around her velvety soft ears. She seemed so lean, so fit and graceful when she was on all fours. Now, lying in a heap in the shade of some barren street, she looks huge and clumsy. It makes your eyes swell with tears.

You shift with Jet, turning her to avert her gaze. It’s stupid; she’s a horse. How would she know what’s going on? But then, the way she’s breathing – soft, quiet. It’s like – it’s like she fucking knows.

Joel does it gently – kneels beside Ghost, searches in each pocket for your belongings. He knows your eyes are on him. He pulls a box of bullets and the folded-up map from the bag, slips them into his jacket pocket. Collects the tins of soup and canned fruit in one hand, standing to roll them into Jet’s bag.

He turns to you. “You got your switchblade?”

You nod, and he holds his hand out. You drop the heavy knife into his palm, and he bends back down to Ghost’s side.

He uses your blade to cut the bridle by the corner of her mouth, slicing through the leather running from the bit up to the headpiece. Then pulls it apart, a single strap with a tiny buckle still attached, a silver hoop at one end.

He reaches for your backpack, drags it across the rough ground, and knots one of the canvas ties through the silver hoop of Ghost’s bridle. Triple knots it, to make sure it won’t budge. And then he leans back, surveys his handiwork, and turns to gain your approval.

You can’t do much more than nod, tears dappling down your raw cheeks.

When he’s sure he’s got everything, Joel passes you your backpack, slings his on, and then kneels by her side one last time. He places a gentle palm on her head, runs his hand down her muzzle. Sniffs.

A thank-you, you think. A Farewell, brave girl.

He stands again, turns back to you. Waits for you to decide it’s time to move on.

“I can’t do it…” you whisper, and Joel nods, taking a step closer. “I don’t want to leave her.”

And then you’re sobbing, and he’s taking hold of your shoulders and pulling you into his arms, and your cries are muffled by the soft fabric of his shirt. You wrap yourself close around him, bury deeper into his chest, and Joel tightens his grip. The steady beat of his heart pulls you back down, grounds you. You match your breathing with his and pull away.

You approach Ghost shakily, then crouch, fix her mane out of her eyes, scratch her silky ears one last time, and let her go.

Joel’s face is tight when you turn back. Eyebrows low. You bite the inside of your cheek as you pass him, and then hoist yourself up onto the brown horse’s back.

He pulls himself up in front and leans back into you, head cocked to wait for your signal. You snake your arms around his waist and feel a delicate hand rest on top of yours, interlaced on his belt buckle. His thumb traces your knuckles, and when you lean your ear between his shoulder blades, he clicks to Jet.

The horse swerves off, beginning your long journey out of the city.

----------

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[19burstraat]

queering futurity in crooked kingdom

if I had any real time for this (I do not) I'd be tempted to write a real essay about it, but I have a dissertation and two other real essays for my actual degree, so let's do a bad tunglr bullet point analysis. I'm... largely generalising and paraphrasing here, and I suspect this has a billion things to iron out or that I forgot about, but I hope this might be a bit interesting regardless of how much you may or may not know abt queer literary theory lmao.

in extreme short, there is a subset of queer theory around what is, in essence, queer time. there is a heteronormative future/'futurity', and it is marriage, children, a good job, a nice house, and dying at a good age after a fulfilling life. queer* and trans people both reject and often cannot access this: plenty couldn't/cannot get married or have children, or had to surpass lots of obstacles to do so, many queer and trans people were or are killed young, or died prematurely in the aids crisis. and so we get queer temporality; a resistance to the heteronormative future that is refused or inaccessible, and to reproductive futurism; the concept that people value the future over the present... and this manifests in kicking back against things like the symbolic 'child' as a representative of futurity. not real children, but empty platitudes like think of the children! think of the future for your children! there can also be a development of a death drive, which is sometimes literal and sometimes metaphorical, which is, again, basically a rejection of 'the future'.

while the grishaverse doesn't have homophobia as such, you can still do queer readings, bc it is ofc influenced by our world, by virtue of being Written By A Person From Our World. and especially in kerch, there's still stuff like patrilineal inheritance... buuuut reproductive futurity & friends are very deliberately destroyed by the end of crooked kingdom. mostly by the usual culprit (taps sign that says IT'S KAZ AGAIN LOL) but by the narrative and the other characters as well. walk w me! I don't think this is a real analysis more just a lot of Thoughts but... nvm

*used here as an umbrella term since the theory I'm pulling from is the field of queer theory

the two men (van eck and rollins) who are most concerned with reproductive futurism (having heirs and a legacy, 'building something that will outlast them'), are promptly buried under the rubble of their building efforts by our usual culprit. kaz uses the mentality of legacy and lineage against them both; he kidnaps van eck's pregnant wife to use as a bargaining chip, and he uses rollins's son and heir against him, because he knows what's most important to these men is their line, their work being handed down. he deduces that rollins has a son through rollins' vanity around building something to 'last', and his naming of the kaelish prince. rollins is literally themed around monarchy and descent; the king of the barrel, the kaelish prince, the emerald palace. kaz, for his part, is the bastard of the barrel. the illegitimate son, not produced by any conventional family structure, ketterdam his mother and profit his father... and therefore he is the perfect person to blow up this imagined monarchy

wylan is rejected by van eck for his disability, for being supposedly incapable of continuing his father's legacy; and so we gather that the actual child doesn't matter to van eck, it's what The Child represented to him, which was the future of the van eck company. the illegitimate kaz restores van eck's disowned son to the succession through sheer trickery, and jan van eck's trading empire is succeeded by his son he attempted to reject, and his farm-boy barrel-tough boyfriend. they bring home the first wife that van eck had committed, for failing to produce the 'perfect' heir. no perfect heteronormative future here!

(also by virtue of wylan and jesper being a mlm couple, there is now way less emphasis that can be put on the idea of biological children 'continuing' the line, and it somewhat stops the expectation that ruined wylan's life from being passed down)

the two m/f couples are also very distant from this idealised reproductive futurity. matthias dies, ruining any idea of a 'conventional' future he could have had with nina, and while his death is generally more about the extremist brainwashing stuff explored w the drüskelle, it does blow to shreds that futurity even more, and nina's power is also a very literal HEY GUYS. LET'S THINK ABOUT DEATH... plus she leaves ketterdam to take matthias to be buried at the end of the book.

kaz and inej both do very dangerous jobs and separate for long periods of time. they may marry or they may not, they may have children or they may not, they may be physical with one another or they may not. it doesn't really matter; they'll try, but we don't get to find out how far they may or may not get, which honestly I kinda like. their future is open, the river running carrying inej to the sea. also, inej makes an explicit rejection of this kind of 'normal' future:

So he wasn’t fit for a normal life. Was she meant to find a kindhearted husband, have his children, then sharpen her knives after they’d gone to sleep? How would she explain the nightmares she still had from the Menagerie? Or the blood on her hands?

we don't really know whether or not kaz as a character is queer (I do not think kaz knows either lol) but it doesn't really matter, you can still read him as a queer figure both a) just if you want to! and b) in this sense of queer temporality, bc he's the crux of a lot of it. we already covered the bastard thing and his happy habit of kicking reproductive futurism when it's down, and as Edelman says: 'If the fate of the queer is to figure the fate that cuts the thread of futurity...' well, kaz 'build something new. watch it burn' 'he knew exactly what he was going to leave behind: damage' brekker is our man!

he does not give a single flying fuck about the future. he destroyed van eck and rollins' legacies, and he'll do that shit again. he doesn't have enough of an ego to consider a 'legacy' for himself besides destruction, which is a rejection of a legacy in itself. his plans for the future amount to fucking shit up and making a bunch of money to use to do more damage, until he gets shot/stabbed/hanged/drowned/whatever, which he constantly anticipates.

kaz also has a massive distrust and disdain for traditional family structures, because he's seen them crumble twice; his actual family are all dead, and the hertzoon con was built on creating a convincing family mode to lure them in. "my mother is ketterdam, she birthed me in the harbour; my father is profit, I honour him daily" is a sneer at paterfamilias type families where the mother is there to just give birth and the father is the head of the family, to be honoured and served, rather than loved. he also has zero sympathy for the 'think of the children!' thing, bc he knows it's disingenuous; who thought of him? no one. rollins was happy to con kids with the false promise of family and safety, and all the people he paid off were happy to turn the other way. was there no one to look after you? no, there wasn't. his mother is ketterdam: filthy, feral ketterdam. no nurturing mother has he!

So he threatens Alby and Hanna with no qualms, because while he doesn't actually ever intend to hurt children (...not physically anyway, apparently upsetting them is fair game FJJFJD), he knows the power of the threat— the idea of the child— is often more impactful than the actual act itself. ("Inej, I could only kill Pekka’s son once. He can imagine his death a thousand times.") it certainly works on rollins and van eck! he'll make you think of the damn children alright!

inej takes direct action to defend actual children, not just the idea of them, and then we hear in rule of wolves she's hated by the kerch government for it because she's fucking with their profits. (look also to how they flapped about searching for wylan, one rich man's kid, and are completely useless about hundreds of forced indentures. what a surprise...)

she reunites with her parents, but she worries persistently about whether or not they will accept her for who she has become, and we are never quite told whether or not they do. we like to think so, but we don't actually know. and although she gets to see her parents again, her future is on the wraith, not with them.

most people have dead or splintered families, actually. only inej has both parents, and for three - four years, they didn't have a daughter.

The general proximity to death in general is very potent; nina's power, kaz's whole backstory, the camping out in a graveyard. jesper's recklessness and love for fights, inej being ready to die rather than be a captiver again and kaz's response to that being 'not just yet', rather than not at all...

all following into the whole no mourners, no funerals thing!!! the fact that they know they won't be remembered or cared about if they die!!!

Edelman: 'Choosing to stand, as many of us do, outside the cycles of reproduction, choosing to stand, as we also do, by the side of those living and dying each day with the complications of AIDS, we know the deception of the societal lie that endlessly looks toward a future whose promise is always a day away.'

SOC:

Inej's mother and father might still shed tears for the daughter they'd lost, but if Inej died tonight, there would be no one to grieve for the girl she was now. 

“No mourners, no funerals. Another way of saying good luck. But it was something more. A dark wink to the fact that there would be no expensive burials for people like them, no marble markers to remember their names, no wreaths of myrtle and rose.”

pick up what I'm putting down guys please please I don't have time to tease this out properly but like. I think kaz and wylan are the linchpins here. (again)

[miss-musings]

Analyzing the Allegories in The Bad Batch Episode 3.05 "The Return"

I know a lot of folks out there love analyzing the metaphors and allegories in The Bad Batch Episode 2.09 "The Crossing." (This video has a great breakdown! I highly recommend it.) It really dives into Tech's psyche, his autism (or the Star Wars equivalent of it) and his bond with Omega.

And, as much as I love that episode, I have to admit: I love Episode 3.05 "The Return" even more so for a lot of the same reasons people love "The Crossing." It really dives into Crosshair's psyche, his trauma and his bond with his family (especially Hunter).

Both episodes are so rich and layered, giving us a lot of time for introspection in an otherwise fast-paced, action-packed show.

I'd like to present two allegorical readings for "The Return." While there is some overlap, they ultimately have major contrasts and reinterpret some moments very differently. They ultimately hinge on whether you want to interpret the Wyrm as a good thing or a bad thing.

Thus, you may prefer one over the other, or maybe you'll like both. Feel free to leave your thoughts in the comments/reblogs!

Author's Note: This will end up being the second part of a much longer analysis I want to write about 3.05 "The Return." But, this second part about the allegories wasn't as time-consuming as I imagine Part 1 about the character beats/analysis will be, so I'm tackling it first. Once I've written Part 1, I'll update this intro section with a link. Cheers!

Allegory #1: The Wyrm is a Good Thing

The one overlapping point between both of these allegorical interpretations is that the Outpost base represents Crosshair, mainly his heart.

Like the Outpost, Crosshair was abandoned by the Empire. He served his purpose and was cast aside, set adrift. Now, he is alone, isolated and purposeless.

Additionally, Crosshair carries Mayday in his heart (which is something TBB composers recently confirmed on Twitter), and the Outpost is home to the last remnant's of Mayday and the other clones -- their helmets.

But while he carries memories of Mayday, Tech and other clones in his heart, he doesn't have anyone actively in his life. Just as the Outpost doesn't have anyone actively stationed there anymore.

Now, under Allegory #1, the snow represents Crosshair's trauma.

Just as the snow has covered the Outpost, Crosshair has been buried in trauma -- from many things, but especially from his experiences in 2.12 "The Outpost" and from his time on Tantiss.

The snow is emblematic of his trauma because the last time he was on Barton IV, he and Mayday are nearly buried in an avalanche and then they have to fight their way back through the snow-covered terrain, in a blizzard. While it isn't actively snowing at the Outpost in 3.05 "The Return," the snow that's covering the base has left it inaccessible.

Arguably, the snow can represent the specific trauma of losing a brother, because Crosshair audibly freaks out when Hunter falls into the crevasse. He's afraid of losing Hunter the same way he lost Mayday. He doesn't want to lose another brother to this planet and its snow.

So, just as the Outpost and Crosshair were both abandoned by the Empire, now they're both buried under the weight of the snow (or what it represents).

Now, enter: The Bad Batch.

Crosshair's family arrive at the Outpost and they take down the perimeter defense at the base. But, under Allegory #1, this is a Good Thing.

Because the Wyrm represents Crosshair's family, love and hope.

You can argue that the Wyrm represents Hunter specifically. They're the only two characters we see in the tunnels, and Crosshair has the remark about "I think I just made it angrier," which applies to both Hunter and the Wyrm at different points in the episode.

You can also argue the Wyrm represents Omega, because it shows up as they're talking about her. Plus, just as the Wyrm ultimately brings Hunter and Crosshair together and forces them to reconcile, so too does Omega. Plus, Hunter's line of "Not alone -- we'll do it together" can apply to facing the Wyrm as much as it does to eventually raising Omega.

But, ultimately, the Wyrm represents Crosshair's family (whether Hunter or Omega specifically) and the love and hope that they bring with them.

In the final shot of the episode, we see that -- even though the snow still covers the Outpost -- we also now see tunnels that the Wyrm created during its attack. They're essentially inlets into and/or outlets out of the Outpost now that weren't there before — a way through the snow.

Now that his family and their love and hope are back in his life, Crosshair has a way out and a way forward in life (or back to his family) that he didn't have before — a way through the trauma. He has their love and support. He has an outlet now.

(P.S. I also just love the idea of his family metaphorically wyrming their way back into his heart. LOL)

Allegory #1 fits better when you put it in the context of 2.12 "The Outpost" and the final scene in 3.05 "The Return."

Crosshair, in a very big character moment for him, takes the initiative and opens up to Hunter.

Crosshair in general, but in this episode specifically, is very closed off. Earlier in the episode, he avoided talking to Hunter, and wasn't forthcoming about his time on Tantiss or his experiences at the Outpost. Part of that is because of his personality, but a lot of it is because of his trauma.

But, at the end of the episode, Crosshair now feels comfortable enough to open up to Hunter. Arguably, he didn't really need to, at least not right then. He and Hunter had reached an equilibrium or understanding after facing the Wyrm together. Whatever anger and resentment they had for each other had dissipated.

Yet Crosshair feels he's ready to and needs to truly reconcile with his brother. Despite everything he's faced, he feels he has an outlet now, and he uses it and basically starts his healing process.

(PS - There’s a great side-by-side comparison of this scene vs. the S1 finale here.)

And, as I said, in the final shot we see the Outpost still covered in snow, but now there are tunnels going into/out of the base. There is now a way out, a way forward.

Allegory #2: The Wyrm is a Bad Thing

Just as in Allegory #1, the Outpost represents Crosshair -- isolated, abandoned and purposeless. But, now we're going to switch gears on what the Bad Batch and the Wyrm represent.

After months of isolation on Tantiss, Crosshair has his guard up. He isn't letting anyone in. He isn't letting anyone save him.

Until Omega.

It's clear from 3.01-3.05 that he has bonded with her in a way he hasn't bonded with anyone since arguably Mayday.

That's because he keeps letting people in, and then failing them and subsequently losing them -- his brothers, especially Tech; then Cody; and then Mayday. It's partly why he pushed Omega away so much on Tantiss. He definitely wanted her to increase her chances of escaping successfully by not risking breaking him out too, but he also didn't want to get emotionally close to her after failing and losing so many other people.

But, thanks to Omega, he escapes Tantiss and reunites with his brothers, and he suggests they go to the Outpost to pull more intel on Tantiss.

Under Allegory #2, by bringing them to Barton IV and the Outpost, Crosshair is inviting them into his heart. And the fact that the group debates whether Omega should go and that it's Omega who ultimately deactivates the sensors is significant.

The Bad Batch, specifically Omega, deactivating the Outpost’s sensors represents how they make Crosshair feel vulnerable again.

Just as the base’s guards were up until they (specifically Omega) deactivated them, so too were Crosshair's guards up until his family (specifically Omega) re-entered his life and his heart.

This is partly why, when Hunter confronts him about betraying their family and then the Empire, Crosshair goes for the proverbial throat by bringing up Hunter's insecurities about failing Omega.

For a combination of reasons, Crosshair is feeling vulnerable for the first time in a long time, and while Hunter had very reasonable concerns and questions, he picked the worst possible moment to confront Crosshair about it.

Enter: the Wyrm.

Under Allegory #2, the Wyrm represents everything that threatens Crosshair and his heart -- whether that's external threats like the Empire or Tantiss, or internal threats like his fear and trauma.

After Crosshair comes face-to-face with the Wyrm, his initial response is to confront it alone. He likely feels guilty for endangering his family by bringing them to the Outpost, and doesn't want to risk failing and subsequently losing them the way he lost Mayday and others.

However, Hunter and the others emphasize that Crosshair can't and shouldn't face the Wyrm alone -- that they have to do it together.

Hunter also says: "Then let's get to it, before it tears this place apart." Crosshair and his family have to work together to protect the base, the same way they have to work together to protect him.

Allegory #2 fits better in the larger context of Season 3, specifically everything that happens after this episode.

Crosshair insists on facing CX-2 alone in 3.07 "Extraction" and would've died if Howzer and the others hadn't saved him. He is alone in 3.11 "Point of No Return" when he misses the shot to track Omega's ship. And he feels like, because of his failures, he needs to spare Hunter and Wrecker by infiltrating Tantiss alone in 3.15 "The Cavalry Has Arrived."

But, just as the Bad Batch work together to restore the Outpost's defenses and protect it from the Wyrm, Crosshair is best protected when he is with his family -- when they are working together.

With prompting from Hunter, Omega helps Crosshair to start facing his physical and emotional trauma in 3.08 "Bad Territory." His brothers refuse to let him infiltrate Tantiss alone in 3.15 "The Cavalry Has Arrived," and after they get captured, Echo and Omega work to break them out. And, when faced with an impossible shot to save Omega from Hemlock, Crosshair makes it thanks to Hunter's support and Omega's faith in him.

These are situations he wouldn't have been able to navigate alone, just as he wouldn't have been able to face the Wyrm and protect the Outpost alone. Heck, even Batcher helps Crosshair find and save Hunter after he falls into the tunnel. He probably couldn’t have done that by himself.

Crosshair needed his family to support and protect him from both his external and internal threats, just as they protected the Outpost.

So, in the final shot of 3.05 "The Return," we see the ship flying away from the Outpost. The Wyrm's tunnels are visible in the snow -- reminiscent of scars or wounds -- but the Outpost is still standing, still protected.

Analyzing the Title, Final Thoughts

I honestly can't decide which allegory I like better. I think they can both be powerful ways to interpret and 'read' the episode. Let me know if you have any additional insights or opinions.

As I said, I really love how emotionally poignant and significant this episode is. Just like 2.09 "The Crossing" was about Tech and Omega's bond, 3.05 "The Return" is definitely about Crosshair's bond with Hunter specifically, but his family in general.

Like Jennalysis says in The Crossing allegory analysis, I also enjoy thinking of all the things a TBB episode title can refer to. The Return has a lot of options:

Crosshair's return to Barton IV, obviously

Omega's return to Pabu, and her return to Hunter and Wrecker

Echo's return to the Bad Batch family, even if temporarily

Under Allegory 1: Hope returning to Crosshair's life and heart, as Hunter alludes to in the final line: "And who knows? There just might be hope for us yet."

Under Allegory 2: Crosshair's physical and emotional return to his family; or said another way, allowing his family to return to his heart

There might be more but that's all I have for now. As I said, this will end up being Part 2 of a much larger analysis on the episode. I plan to write Part 1, which will break down Hunter and Crosshair's character beats and some other fun details, in the coming days.

Stay tuned! :)

[mama-qwerty]

Understanding SCU Knuckles

Okay, one of the big things I keep seeing a lot of people bring up is the fact that movie!Knux talks about being a warrior all the time, and how different he is from other characterizations of Knuckles, specifically the games and comics. He doesn't seem to care about guarding the Master Emerald, and always seems ready to jump into things fist-first.

So I thought I'd do a deep dive into his psyche to see what truly makes him tick.

Buckle up, this'll get long.

Before I start, I wanna just put it out there that I headcanon the SCU is a separate universe from any other Sonic media. I actually take ALL Sonic media as separate universes--Boom is separate from Prime, which is separate from the SCU, which is separate from the games, which is more connected to but still separate from the comics. They're all different, which means the interpretation of the characters will be different too, to varying degrees.

The Knuckles of the SCU isn't like any other version. He wasn't born and raised all alone on Angel Island. He wasn't always the last of his kind. He wasn't essentially raised with the knowledge of what the Master Emerald truly is, and understood his role as its protector and guardian. He wasn't completely removed from what happened to all the other echidna, all those many years ago. He doesn't have the benefit of hindsight, to recognize that the warrior ways of the echidna were what ultimately led to their own demise.

Movie!Knux knew his tribe. He was raised by them. They were still in the middle of a war with the owls, so yes, they would still be warriors. That was what he strived for, too, because he's been raised on the stories of his people, with likely a heavy slant toward the "we did nothing wrong!" angle of what happened all those years ago. (And honestly, we don't have a completely unbiased story on what truly happened back then, so who knows what the actual truth is. But, anyway.)

He lost his tribe to that very same war. All of them. As a very small child. One who was then thrust into a dangerous galaxy, whether willingly or unwillingly, to figure out how to survive and try to complete the quest of his people. That was the only thing driving him, the only thing keeping him going. That quest.

So yes, being a warrior was, and is, a very important aspect of how he sees himself. That was his people's legacy--how they worked to retrieve the ME and regain the honor that had been stolen from them all those generations ago. Seeing this mindset through the eyes of a small child, he would accept that as being the way he should carry himself as well.

Movie!Knuckles has been living in survival mode for most of his life. He felt a tremendous amount of pressure to find the Master Emerald and complete the quest of his lost tribe. He was all that was left, it all fell to him, and failure meant his entire race died for nothing.

Fighting is what kept him alive. He didn't have the luxury of staying out of conflict, like game!Knux. He didn't have the advantage of being on a nearly inaccessible floating island, surrounded by harmless chao and flickies and other critters as he grew up. Movie!Knux was hunted and forced to fight in arenas for the entertainment of others. He fought, or he died. It was that simple.

And, it could be, over time the idea of what an echidna warrior was became warped in his head. He only had his memories of a young boy of about 6-ish to guide him as to what an echidna warrior stood for. Being out in the galaxy and having to fight for survival may have gotten the ideal of "being a warrior and fighting for a cause" confused with "everything requires a fight to solve".

He calls himself a warrior because he wants to keep his people's legacy alive. He wants to make his ancestors--his father--proud of him, by carrying on their tradition and honor.

He lived his life how he thinks they would have wanted, based on his memories as a child who lost everyone he loved.

He fought. He survived. He searched to complete that one quest that had plagued his people for generations. And when he finally, finally got his hands on the Master Emerald, he had this look:

This is not the look of a brave warrior, proud to have finally finished his quest.

This is not the look of a proud warrior, celebrating his victory after so many years.

This is the look of a boy, who'd lost everything he held dear, because of the pursuit of this little rock.

This is the look of a boy who thinks "Is that all? Is this truly what cost his entire tribe, his entire clan, his entire race, their lives? Was this rock truly worth the sacrifice made in its name for all those years?"

Maybe part of him hates the Master Emerald. Hates that the single focus his people had with it is what left him all alone. It was well hidden on Earth, tucked beneath the waves of a secret temple. The very second it was found, someone he trusted used it to cause great destruction and harm.

He had caused great destruction and harm in his own pursuit of it. However noble he believed his own goals were, he had behaved in ways he may be ashamed of now, all because of the belief that the Master Emerald belonged back in echidna hands, by any means necessary.

And now look.

The sacred temple, destroyed. Green Hills, partially destroyed. Sonic and his guardians, very nearly killed.

All because of this rock.

All because of him.

No one would have ever found the ME if he hadn't come looking for it. He nearly brought the same fate as his people unto the heads of who knows how many others.

All for this little rock.

Remember that the legend indicated that the Master Emerald was created from the chaos emeralds. The ME shattered, releasing the chaos emeralds that allowed Sonic to go Super. When Sonic released the chaos emeralds at the end of the fight, he scattered them throughout the world, and severed their connection to the ME in the process.

It's very possible no one really considers the Master Emerald to have any power itself. It was simply the container that held the smaller emeralds with all the power, and once they were released, the ME itself was simply a pile of crystal shards. Knuckles reformed the ME, but at this point, there's no reason to believe it holds any power at all.

When Knuckles fixes the ME, he doesn't say that the emerald itself is a threat to the safety of the universe. He doesn't say they needed to band together to prevent others from using the emerald's power to cause harm. He says they needed to use their power to keep the universe safe. This is a very vague statement, and does not indicate to me that he's looking at this as a "This emerald is a danger, we must keep it out of evil hands at all costs."

At no point in the series did Knuckles make any mention of the Master Emerald as a source of great power. (At least I don't think he did.) He simply said he had sworn his life to protect it. It's possible he looks at it as simply a totem of his people, a reminder of their fall. A sacred relic that is tied so firmly to his people's history, he feels responsible for keeping it safe and well-guarded. His people all died going after this thing, so he will honor their deaths by keeping it near.

So it's not surprising movie!Knuckles isn't all about guarding the ME and never letting it out of his sight. It's a dead rock, one that holds no power at all. An heirloom that carries his tribe's history, and that's all.

The series picks up very shortly after the second movie, so Knuckles is still leaning really hard into his warrior status. It's all he knows, it's what will keep his people alive in his own heart. Just because he's not constantly on the run anymore doesn't mean he can simply stop doing what's essentially ingrained in him at this point.

He's spent his whole life on the move. Training, fighting, questing. He's a work dog who can't adjust to life as an indoor companion pooch. He needs something to do.

He's a warrior, and a warrior doesn't just relax. So he's not gonna just sit around and make his entire life revolve around the Master Emerald.

Yet.

Keep in mind that we haven't seen the entire story of the SCU yet. Just because he's still leaning into the warrior thing now doesn't mean he always will. It doesn't mean he won't have some epiphany or vision or just a change of heart after some time in the Wachowski's care, and realize that being a warrior maaaybe isn't the best path for him at this point. That maybe that part of his life is done, and although he'll still need to fight when necessary, he is free to pursue other interests now. That he doesn't have to live his life according to what his people would want or deem appropriate.

I don't believe he's actually grieved for his loss yet. Not fully. I think a part of him always felt like an open wound because the ME was still out there, still tainting the memory of his people. And now that he has it, and is on a planet that allows him to feel safe, he'll be able to work through those emotions. Work through that grief and maybe discover who he is, apart from his people and their legacy.

The fundamental aspects of what makes Knuckles who he is is still within movie!Knux. In the series he told Wade that he had been betrayed over and over and over again, which indicates that even though he was in a rough and dangerous galaxy, he tried to trust others. He tried to make friends. But each time he did, they betrayed him. But that didn't stop him from trying again.

We saw glimpses of a different Knuckles in the series. One who opened up to others. One who cared about others. One who acted like the boy he was, instead of the hardened warrior he thought of himself as.

Movie!Knuckles needs time to figure out who he is now that his quest is over. Change doesn't happen overnight, and given his backstory, it makes sense for him to still hold onto that warrior title with both fists. He's an echidna, the last echidna, and he doesn't want to turn his back on what he remembers his people to have been.

I'm eager to see how he'll behave in the 3rd movie.

[loupy-mongoose]

Randy lay splayed in the grass, his face up to the vast, cloud-speckled sky. Beside him a small lake flowed down into a creek--the creek that trailed near their house. He listened to the calming sound of its careless course. Akoya sat beside him, and Lav was with the twins a little ways away. He could hear the grass rustle as they played

He sighed, his eyes closed, relishing being bathed in deep contentment for once.

How are you feeling?

Randy smiled. Sleepy.

Hmbph! He felt a soft-but-scolding jab to his side that caused him to involuntarily curl into himself.

No sleeping! His wife's voice was playful.

He chuckled as he let himself lay again. I'm not, I'm not!

So you're relaxed, then?

The pink Mew nodded. He hadn't felt this relaxed in awhile, really.

They'd picked a good place to do this.

Okay.

Psychically sensing others is just another form of what you already know. Telepathy, telekinesis, things like that. Even using elemental moves like Thunderbolt.

Let your senses go. Feel the energy around you. Imagine them around you.

He lay still and silent, letting the world around him fill his ears and nose. Taking it in.

Slowly he began feeling his senses shift into his Psychic energy. Beyond scent and sound. Beyond sight and taste.

Similar to touch, but beyond even that.

It felt as if he was reaching out with a strange phantom arm and hand, blindly grabbing into a deep barrel of water inaccessible to regular senses. Water made up of several different sensations.

This was a feeling that he would never experience had he stayed human. Some humans did gain or even inherit a Psychic incline, but not like this.

This was...

oddly freeing?

A new aspect of his Mew abilities to explore.

He kept his breathing slow and even.

This didn't come naturally to him. Or at least that's what he felt like. Letting his energy out like this was... unfamiliar.

Akoya always told him he thinks too much--which was definitely true, whether it impacted his Psychic abilities or not--and that his powers relied on feeling. It was difficult for him to break free of his thinking habit to make his powers work properly.

He took in the sensations of the energy his phantom arm was reaching.

It was a frighteningly complex mixture, blending together in a strange, chaotic soup. He noticed that it was most intensely coming from where Lav and the twins were playing.

Suddenly he heard the grass beside him crinkle.

~Don't open your eyes.~

He fought his urge to look, and kept them shut.

After a moment, the voice spoke in his head again. ~Without looking, point to where you think I'm at.~

Randy hesitated a moment, feeling out with his power. Then, still lying on his back and feeling a little self-conscious, he pointed to the sky.

That's right!

There was silence, aside from sounds from where Lav was playing with the twins. Midas' bell chimed softly. Like a tiny voice telling listeners "all will be okay".

~Alright. Where now?~

Again, Randy felt and pointed.

Yup!

They did this a few more times, with the the feeling phase growing slightly shorter each time. Then, she returned to ground level.

So you seem able to sense us. Just not as readily as we can.

You and Lav might be easier for me, since I've known you both longer.

Can you feel me?

Randy thought for a moment. Yeah. Quite prominently, actually. His brows furrowed, and he turned to Akoya. If I can feel her this easily, why haven't other Mews?

She's concealing her energy. As am I... and even you are. However easy it is to find her for us, one would have to be seeking to find her energy. If you're concerned about her being a beacon, I'd be more worried about the twins. Perzi's right that they aren't hiding their energy. It's not like... Super obvious, but doesn't take much searching.

The long Mew turned to the twins in their little spot with Lav. He recalled the intense feeling he'd noticed earlier. He closed his eyes and focused.

Sure enough, he detected that intense flow coming straight from them. Lav's energy was but a cotton ball next to theirs.

You know what... Randy opened his eyes and turned to the blue Mew. Her arms were crossed, and she had an upset look on her face. I don't think you've been unable to sense them. I think you've been unable to stop sensing them. You've been in their energy fields near constantly since they were born... Her ears fell back, and her voice grew quiet. No wonder you've been anxious...

Thinking about it, he flicked his ear. I could believe that. Even to me, they're, uh... How do I put it?

Loud?

Randy nodded to her. Yeah. Loud. That's a good way of putting it.

Randy, I-- Akoya's voice choked, and Randy was startled to see her eyes shining with tears.

The sun was setting by the time the family returned home. Momo and Midas had fallen sound asleep, and were cozied up in their big sister's arms.

Perzi approached as they arrived.

How'd the lesson go?

Pretty well, I'd say. She turned to Lav and the sleeping twins. Lav, do you mind taking them in? We'll be in in a minute.

Lav nodded. You got it, Mom

She went inside.

Randy looked around. He felt his all-to-familiar anxiety return with a vengeance. Where's Rosemary?

She's around.

The utterly nonchalant demeanor of Persim's voice struck him, and he felt his usual urge to protect the "missing" child. Too late he attempted to stop himself from speaking. The accusation he had formed stuttered out of his mouth like rough pebbles.

HGGhg bgghb ghhgfh!

*Ahem...*

He took a deep breath, and let it out. He plastered a very forced smile on. Good luck with that. And he hurriedly flew into the house.

Before following her mate inside, Akoya side-eyed her brother. It probably wouldn't hurt to be a little more cautious about her. She is still a vulnerable baby, after all.

Perzi rolled his eyes. Yeah, yeah, don't worry. I got her.

Akoya gave him a glare that said in no words "I hope so", and rushed off after her family.

~~~~~~

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ARC START

Gateway to a less anxious life~ :3

[aspecpplarebeautiful]

is it ace/arophobic to change ace/aro characters orientations?

Depending on the situation, i think context/nuance can play a role, but yeah, often I'd say it is. I think especially if we're talking about professional media and adaptations (for example I can think of multiple aro characters turned alloromantic in TV adaptations), then yeah I'd say that's pretty much always acephobic/arophobic.

If we're talking about fandom I think it can get a bit more nuanced and different ace and aro people are probably going to have different lines where they're OK with something or uncomfortable with something.

But let's say you have a canonically ace character who in canon has never experienced sexual attraction, and someone wants to write a fic where they're demisexual. Maybe they're demisexual themselves and desperate for their own rep and there's so few ace-spec characters anywhere. I think that's example where most people wouldn't take a lot of issue with that, especially if they were still in general respectful of fans where the canon portrayal meant a lot to them.

On the other side of things, one of the reasons I eventually left fandom was people wanting to ship ace/aro characters who also wanted their headcanons/ships to be canon to the point of erasing the canon identity of the character, (I've even seen cases of them going onto posts of ace/aro fans and telling them to find other rep). And if you're doing that, that goes beyond just having ships or reimagining a character and you're making fandom an inaccessible place for aces and aros.

At least that's my thoughts on it, others may have other views or different experiences too.

All the best, Anon!

[a-dinosaur-a-day]

Can you talk a little bit about how you became a paleontologist? (like school and stuff).

I went to college wanting to major in paleontology and everybody told me I could major in geology but that being a paleontologist just really wasn't possible.

I did major in geology/archaeology combo major (offered at my college, it's actually a BA, not a BS, which was disappointing), but it's not paleontology and i've been out of school for a awhile and i'm just really discouraged.

ugh welcome to my life. the reason my story is complicated is because of crap like that.

so, I'm going to get very, very, very real here. that means I'm going to reveal some personal details about myself. I'm okay with it. I want to share this. Content Warnings for Parental Abuse, Mental Illness, Physical Disability, and Trauma. Phew. Here we go.

first thing we have to acknowledge: I grew up poor. my mom was a stay at home mom because of mental illness (majorly agoraphobic and huge social anxiety, plus largely untreated OCD). my dad rarely held on a job for very long because of severe untreated ADHD. my parents' primary concern, at all times, was that their six kids (my mom loves kids) would have gainful, steady employment. they are communists, and it was always about how we can't help others effectively if we're not secure in the rest of our lives.

I wanted to be a paleontologist from the moment I could have such a want. But my parents never, never, thought that was a good idea. They wanted me to be a scientist, because they could see my potential, but they didn't think being a paleontologist was a safe career. And, to be fair, they had a point. But I didn't want to be anything else. In fact, the very idea would make me start sobbing. So while I was little, they didn't really do anything about it. Occasionally they planted seeds of "you might not be a paleontologist", but it never went well.

fast forward to me going to college. now they were serious. we were constantly fighting over whether I should be a paleontologist or a medical researcher (MDPhD. you know, the insane degree that insane people get.) (I'm insane, but not that way). because they were paying for, well, some of it (I got a lot of scholarships, b''h), and I was in general dependant on them like most college students are, they picked my classes. I was forced to major in biology (though I probably would have picked that anyway), and I never took any geology classes (well, I took half of one, but had to drop it because of my stupid premed classes).

I got to do paleontology research, but it was kind of in secret - I technically had two different research jobs, one in evolutionary biology, one in paleontology. I took tons of medical related classes, and was forced to take the MCAT twice. I wasn't good at it. Memorizing things isn't my forte, I'm much better at problem solving and finding/evaluating information. I also just wasn't interested in it - I can remember countless dinosaur genera, but ask me to remember really specific medical details and my mind draws a blank.

I did not do well on the MCAT, but I was still forced to apply to MDPhD programs. I also applied to evolutionary biology and paleontology PhD programs on my own. But paleontology is extremely competitive, and I didn't hear back from any of those. I also didn't get anywhere with any of those medical programs. In fact, I ended up getting accepted to a grad program for evolutionary developmental biology, because that was the only thing that had an opening. Rather than go home and be forced to apply to medical school again, I took the out.

I was miserable. But I tried to convince myself it was better this way. That I would have gainful employment, and be able to do science. Meanwhile, I was running this blog, building a community, and constantly thinking about paleontology instead of my actual thesis. Even though paleontology doesn't require field work, I'd convinced myself I could never do it because field work is inaccessible to me - I have had chronically dislocated knees since I was 16, and a few different physical conditions that make me exceptionally heat sensitive. I couldn't do field work, so I couldn't be a paleontologist. I also am fat, because of those disabilities, and there just aren't a lot of fat AFAB paleontologists, so I thought I wouldn't be able to get far for that reason.

But I couldn't finish that PhD. I didn't care enough about it, and I was constantly hitting roadblocks. I wanted the focus to be more evolution based, my advisor told me no. I wanted to pursue a specific question, my advisor advised against it. My wasps kept dying, and I didn't know why. I couldn't get my assays to work. My advisor was always focused on his other students and never me. It was a nightmare. All the while, my blog was exploding in popularity, and I was even going to paleontology conferences on my own dollar and networking there, presenting research about using the internet as an educational tool. And I felt at home. I was with *my people*.

Then the pandemic happened. I was already estranged from my parents for other reasons, that I'd rather not get into (no, it's not cause I'm queer). Everyone was frustrated with my lack of progress at my first program. My spouse, the infinite well of support that he is (url @plokool), gave me the push I needed to drop out with a master's degree (which I had earned at that point). I then was seriously considering becoming a rabbi, because I didn't think I could hack being a scientist at all after that experience.

But, everything felt wrong when I wasn't engaged with paleo. ADAD had gone on hiatus because my artists were persuing other opportunities (and I'm so proud of them!). I just felt empty and lost without paleontology in my life. So I went to the virtual SVP that was being held in 2020, since it was cheaper than usual and online.

And I met my current advisor. We clicked *right* away. We had the same questions about bird evolution and talked for hours. He encouraged me to apply, so I did - just for paleontology programs. I knew if I didn't do paleo, there wasn't a point. Nothing else would hold my interest enough for me to get a doctoral degree. I also talked to the wonderful friends I had made here on Palaeoblr, ones who were also actually pursuing paleo, and they promised me I could do it - that they believed in me. The one thing no one but my spouse had ever really indicated to me. It gave me the push I needed, and when I was accepted to this program, I took it. It also helped that I finally had working ADHD medication, for the first time in my life.

Even though it meant moving from Chicago - nice, at least sometimes chilly Chicago, my home for my whole life - to fucking southern new mexico. I am so hot. All the time now. My feet never return to their proper color. But it was worth the risk.

But I'm not doing field work! I've had to take a lot of remedial geology classes, but all my work has been computer and lab based. And I've done so much already! I've published a new bird, I've done excellent in my classes and teaching, and I'm currently compiling my own database of Paleogene bird fossils. Last year was a little rough because of trauma things, and the gd-damned adderall shortage, but I'm moving forward. I am hoping to go into museum work, because I love museums, and I believe in them and their ability to educate people (I also want to help the museum field decolonize itself, but that's a different discussion.) I've even made a design for an evolution of dinosaurs exhibit that my professor wants me to make into a real thing someday.

So... yeah. I became a paleontologist by being the world's most stubborn mother fucker alive. I decided I wanted to be as a kid, and I never could let it go, even when it would have been better for me to. But I'm glad I didn't, because now I'm here, and I'm doing well. When i can focus, at any rate. Because I'm only at peace when I'm around dinosaurs.

(P.S. I've even repaired my relationship with my parents, and they support me as a paleontologist now! just took 30 years for them to realize they couldn't fight me on this, I guess... or they're old and tired of fighting. one of the two.)

[angelgendered]

Eeee this time tomorrow my train will be just leaving my local train station and I'll be on my way to London. I'm so excited, it's honestly silly. More rambling under the jump bc I didn't want people to have to scroll past this screed lmao

Something about travelling alone in my wheelchair for the first time further than birmingham makes me feel strangely emotional tbh. I can't pin what it is. Maybe that for nearly a year before my CES surgery I could barely walk and didn't have access to a wheelchair of any kind so I kind of just stagnated at home. And for two years+ before that I was suffering with such bad pain in my back that even with double crutches I could barely walk.

So now having this newfound freedom that a power wheelchair gives me? I feel on top of the fuckin world. Is it inconvenient when I can't just get an Uber or hop on the underground worry free? Yes. It's annoying as fuck. But also, there's ways around inaccessibility!

There are buses, and I'm fortunate that my chair has excellent suspension, making even bumpy pavements a breeze. Well. Except for the dreaded cobbles. Find me a wheelchair user that doesn't mind them and you'll have found a liar lmao.

I'm writing a lot of these long posts this week. Esp the past few days leading up to going to London. I think it's cause I genuinely didn't think I'd get here?? I thought I'd either be dead by now or forgotten by everyone except for my family.

I felt like I'd be house or bed bound entirely, (and probably would be were my mum not proactive in taking me to a and e and my consultant at stoke being so intent on operating kn me at like 7am the next morning,) because of my back and the pain I had back before my op.

I felt like no one would care- not friends or doctors or anyone. But I've been proven wrong by my rl and online friends and family and people like Hadley and I treasure all of them so much because they're all, in some part, key to the fact that I haven't become bedridden and more suicidal than I was at 28 29 anyway. I thought I'd be dead befoe I was 30, then I reached that milestone and kicked the can down the road saying I wouldn't live to 35.

Well now I'm very nearly 33. And I feel great tbh. I still have pain and fatigue and memory issues and diabetes and a myriad of other mh and physical issues but im HAPPY. I haven't been so happy since I was in my early 20s! I feel like my life has turned a corner and I'm over some kind of crossroads now. Things have changed wrt my health physically and mentally and being late diagnosed autistic, but it's soemthing im trying to take more in my stride now. The support of my loved ones is key to this, as is my freedom and independence.

I'm feeling mushy this morning, sorry if you read all of this.

[guppygiggles]

Hey friend!

Maybe this has been asked before, but was Avery inspired by anyone? ( ·ิϖ·ิ)

I don't think anyone has ever asked me this on this blog! Honestly, I've tried many times to nail down exactly what inspired Avery, but... I never can, not completely.

This is going to get long, I'm sorry.

I turned 30 last year. It wasn't in a "midlife crisis" or depressive kind of way, but I started thinking a lot about how I wanted the rest of my life to go, and what I wanted out of life that I'd never had a chance to have. I decided that there were two things I really yearned to do -- make art, and make friends. I figured a good place to start dipping my toes in would be Tumblr, since I'd used it in the past and I knew there would be a lot of art here to inspire me. And I was inspired... massively. Especially after I started actually drawing, myself. I started getting more ideas at once than I'd ever had in my life, and it triggered a bout of insomnia I am still dealing with now, almost six months later.

The first time I can remember thinking about Avery was during one such sleepless night, desperately trying to coax myself to sleep. Laying in the dark, I'd close my eyes and imagine leaving my body, floating above my apartment complex. I'd wander around like a ghost, exploring places I'd seen, but which are normally inaccessible... private roads, fenced estates, etc. I'd imagine sitting on the edge of a skyscraper, watching the city move beneath me, imagining what people were doing, why they were up so late, etc.

I imagined this many nights... It became a pet fantasy. When I was a kid, I read a book called Billy the Bird by Dick King-Smith, maybe that's where I got the idea... I don't know. Along with the insomnia were vicious bouts of nostalgia, too, so... It's possible.

But, anyway... I'd get lonely.

I wanted someone to talk to, so I imagined someone sitting with me. Someone who could only come out at night, for fear of being seen. Someone for whom sitting on the edge of a skyscraper was no concern, and who could catch me if I fell. I imagined he was soft, gentle... a good listener, maybe even a bit shy. I imagined he was an intellectual, capable of being quite serious, but never dour. He was quick with a smile, and it was easy to make him laugh.

In some respects, I suppose, he was inspired by a friend of mine, who died many years ago. In most ways, he wasn't like Avery at all -- he was extremely blue-collar, the exact opposite of an intellectual, and very outgoing. He was not refined in any way, and could even be quite reckless, at times. But, he had a unique, gentle, innocent sort of kindness that I've found to be exceedingly rare. To know him was to love him, really; he was a hard worker and a fierce friend, someone who wanted nothing more than to love and be loved. My relationship with him and the way his passing affected me touches everything I make and everything I do, intentional or not.

When I was building Avery's character, I was very fascinated by object heads at the time (particularly Prince Robot from Saga), and I was also seeing a lot art for "doctor/scientist" type characters. Despite never playing the game, I liked TF2 fanart, especially of Medic. I thought about other characters I'd fixated on, too, and what exactly I liked about them... Milo Thatch from Atlantis, Data from Star Trek, John from Homestuck, Sans from Undertale, Stanley and the Narrator from The Stanley Parable, Pokemon professors both Oak and Elm, Nightcrawler from X-Men, Wilson from House, Dr. Bashir from DS9... The list goes on, really.

I know this is kind of a non-answer, and I'm sorry about that. It isn't really a clear answer for me, either. All I can really say for sure is this: Avery is the embodiment of everyone and everything I've ever loved, as well as the reflection of my own self-love. Relatively speaking, we just met, but I feel like he's been here the whole time. I've made so many wonderful friends because of him, too! Can't say what the exact moment was, only that now that he's here, I can't imagine life without him. 💙

[ladyinbooks]

Have you read Mary Renault's Alexander series/if you have, do you have thoughts? I've only read the persian boy so far and just started Fire from heaven but I've always heard amazing things about how she wrote them

Hello lovely anon!

I'm going to start off with an apology in advance, because whoops! You've asked me something that's set off my inner ramblings quite happily here (in a good way). So I'm going to roll up my sleeves behind the 'read more' and get overexcited about this.

But just in case, the tl;dr is: yes, I have. And yes, I love the series (with a few caveats):

Let's start when young!Lady was a small, wide-eyed thing, all of 17, who had just lied on her Oxford application form, and said she'd read Arrian's Campaigns of Alexander. Then she got called for interview and thought 'Oh shit, I'd better actually read it'. So she did. And she loved it. And she kind of... ended up developing a little obsession with this bloke called Alexander.

Now, around the same time as this deceit was taking place, Robin Lane Fox's biography on Alexander was fairly accessible in most book stores. Possibly because it's really quite a readable biography, and thus had become quite popular. And so young!Lady snaffled that too, and read it. And Lane Fox's name kept coming up in conjunction with Mary Renault's (perhaps because - personally speaking - I think they have a fairly similar approach in their views on Alexander), and so young!Lady thought 'Hey! Let's read those books too!'

All of which, is a very long-winded way of saying: I read them, and I loved them at the time. (To be fair, I still love them. Hephaistion my beloved.) Renault's style of writing is gorgeous. I know for some people it can be off-putting, and a little difficult to parse (she's not what I call a 'light read' in that sense), but I genuinely love the way she constructs her prose.

She was also, I think, one of the first fictional writers to actively and openly tackle an explicit romantic relationship between Alexander and Hephaistion (most prominent in Fire from Heaven, but it's definitely still there in The Persian Boy), and although Hephaistion-as-a-concept had been kicking around before then, I think Renault made the relationship (and Hephaistion) more... mainstream, if I can put it like that?

Renault's historical research is also good. She does give a really interesting flavour of what it must have felt like to live in a Macedonian court, filled with intrigue and the kind of political machinations that resulted in heads rolling. She captures that dangerous, desperate element very well, and she makes Macedonian life accessible to a reader in a way I very much enjoy.

I think as I've got older, where my love for Renault's version has become a little tarnished is in my own inability to put aside my mental nitpickings (and this is no fault of Renault's writing!). Her Alexander trilogy writes about Alexander-the-Legend, not Alexander-the-Man. For me, there is very little balance to be had from her, and although this was a stylistic choice, I do find myself missing the nuance of an Alexander who is not, well, pretty much a perfect example of a living god. He's almost Achillean in the way Renault portrays him - far beyond us brief mortals! - and in some ways that makes his fictional character feel more inaccessible to me. Her Alexander is untouchable. Unknowable. Godlike in his abilities and driven by ambitions far beyond anything a non-heroic mortal can comprehend.

I also feel that Renault's portrayal (understandably) is a bit wrapped up in W.W. Tarn's vision of Alexander as some kind of benevolent conqueror (he wasn't), whose life's exploits were geared towards the betterment of mankind (they weren't). I need to add: this isn't a criticism of Renault! Tarn's scholarship and ideology was very prevalent for quite a while (see: Robin Lane Fox, who sort of subscribed to a viewpoint of Alexander along vaguely similar lines, I think).

My other gentle nitpick, is that very often Renault's women are stereotypes. Or caricatures. Olympias comes across as a vengeful harpy (interestingly, I think there is a lot or Renault's Olympias in Oliver Stone's film version). Again, I think it's fair to defend Renault with the fact that she's working with historical sources that can have the same biases - but even so, for me it's not particularly satisfying.

In the same vein...

Hephiastion my beloved. He does suffer from this too, I think. He's very much in the style of an 'Alexander-can-do-no-wrong' kind of character, and although that does fit the narrative purpose, it simultaneously makes me a little sad that we don't particularly get to see an active, competent Hephaistion in the way I personally feel he likely was. He's not completely reduced to the role of 'the boyfriend', but he is completely defined by Alexander - his behaviour, his impulses, his career are all attributed more to being 'philalexandros', than to any genuinely displayed individualistic motives. Again, it's not a bad thing, but for my Hephaistion-loving gremlin heart it can be dissatisfying if I don't turn off that portion of my brain a bit.

All of which is my very rambling way of saying: yes, I've read Renault's Alexandriad, and yes I genuinely do love those books - for what they represent, for what they do and just for the sheer joy of reading them. But I do have some slight quibbles. None of which are enough to put me off of them, only to say that I think as a reader I have to temper my expectations and meet the books where they are (for what they are). They are beautifully written, and I do think they do something rather unique for the Alexander mythos.

One other book I'd recommend - purely for the sheer delight of it - is Aubrey Menen's A Conspiracy of Women. Written around the same time, it's very different and deals primarily with a moment in time during Alexander's campaigns. It is a satire (not particularly historically motivated), and it pokes fun at quite literally everyone. Whilst not at all romantic in (either sense of the word) the way Renault's writing is, I do love the fact it takes aim at Alexander, and the Alexander mythos (along with a more generally satirical approach to the concept of empire building).

I also love Menen's Hephaistion, who is possibly the driest, wittiest takes-no-nonsense-from Alexander character:

Few men could face an angry Alexander and remain in control of themselves. But one of these was Hephaestion. He glanced at his friend the King, smiled and then said, "Alexander, if you continue to glare that way, the poor man will die of fright. Bathyllus," he said, "for the moment only His Majesty may wear Persian robes. Maybe one day we shall all do so. But His Majesty has not yet made up his mind on the subject."

This being the exact truth, it made Alexander angrier than ever, as Hephaestion knew it would, but with him and not with the unfortunate Bathyllus. Alexander turned his back on Hephaestion. "See that he is brought to my tent," he said, and strode away.

"See that you bring yourself to His Majesty's tent," said Hephaestion to Bathyllus. "I am in no mood for his imperial tantrums this evening..." (pg.19)

Or:

"Hephaestion," he said, "am I really as vain as you say?"

"Did I say you were vain?"

"You said I was in love with myself. Just now. When I boxed your ears."

"Ah," said Hephaestion. "Yes. You are."

"You must tell me when I get vain."

"I do," said Hephaestion.

"Yes, you do," said Alexander. "And I am grateful."

"You are usually remarkably cross," said Hephaestion. "But I shall go on telling you."

"It's strange," said Alexander. "We have conquered a world together, but our friendship is as strong as ever."

Hephaestion made no answer.

"You must find me very hard to bear sometimes, Hephaestion."

"Sometimes," agreed Hephaestion.

"When?" asked Alexander.

"When, for instance, you say things like 'We have conquered a world together, but our friendship is as strong as ever'." Hephaestion echoed exactly the touch of pomposity that Alexander had put into his voice.

Alexander smiled. He reached out and put a hand on Hephaestion's shoulder as they rode together." (pg. 101)

Hephaistion my beloved.

[strugglinguist]

It's still a... within the past 2 years thing that my disability has become physical and visible. There seem to be different levels of mobility aids, though, in the public's eye.

Level 1: Cane or walking stick. This is totally fine! Lots of older people use canes and other mobility aids, so people don't TOTALLY bat an eye. They do look at me a little concerned because I'm so young, but no one says anything. If anything they just let you sit down more and open doors for you awkwardly early.

Level 2: Rollator/Walker/Crutches of any kind. This is when people start to get concerned and ask you if you've had a recent injury. Or they're scared to ask, so then they compliment literally everything you have on 🤣 When you say that this is a genetic condition, they REALLY don't know what to do with that. But you can still get along just fine by yourself, so it's not a huge deal. All the Level 1 awkward door opening for effect lol.

Level 3: Wheelchair. People lose their collective marbles and begin asking intrusive questions, making assumptions, etc. I've heard of people just moving you like furniture, which has not happened to me. I've also been worried about people FLIPPING out that I'm faking because I'm ambulatory. Like yesterday Z and I got stuck at a few inaccessible curbs in our .8 mile round trip from the restaurant. I would stand up and help him get it onto the curb. I'm SURE that people driving by were curious. I know I thought "IT'S A MIRACLE" every time I got up 😂 I haven't had any nasty encounters yet, but I know that's a big YET. This is also why I'm really opposed to trying to get my disabled parking sticker. NOPE! I'd rather not deal with Karens day in and out.

Any other disabled friends notice these or other effects?

[tarnishedinquirer]

Case: The Roundtable Hold

I was half expecting Melina to come with me, but I arrived here alone.

Can't say it made the best impression. Whole place had an air about it. Like gathering at the mansion of a dying relative, one whose fortune was lost decades ago and only the house remains. Not enough servants to keep a place this big from going to shit, and none of your cousins would ever stoop so low as to picking up a broom and trying to straighten things up.

Hrm. That hypothetical got a little too specific to be anything but a memory.

Central hub

The centerpiece was a massive Grace on the titular table. Instead of the piles of bark that I've gotten used to, the base was a bunch of weapons, though they still seemed to be sprouting roots. On closer inspection, it was all one solid hunk of metal. Even the "roots" were cast.

A replica of some historical event, perhaps?

The main area was a large circular chamber with statues and a fireplace. Along each wall were alcoves containing real weapons, probably long past the point of repair. Brought to mind the alcoves in that catacomb, like whoever did this was symbolically burying war itself. Maybe they thought the death of war was the same thing as peace.

I'll do all the profiles later, so here's just an overview of my interactions.

Gideon Ofnir seems to be the de facto leader of the Roundtable Hold. Must be important, since the voice mentioned him while I was dead. He offered only the most cursory of greetings before making sure that I knew my place. Sure, I'll play ball. You can be king trash of garbage mountain if you want.

Brother Corhyn is an itinerant monk. Seems friendly enough, but a bit too blind to his faith. I mean, he literally wars a blindfold, but there's gotta be some holes in that thing. Offered to teach me Incantations, but if I ever had faith, I'd lost it long ago.

Diallos is a dandy in the worst way. Handsome, noble, and completely useless. That armor of his had better have a hell of an enchantment on it, since it looks about as flimsy as filigree. He asked me if I'd seen his lost servant, but I guess the thought of looking for her himself never entered his pretty little head.

West Wing

Two wings extended off the central room. The west wing was mostly inaccessible to me, with two chambers blocked off. Guarding one of the doors was an...individual who didn't offer their name and I'm not even gonna guess at their gender. Their armor looked to be made out of hardened pitch, with bones embedded in it.

They didn't speak a word, just silently judged me for even being here. I decided not to bother them and left.

East Wing

This one had more activity. First thing to note was a monstrous blacksmith, hammering away at a pile of weapons. Introduced himself as Hewg. I asked him about the chains and he said flat-out that he's a prisoner, and I guess that's something we both understand. He that he said he's fine being a prisoner as long as he doesn't have to think about, "The terror of her." Now that's interesting. Wonder who he's talking about?

The side room had been converted into a sumptuous boudoir. Its sole occupant seated expectantly on a soft bed. She introduced herself to me as Fia, and I recognized the name immediately. Between my death and revival, the voice had singled her out as important somehow. She invited me to sit beside her and, well...I'd better move on.

A staircase led to a storeroom below, but I couldn't progress any further. One of those gargoyle statues barred my way, and I still don't have a key.

At least they gave me a clue. The one in the tomb had two empty slots, this one has just one. The other imp statue has a small, daggerlike object stuck in its head. Made entirely of the same stone as the statue, but clearly a distinct object. At least now I know what I'm looking for. I'll keep an eye out for any "sword keys."

The last area is a small balcony overlooking a grand entrance hall. I'm sure there's a way down there, but couldn't see one from here.

I'm calling this one a case file because there's too much mystery to do otherwise, even if I'm not sure what it adds up to yet. Too many closed doors here, and I've gotta find a way to open them.

Questions:

Why did the voice single out Fia?

Who is Hewg afraid of?

What's the skull knight's deal?

Where is Diallos's servant, Lanya?

Where IS this place, anyway?

[djevelbl]

I'm tired of trying to rummage through the dwindling search results just so I can maybe find something new to read — I've been in the fandom for years, I partially grew up with it, it's basically part of my identity, it carried me through some of my worst years as of now, and it's horrible to see it slowly die day by day. It's no one's fault — after all, I get why people would want to leave, and why they'd want to erase every trace of having loved these characters, the internet isn't forgiving once you've fucked up; there's no nuance and no mercy, so I get it.

But I'm not ready to leave yet. I don't think I'll ever be.

I want to keep growing alongside these characters, I want to live as they do and smile when they do — cry and laugh and feel whenever they do. Yet now I have to come to terms with the death of this fandom, the one that saved me (for as dramatic as it sounds) and the one that cradled me when I needed a hug. The one that made me feel a little less alone in what I loved, the one I wanted to explore until I died.

I have to come to terms with it's death, I have to come to terms with the fact that one day I won't have any new stories to read. I don't think I can do that without breaking.

The thing is: there's no other fandom that has grabbed me this hard — this fandom felt so versatile, so malleable; we could write about space the same way we could write about fantasy and superheroes and its canon. We could write about the olympics and dance academies and slam poetry, and no one would bat an eye; it feels harder to do all of this with other characters. I haven't found anything to fill the void this fandom is leaving, and I fear I never will — I know it's only been months, but I thought this would last forever! I thought I'd keep growing alongside it and I know this must sound stupid, some random person on the internet mourning an online community of all things, but it helped me: I felt held and accompanied whenever I opened a new book, I spent days imagining what my favorite characters would do in whatever story I was thinking of writing next, I started so many books that I'm not sure I'll ever finish writing, and somehow I don't mourn those the way I mourn the fandom as a whole. I felt seen in a way I never quite did in real life, because in the community there were other people who shared the same passion for the characters that I did, and I didn't have to explain it all to them so they could understand — they already did! They created and lived and grew up with it the same way I did, and for once I hadn't felt like the odd one out of the group, the one with the weird interests that no one cared about because they were inaccessible to others.

And now it's fucking dying. And now I gotta mourn it all

I feel aimless, like I'm just drifting through the motions — I never had much going on, still don't have a lot going on (hell, I probably have even less going on right now) and I know that doesn't help me in moving on. Maybe I need to start going to therapy again, maybe this is just the denial in the grieving process — but I'm tired. I finally had a taste of how it was like being within a big community that understood me and got what I liked and enjoyed the same things as I did, and I don't wanna go back to being isolated in my interests.

And to think this whole... I don't know man, thing spawned out of not finding many books I wanted to read. I feel dumb. I feel pathetic. I'm sad and angry and so heartbroken. The null sleep I got through the night is probably not helping. I should go to sleep I think

[timevir]

2024 - A New Timevir

This post contains some words about the loss of death.

Writing is a very fun hobby that I've done for as long as I can remember. It probably started as written exercises and fanfiction during childhood. It transformed into intricate worldbuilding as I was introduced to the hobby of tabletop roleplaying. In recent years, I've written interactive fiction, scripts, novels and sourcebooks.

But one constant caveat is that I almost never shared my work. It was an enjoyable process to convert thoughts and feelings into substantative manifestations in the physical realm. Yet despite many coworkers, friends and family members asking about them, I'd always give the same answer of "it's personal and not worth sharing".

I thought about why I was doing this, and noticed I have been living the life of an observer. I enjoy the detail of the world around me, and paying attention to things that others would consider irrelevant. I would even deliberately put myself out of my comfort zone if it meant putting myself in a location that I could see something new. If there was an interesting protest in the city I was living in, if there was a strange, dangerous event occurring in the vicinity or if there was an unusual experience or location to be discovered, I'd happily waltz in and act like that I was meant to be there. During the riskier parts of youth, it even meant a bit of trespassing, but I stopped doing that after a few dangerous close calls.

What I was not doing as an observer was manifesting that in the world. Many of my projects would be built, some even to completion, and then they'd sit in a box, frozen and inaccessible through their obscurity. Nothing I made ever felt like it was deserved observation compared to the rich tapestry of the world around me. Even in the rare moments I found pride in something, it would soon feel obsolete compared to some next logical alternative.

A lot of my life has been spent on "the grind". Work had seemingly crept its way into absorbing the free energy I had in an addictive loop. At first, it was merely a way of ensuring survival and trying to get out of school debt. It took the majority of my late 20s to get out of school debt, a feat I was able to just reach before my 30th birthday. A few more months, and I had a decent emergency fund and a "real" disposable income, assuming I wasn't going to try and buy a house (which to be honest, isn't an exciting proposition at the moment. Real estate trends caused by high demand have made housing costs extortionate, but that's a discussion for another time).

Work is of course necessary for human survival. Indeed, if we took a snapshot of lives lead across history, nearly everyone has had to contribute in some way to their communities for them to function well. The meaning of work has shifted through the various periods of history significantly, but its goals have remained the same. What is implictly understood, even if not necessarily well recorded, is that there was a whole tapestry of living that existed outside of these actions that could mean vastly more to the people that lived around them. While much of these ideas have persisted through the passing of cultural works, very rarely have we got a good snapshot of the life of any specific individual, even if they potentially had amazing tales to tell.

Identity has slipped through my fingers somewhat accidentally. It had felt much easier to sacrifice every bit of effort to accumulate knowledge, resources and a position of comfort than it took to stand for anything. At first I may have resisted the ideas of exaggerating an accomplishment, or cutting on the quality of a product to create it faster, but those values became too easy to discard when reward was on the table. But if anyone were to ask me about the morals of the situation from the outside, I'd remark a half-mealed "it depends" which really meant nothing beyond the acknowledgement strong values had merit and self-interest could get in the way.

It seemed like the intelligent thing to do because the things that were remembered across time were great accomplishments, long standing monuments and the best and worst of events moulding humanity's timeline. It was easy to mistake what was memorialized for what was important in life. It then followed that if memorialization was an ultimate goal, that the best way to do so was to accomplish some great feat was to set yourself up with as much power as could be wielded, a good proxy for which was money, before putting all that strength into ventures in the hope that something would hit and a legend would be born.

It is possible I could have remained trapped in that vicious craving for objectives if it wasn't for a life shattering event at the end of 2023. It was at this time that my younger brother died unexpectedly in his mid twenties. A whole life was potentially ahead of him, but it was cut short at almost no notice. My relatively normal family crumbled into chaos and it was shattered.

In the emotional fallout, I looked again at what I had done. Of course I did not regret unburdening myself from debt, or succeeding at a career. But in all the push for an abstract notion of success and legend, I had lost an invaluable voice that could never be replicated. My brother had lived his life to his fullest in his time on Earth. He had moved country, he had found love and friendship, and he had ideas of a future. Seeing these wither into tears, memories, and finally a grave, made me realise in the end that a memorial would not make up for the moments that would never be had again.

My new year's resolution for 2024 is to try to reestablish a voice. To truly live in the world and not merely plan a story for my death. To make sure that my friendships and bonds remain strong and not let them disappear due to the inconvenience of maintenance. To stand for something and not just exist in the pursuit of convenience.

One way I am going to test myself on this goal is to try to make sure I write something down each week. Something public. It won't necessarily be something profound, but at least it may prevent me from slipping back into forgetting about the things that really matter. Perhaps it is better to exist in the world than merely drift through it.

[quaddmgd]

Yes it can! Got something cool to show ya.

So on a Tuesday night I was kinda stuck in the workroom, running rendering tasks, so I figured I can at least pop in a CP77 disc into the One S I have lying around. I had to make some preparations for my future Corpo AU shots and I've never played the last gen version before, so I was already excited to try it out.

I did all I wanted in about 15 minutes and decided to quickly shoot some pictures to see how they stack up against Series X (apart from lower resolution of course). Halcyon suggested that I start Nocturne Op55N1 to get some pics with Hanako. I decided to ship Corpo!Crystal with her after all (now you know). What the hell, I'm stuck here anyway, right?

So let's see what we can achieve with the most vanilla photo mode experience possible and the right mindset - in Cyberpunk 2077 v1.61 on Xbox One S.

I was wondering if I can get any shippy saturday material with such a limited set of tools. I got Crystal as close to Hanako as possible, then tried out (mostly unfitting) poses that I'd deviously cut to make them look convincing enough, similarly to my previous vanilla photo mode ventures (I have yet to post some of my favorites).

It worked well enough, even with the barrier around Hanako stopping me from getting them really close together. I created tension between them, simply by having Crystal "Eavesdrop (Left)", "Distracted Girlfriend" or "C'mere, Gonkbrain" towards Hanako.

But come on.... they had to kiss somehow.

I focused on poses that: a) have Crystal lean in any direction b) have an up/down slider to compensate for the height loss from leaning

Leaning poses made it possible to bring them even closer to each other, but it wasn't enough. No matter which one I chose, her barrier was impossible to break... or so I thought.

See, the counter is seemingly inaccessible, but jumping on any stool makes it easy to get on. Collision system tries really hard to push you off of it but, with some luck, switching photo mode on and off can stop it from happening*, let you stay on top and move freely. Now I was back using poses with up/down sliders and I quickly settled on "Off to the Races" as the one most likely to make them kiss. Luckily, the minimum slider value was IDEAL to get Crystal's lips on the same level as Hanako's. The only issue was with moving C left/right/close/far, as her collision remained in the same place she spawned - on the bar top. At this point sliders were useless, so I had to go back to gameplay to correct her position. After some trial and error I set her perfectly. Now a quick rotation towards Hanako and voila! Now they kiss! * - if your V spawns with the default starting pose - "Tabula Rasa", "What Can I Get Ya?" or "Night City Strut" - then it's a good sign

And how does it look from the outside perspective?

Yes, that's a lot of steps and time spent on a small photo shoot. The lighting is what it is, their eyes are open, Johnny The Parasite stands exactly where I'd want to place the camera, but it's still cute and it proves that creativity can get you places with vanilla photo mode. And final results can look really good, even on a base Xbox One.

Of course, photo editing software like GIMP can get you even better results. I use it to change aspect ratio of my pics, patch up any lighting/texture bugs, and sometimes for basic color correction. For the sake of clarity, I didn't use it for shots in this post. Just know it's there and it's easy to learn.

I couldn't decide whether it should be a blog post or a tutorial, so it's a blog post that goes step by step through my thought process, I guess. I might do some vanilla VP tutorials in the future, if the demand is there, but right now my job doesn't even let me finish my Legacy of Kain: Defiance playthrough, so I can't promise anything!