#in a way only I can understand the fever dream logic does track :’)

[soft-serve-soymilk]

fuck yeah covid :)))))

[ichayalovesyou]

~Act One: In Denial of Pon Farr~

Blood Moon~by Saint Sister, Madrid (Album)

“To return home, and take a wife… or die.”

Spock is feeling anxious and unusually lonely, more resentful of his complex heritage than usual. Feeling rejected, but not by Jim, he finds his thoughts wandering to T’Pring. Who he feels deep resentment toward, she hasn’t contacted once him in the two decades he’s been gone from Vulcan. He has yet to realize it is the beginnings of Pon Farr.

“I am sure, you craved me once before. When I think of all the fruit I’ve found, and how easily you left it on the ground.”

Evening On The Ground (Lilith’s Song)~by Iron & Wine, Woman King (album)

“I hoped that I would be spared this.”

Spock’s yearning and loneliness transforms into anger and frustration. He knows Pon Farr has begun, and he hates it. He has no desire to return to Vulcan, worse still, he loathes that he yearns for someone who he does not know. Worse still, she’s not the only one he’s longing for…

“We were born to fuck each other one way or another but I’ll, only lie, down by the water side at night”

I Want You (She’s So Heavy)~(Originally) by the Beatles, performed by the Cast of Across the Universe, Across the Universe (Album)

“How do Vulcans choose their mates… Haven’t you wondered?”

Spock cannot bear the tearing between Human & Vulcan halves that has come ferociously to light under the stress of Pon Farr. His duty is to that man on the bridge, but the call of Koonut Kalifee is only getting louder. He has no desire to burden Jim with horrible display of emotion. Yet desire is quickly becoming all that he can think about.

“I want you, I want you so bad, it’s driving me mad, it’s driving me mad.”

~Act Two: Blood Fever, The Nightmares of Plok’tow~

Howl~by Florence + The Machine, Lungs (Album)

“To have their logic ripped from them, as this time does to us.”

The first, foreboding rumblings of Plok’tow have begun. He dreams of a hunt, he’s chasing someone, he does not know who. Each time the blood of this faceless, slaughtered, ravaged victim is a different color, every time he turns around, green, red, green, red, green, red, green, red…

“Like some child possessed, the beast howls in my veins, I want to find you, tear out all your tenderness.”

The Horror of Our Love~by Ludo, You’re Awful, I Love You (Album)

“It strips away our veneer of civilization.”

The dreams are getting worse, more violent, detailed, intense. He knows his quarry-

Jim.

He tears his captain apart in a thousand visceral, grotesque ways, physically, mentally, no love, no hate, no want, just blinding hunger. And the most frightening part, he enjoys it. He begins withdrawing from Kirk, for fear of what may happen should dreams threaten to become reality.

“Carnivorous and lusting, I’ll track you down among the pines.”

Become the Beast~by Karliene, Become the Beast (Album)

“It is the Pon Farr, the time of mating.”

The last of his Blood Fever dreams occurs after Kirk confronts him about his behavior. This one is, much to Spock’s relief, not violent. The lyrics are spoken through the faces of fellow Vulcans- T’pring… childhood tormentors… Sybok… his cold and disapproving father… T’pau… Surak… himself.

The rage and hunger has cooled into ice rather than fire, for now.

“Do I terrify you? Do you feel alive? Do you feel the hunger? The desert howl inside?”

The Woods~by San Flemin, Jackrabbit (Album)

“You humans have no conception.”

When James Kirk grabbed the shiv from Spock’s hand in their confrontation, a shard of Spock’s Blood Fever came with it. Spock was spared a nightmare this final night, but not Jim. The dream even dared to be pleasant initially, alone together in the woods. Before the arena of Koonut Kalifee erupted violently around them, as did Spock. Yet, before Spock could deal the final killing blow, Kirk found himself sinking into the sparkling sands below. He startles from his slumber, feeling suffocated.

But he does not remember how, or why.

“The nights are lovely dark and deep, but I’ll appear when you’re asleep. You’ll wake up with a sudden hurt, your mouth and nose all full of dirt”

~Act Three: Kalifee, the Death of A Friend~

Take Me Down~by Brother, Pax Romana MMV (Album)

“I’ll get you to Vulcan somehow…”

All Jim knows is that Spock is getting worse, and that he needs him. Not knowing, and not daring ask whether the shiv was meant for himself or Spock haunts Kirk, as does the ghost of his forgotten dream. He does not know what will come of this wedding. Only that he will do whatever it takes to make certain Spock lives. No matter what, it’s a race against time.

“The powers that be, the powers that run you through, I’m taking a stand I know what it comes down to, God knows I do.”

Hunting Grounds (feat Joe Cotela of Ded)~by In This Moment, Mother (Album)

“He is deep in the Blood Fever, he will not speak with thee again.”

Kalifee has begun, Spock has completely lost himself to the Blood Fever, and Kirk must fight for his life. He finds himself outmatched by the environment, and by Spock’s rage. He knows two things, he has no desire to die, but he cannot, under any circumstances, kill Spock. (I imagine this duet could be as seen as Maria Brink=Kirk, Joe Cotela=Spock)

“Like a predator sink my teeth into your neck.”

Die Today~by The Txlips Band & Guitar Gabby, Queens of The New Age (Album)

“Kill Spock? That’s not what we came to Vulcan for is it?”

The Kalifee has been an intense drain, Kirk knows, deep down, that not even the “Triox Compound” could save him in this fight. He feels his life flash before his eyes, he bears no ill will toward Spock, he’s not in control of himself. He reflects on their relationship, and how much it has meant to him, and accepts, that for Spock to live, he has to die.

It was worth having known him, saving a friend isn’t the worst way to go out…

“If you die today, if we die today, at least I’d be in your arms.”

Pearl Diver~by Mitski, Lush (Album)

“You may find, that having, is not so pleasing a thing as wanting.”

Spock is absolutely distraught, he’s disgusted with himself, he loathes every single Vulcan he’s ever known, but most of all he is angry with Kirk. That he had to be the moth to his flame. How dare he want to get close to him! How dare James Kirk ever have the stupidity, the courage to love him?! The wanting had driven Jim to his death, and himself to murder. It was illogical, and he will never, forgive either of them for it. Curse having, curse wanting, and curse himself too.

“But hunter you were human don’t forget it and go safely. And I? I’ll live without you, though the struggle will be daily.”

Sweet Dreams~by JOSEPH, I’m Alone, No You’re Not (Album)

“I shall do neither, for I have killed my Captain, and my friend.”

Spock languishes in the agonizing hours between the Kalifee and confronting Bones about what must be done. He prays for a short and cruel life… and dares ponder the question, do Humans have Katras?

“I’ll return to my sleepless night, dreaming with my eyes open, watch the shadows play on the ceiling.”

[The final act is a little on the smutty side, here’s a read more just to be safe.]

~Act Four: The Need is Met~

To Be Alone~by Hozier, From Eden EP (Album)

“I shall offer no defense, their is no excuse for the crime of which I’m guilty.”

Though overjoyed and relieved that Kirk is alive, Spock continues to anguish over the reality that had Bones not intervened, he would have killed him. Jim knows better this time, he will not let Spock continue down this path. A tender and honest conversation puts salve to Spock’s fears. In any event, while the Kalifee burned away the Blood Fever, it becomes clear the needs of Pon Farr still remain. Kirk suggests, delicately, to put a new Bond in place of the old.

Spock accepts.

“You don’t know the hell you put me through, to have someone kiss the skin that crawls from you, to feel your weight in arms I’d never use.”

Mermaid’s Calling #2~by the Cast of The Lure, The Lure (Album)

“The ancient drives are too strong, eventually they catch up with us.”

The thrum of Bonding needs no words, it is not just a joining of minds, but of bodies as well. They complete one another, no thoughts, no voices are required. They soon find that the physiological differences between them can be more than a little… fascinating.

“…”

The Deep~by PHILDEL, Wave Your Flags (Album)

“One touches the other, in order to feel each other’s thoughts.”

The tangible, physical world of course has it’s pains and pleasures, to be joined physically is one thing, to be joined in soul and mind alongside those sensations is a different ordeal entirely. If this, completeness, is what it means to be Bonded, Kirk now understands why Vulcans go mad over it.

“Give me a sign ‘cause it runs through my mind like your heat, caught in the web you’re so easily lead to the deep.”

The Mermaid~by Kate Rusby, Life in A Paper Boat (Album)

“In this way, our minds are locked together...”

Unbeknownst to anyone else in the universe, James Kirk & S’chn T’gai Spock are now Bonded, and neither has ever felt less alone. For once, it does not matter to Spock that he is of two worlds, here, he is home. For once, Kirk does not feel as though he is forced to live the Enterprise’s life, this time, she helped him live his. A shining, blissful moment in the vast, expansive sea of stars that they have devoted their lives to exploring.

For them, the journey itself, is home.

“In peace now, the sea it comes, and peace now, in her arms where I’ll be love, sleeping in the sea.”

[everythingoesnk]

1957

summary; you come to john’s rescue so he doesn’t fail his test. conversation takes a turn :p

word count; 2 283

warnings; flufliness 🤗🤗

********

On Wednesdays, your older sister was in charge of doing the shopping, but fever had confined her to her bed. By strict orders of your mother, the responsibility was now yours.

That’s why you ran late to meet Mrs Smith and her nephew.

As you stood alone in the hallway, awkward and reluctant, you wished your arrival at 251 Menlon Avenue had been interrupted by the stupidest distraction. Or that you’d have declined to come when you had the opportunity to.

Hearing them arguing upstairs wasn’t what you wanted to do with your evening. Neither was helping John to study for the math test he had the morning after. You couldn’t work miracles, and with this transparency you explained it to your grandma when she compelled you to lend him a hand.

She and Mimi had been good friends for years, and when they were together drinking tea last week, Mimi vented to her how John would distress her in the school field. Music, the young lad was only interested in music. His grades were pitiful, and she found herself running out of stratagems to incite John to get back on track. The guy managed to pass the rest of the subjects, but mathematics were an ordeal for him.

He despised numbers just as he despised having to waste time restricting his Gallotone when he could be rehearsing instead.

“Give me back the guitar, Mimi. Where do you have it?”

“You won’t see it until I hear from the test’s result”

“I’m trying my best!”

“Try harder”

There was a truculent silence that wasn’t a silence per se. They stopped talking, but John’s frantic steps as he paced around the room rummaging around and removing furniture from its place hoping the guitar would be hiding behind were unmistakable.

“It’s not there,” she said, nuisance reflected in her tone, expression inexpressive.

“Unless you ate it it must be somewhere in the house”

Mimi didn’t answer.

“Because it’s in the house, correct?”

Mimi exhaled, giving him a hostile glare. They weren’t in a state where she could throw money around like it was nothing. If she bought him the guitar, it wasn’t to resell it or dispose of it afterwards.

“Of course it is in the house. I’ll return it if you comply with our deal”

After Mimi drew the line, you heard the woman walking down the stairs.

Straightening up, you clasped nervously your fingers around your schoolbag’s strap.

She placed her peculiar hat on top of her hair and covered her figure with a long winter coat. Its corseted structure in the middle cinched in around her already lean frame.

“Do your best” she told you, making sure that she had everything she needed on her. “If you feel like hitting him, you have my permission”

“You’re leaving?”

“I have errands to run”

When Mimi walked over to you, she stopped by your side and looked you up and down.

“The shoes. You dirtied my carpet”

“I’m sorry, Mrs Smith”

You intended to offer cleaning it up yourself until it looked like it did before, but she had other plans.

“When you’re gone I’ll tell John to handle it, the boy lacks discipline. Anyone would think he’s being raised in a jungle rather than a humble home in the northwestern of England and I wouldn’t be able to contradict them”

You had nothing to respond her with, but she didn’t look like she was interested in hearing an answer.

She rekindled her step and marched out the house, half with hurry half slipping away in case John reappeared to keep niggling over how unfair she was.

You’d been in their home previously. Once.

John had been the sergeant who lead the army, devising a prank which sloshed over onto you. Army because his two friends were the ones to set the trap, John keeping his hands clean as the commander and mastermind he thought was. They put a paint bucket on top of the classroom door frame, and the three patiently waited to see who the victim would be.

You spent hours in the shower scraping the tacky liquid off your skin.

That same day, your grandma and you showed up at their doorstep because she wanted him to apologize.

The incident was the reason why you knew where he lived.

You eased down into one of the chairs in the kitchen and dropped your bag onto the table.

John knew you were there, you wouldn’t go searching for him.

Thing is, time went on, and he wouldn’t make an appearance. You checked your wristwatch and cursed. Almost fifteen minutes had ticked by and you were waiting like an idiot for someone who clearly did not care enough.

“Am I dreaming or did I just hear (Y/N) (Y/L/N) saying a bad word?”

You flinched and brought a hand up to your chest.

Looking to the left, you saw him standing barefoot in the doorway with his arms stretched upwards, gripping at the doorframe. Legs crossed at the ankles, a wicked grin curved his lips. He was wearing a white cotton tee and denim trousers that fit him tight in the thighs.

Once recovered from the shock, you shot him a bitter look.

“You’re wasting my time, you know that? The longer you delay it, the worse”

“I’ve had better,” he said, walking over to the sink where two large vertical windows on the wall displayed a perfect view of the back porch.

He closed them, grabbed a plain black sweatshirt that hung from the chair opposite you and put it over his head, messing up even more his already tousled humid hair. It was clear that he had a shower before you showed up. If he hadn’t had, it would be replicating Presley’s.

Until then you didn’t realise that the room was indeed chilly.

“Better what?”

“Better days. Thank you for asking and showing interest” he said, waving vaguely a hand.

He slumped in that same chair and glanced across at you.

“How are you, by the way?”

“Fed up. Tell me what you don’t understand and we’ll practice” you said, pulling out of the schoolbag the book and your pencil case.

John calmly watched you prepare everything. “Geometry, algebraic equations…  The entire book, if you will”

“If that’s the case, I see logic in noting down formulas first, that way you can try and memorize them too” you lifted your gaze and saw him with both hands plunged in the front pocket of his sweatshirt, shoulders relaxed. “Hello? Aren’t you getting something to write on?”

He let silence reign for a moment.

“Out of all the people in class, it had to be you,” he grumbled. You didn’t have a clue about what that was supposed to mean, but now his eyes were piercing into yours to the point where you felt very small very quick. He bounced to his feet with a huff. “I’ll be right back”

Upon his return, he carried with him a notebook with doodlings drawn by him on the cover and a pencil hanging loose between his teeth. Along the way, at some point, he tugged the hood over his face, so now you couldn’t see the top half of it.

He took the seat again and with an unfriendly look began copying the theory.

“If you’d paid attention from the beginning perhaps you wouldn’t be against the clock now”

“I can’t focus if you speak,” he grunted.

“You’re just copying” you said, raising your left eyebrow. “But alright, I’ll shut it”

When he was done, he tossed the pencil and dragged his hands down his face, pulling at the skin under the eyes.

“I hate this” he condemned.

“You hate everything that doesn’t involve music” you clarified, no malice in your statement.

“That’s not true” he scowled, pushing the hood back, actually feeling insulted.

“Alright, tell me something you don’t hate,” you propped your elbows onto the table, laced your fingers and rested your chin there.

“I don’t hate the singing of birds waking me up in the morning, and I don’t hate hanging out with you”

As much as you tried to hide it, John saw how your lips tipped up.

“Am I supposed to feel touched?”

“I’d be really sad if you didn’t. That was smooth”

“Oh wow yes, so smooth, the smoothest” you sneered, taking his notebook to write down a few problems for him to resolve.

“Smoothest” he echoed. “Is that a word?”

“It is” you weren’t sure if he was serious.

“Sounds strange to me, never used it before”

“Venustraphobia sounds awful as well and it’s a real term”

“What does it mean?”

“Fear of attractive women”

“Holy shit, is that true?” he asked, fiddling now with his pencil.

“Yeah”

“So that’s a thing. Does the phobia exist the other way around? Women fearing handsome men?”

“I guess?”

He nodded, amused. “It must be hard for you”

Confused, you raised your eyes and cocked your head with an inquisitive frown.

“Collecting yourself, I mean” he explained, rubbing a hand over his jaw. “You’re doing a terrific job pretending you’re not suffering. As you might know, I’m quite charming myself”

You just stared back for some time, holding back a laugh until it became impossible to restrain.

John was so much fun when he didn’t behave like a dick, you hated to admit, which only happened when his macho friends were around. He was the leader of the group, sure, but it seemed that all he wanted was acceptance from them, to belong somewhere. Pretty much he let them change him. Although when he wasn’t near them, the carefree happy bouncy John you knew returned each time.

Abs burning from laughing, you doubled over as you hugged your abdomen. This bitch, you thought. Your shoulders kept shaking as you tried to subside your chuckles, but you couldn’t stop.

John observed your reaction placidly.

Bright with delight, his eyes gleamed when you kept patting your thigh as a conduit for the laughter.

“My God” you breathed, fanning yourself.

“It’s rude using my name in vain,” he teased, wagging the accusatory finger in your direction.

“You’re far from being God” you retorted, your chuckles fading. You gave him back his notebook. “Enough chitchat. Do these exercises and I’ll correct them”

You waited then, keeping an eye on him as well as inspecting your nails to pass the time.

He raked a hand through his hair and kept it there, closing it in a fist at the top of his head.

A sappy feeling settled in your stomach. Seeing him saturated after half an hour trying to get something done softened your heart.

He suddenly looked up, but when he caught you looking too, John quickly dropped his head.

Five more minutes and he passed you the notebook.

“Voilà. Now you can laugh at me”

“I’m not gonna laugh at you. No one is born knowing” you responded quietly.

Silently revising his answers, you got distracted remembering one thing he said earlier.

Rosiness present in your cheeks, your gaze settled cautiously upon him. “You don’t like me?”

His brows drew together in deep puzzlement.

“What?”

“‘Out of all the people in class, it had to be you’” you quoted him, your heart beating erratically. You were worried that its pumps would tear a hole in your chest. “I wanna know why you said that. Is it because you don’t like me?”

A muscle tickled in his jaw, but his expression was humourless.

“That’s not it”

You hoped his response would bloom into something more specific, but he remained with his mouth shut, tension building up between the two.

“What’s it?” you pressed.

Darkness igniting his eyes, he leaned back in his chair.

“Answering your previous question, I do. A lot, actually. That’s my issue”

Petrified, your pulse shot to the sky.

“Why is it an issue?”

“We both know why”

Was John Lennon telling you with all his chest that he was interested in dating you but that he’d never acted upon it ‘cause he assumed you were out of his league?

“You didn’t ask me about my feelings, not once”

“Why would I? You’re sweet and smart. I’m none of that”

Oh, Johnny boy. His words cracked your heart. Lies, they were cruel lies.

“What are you doing this Friday?” you inquired. “I don’t know if you know, but I really like painting. I held an exhibition at school—”

“I’m aware. I was there”

Warmth radiating up your body, you fought back a stunned gasp. “You went?”

He never mentioned it before.

Gazing in each other’s eyes longingly, a goofy side smile fleetingly graced his lips.

Electric tingles spread through your nervous system. You composed yourself with a toss of the head. And he dared to say he wasn’t sweet? You were drowning in diabetes.

“My point is, the school’s newspaper asked me to present something new, and I have yet to finish my piece. Maybe, if you want, you could join me and we make each other company. You can bring your guitar and play some music”

You’re adorable, he wanted to interrupt, mouth twitching.

“I guess I could do that” he said instead.

“Awesome” you bit on your bottom lip, thrilled.

“I’m concerned, though”

“Concerned?” your eyebrows snapped together. Was he having second thoughts? “About what?”

“Concerned that I will start developing venustraphobia now that I’m gonna spend more time with you”

Your laughter hugged his soul.

John contemplated stupefied how easy you made it to fall in love.

Just hearing your giggles was enough for him to understand he could never compose a melody more lovely and magical than that.

[enterprisetrampstamp]

The Martinstown WIP Part 3

Part 1 Part 2

This is Part 3 of what is likely to be a nice, long t’pura fic once I’ve banged it out. It’s a bizarre length and actual amount of plot by my standards, so I’m in want of comments and breaking my usual rules to post sections of it before it’s fully complete. Please, holler at your ambiguously gendered author with any #thoughts you have!

This one goes out in particular to the one lovely anon who cares about this fic as much as I do.

***

Vulcans do not dream. But- on occasion- a lack of focus during their nightly meditation can lead a Vulcan to ruminate so deeply upon past events that they relive them, in a strange and filtered way. "Through the looking glass," a human may describe it.

T'Pring does not know why her mind lingers this night on a day long past--one where the heat of Vulcan's sun beats heavily on her shoulders, and her robes are filled with fruit they have foraged. She is accompanied by Spock. They sit huddled on a rock, deep in the craggy valleys of the desolate mountains, with only I'Chaya as supervision.

They speak of everything and nothing, in the way of children. They become sticky as they eat, and their skin grows hot and flushed with the sallow yellow-green of sunburn, for they have not heeded the words of their mothers.

"No," she insists, as he demonstrates a hand gesture, a tiny furrow of focus between his slanted brows. "That is too close to the regular word."

"We should not wish to forget our symbols," Spock argues, "or we will lose our ability to communicate in secret."

"I will not forget." She peels the skin from her fruit, sniffing. "Are you saying you would?"

He bristles immediately. "I would not."

"Then why would I? I am smarter than you."

"You are not!"

"This argument is illogical."

"You are illogical."

It is her turn to bristle. "I am not!"

"You are always angry. Anger is illogical. Therefore, you are illogical!"

T'Pring remembers how this is meant to go--she should consider her fruit for a long second, the colors red and orange and juicy in her palm. "If you wish to see angry," she should scoff, and then reach over to shove the fruit in his face.

But this time she is older, in her thirties and sitting next to a Spock so small she could easily hold him aloft with one hand. Her fingers are still sticky; she can still feel the heat of her planet's sun against her shoulders--now bare, in the modern style of the rebellious Vulcan woman. A flyaway of hair is caught in the breeze. She stares at the fruit in her palms, feels the roughness of the rocks against her ankles, and something inside of her is screaming. It has been for a very long time now.

"Yes," she says. "I am often angry. I think perhaps that is why our minds were found compatible. You have always struggled to maintain a Vulcan lifestyle, and I have always struggled to accept one. That has not--gotten easier.” She breathes out into the air of a dead planet. “Since this.”

"I do not understand," Spock says.

He is so small. It is illogical to doubt her own memories and more illogical still to question the realities of biological aging processes, and yet still she finds herself questioning how it is possible that either of them were ever so small as he is sitting next to her.

"You would not," she says. "We had not lost this, yet. The innocence of childhood. Our people and our planet. Each other." T'Pring does not look at him in pity, because he does not need it--not as a child, trying to find a place on a world which could not accept him, and not as an adult who has found his place on a starship far away. "There is nothing so illogical as grief, Spock; not even anger, for all that they so often go hand in hand. You have not learned that yet. I regret that one day you must."

"You should not say such things," he tells her, looking worried. In time, he will grow better at hiding these feelings, but she will only grow angrier. "T'Pring, you are being emotional."

"Yes," she says. "But no one is around to know. You do not exist outside of my mind, tiny Spockling." She reaches out to ruffle his hair, and he squawks much the way he had once upon a Vulcan afternoon, with his face covered in fruit.

"I find your behavior illogical and unsatisfactory," he says, all harsh and small. It is adorable. "This will be the first thing I say to you when we complete our private code."

"That is exactly so," she tells him, fond. "Although I think you have secretly always enjoyed seeing another Vulcan behave in this way, no matter how you raise your little eyebrows."

She grows quiet, pensive, and then says quietly, "I miss you, illogically. I was the one who ended this easy camaraderie, fearful that the scrutiny our classmates placed on you for being half-human would reflect back on me to reveal my own struggles. It was the logical move to protect myself, I believed. Now I must wonder if I did not hurt us both instead; we were never on the path to romance, but there was a time when I regarded you as a friend."

There is no one here but yourself, she chides. You need not twist your words to obscure the truth.

"That time continues now," she admits, begrudgingly. "I maintain sentiment towards you, despite our divorce. After all, though it was I who initially suggested our severance, you held nothing but support for my decision despite the future peril in which it places you, should you enter pon farr without our bond to fall back on."

(It had not been her motivation behind the divorce, but she is grateful in a desperate and primitive way that she has been spared from the decision to either kill him by inaction or be forced to cure his fever herself--she is grateful because she knows what she would have chosen, and his agreement to divorce her has denied her conscience the weight of his death.)

"Is this what your meditation seeks to have you acknowledge?" Spock asks in that young voice, but with all the perception of his older self. Or her own, perhaps, since there is no one in her mind but her. "That your path of solitude is a choice you have made on your own?"

T'Pring peels the rest of her fruit, and feels the heat of a sun that she will never again encounter outside of memory. "If that is the case," she says, "I struggle to see the logic in regretting what has already come to pass. My family has perished in the genocide of our people, my friendship with you has long since wilted, and I cannot bear to set foot on our supposed new homeworld. I am alone, but for the humans among whom I live."

"You like these humans," the Spocklet says. He has a handful of freckles along the bridge of his nose. “But you find it difficult to trust them.”

T’Pring does not see a point in answering, even within the meditative construct of a conversation.

The crew of the Martinstown is a self-described family, and that T’Pring finds difficulty with such a concept should be self-evident. They are also of a largely psi null race; to obtain mental intimacy with them would require a deliberate conscious undertaking, and to trust without knowing the inside of another's mind… The very concept is unnerving.

There is a role she plays for her crew, much as there was a role she played for her family on the lost sands Vulcan. Unlike the silence and stoicism of the past, she enjoys the teasing and bluntness of her new persona--but it is a persona nonetheless. 

"You like me," her diminutive companion says, thoughtfully. "Do you trust me?"

She slants a sharp, sideways look at him. "I might," she says begrudgingly. "Though I do not prefer to say so, even within the privacy of my meditation. Must you force me to admit these things?"

"The only one here is you," he reminds her. "You are, as you always are, alone."

"I prefer it that way," she says. "Isn't that what we decided a moment ago?"

"No." Spock stares up at her, his thin arms wrapped about his knobbled knees, and his too-human eyes are small, and dark, and troubled. "We decided that it is what you have chosen; not that it is what you prefer."

T'Pring's heartbeat is quick and loud in her ears. "I see," she says. "I shall need to meditate on this properly at a later date. And there is no logic in telling you goodbye, as you do not exist."

"Very well," he agrees.

She opens her eyes.

The smoky haze of incense fills the air of her quarters- barely large enough for her to stretch her arms to either side and not brush the wall with both fingertips- and her ankles chafe not on Vulcanic rock but on the fibrous fabric of her meditative mat. That this particular hour is classified as “morning” is, of course, arbitrary, but she can smell coffee percolating and hear the distant sounds of movement as the Martinstown’s other habitants likewise stir.

Upon waking after a poker game, the crew is often quiet by their usual standards; Cristobal and Elina will sit in the kitchen among the detritus of the festivities, sharing their dark, bitter coffee as they skim their PADDs for the news, and Pinga and the Captain (whose camaraderie stretches back the longest) can often be found sharing a peaceful silence- and occasionally a stiff drink- on the ship's modest bridge.

(No matter the circumstances, the Leiman siblings independently and uniquely refuse to arise before the theoretical sun. "Artists," Pinga says, as if this word explains everything.)

T’Pring rises from her meditation, first dousing the last smouldering heat of her incense before bending loosely at the waist to roll the mat into a neat cylinder and tuck it beneath the austere desk which takes up nearly a third of the room.

(She uses the surface and the wall behind it to meticulously track not only the Martinstown crew's path through the stars, but also their adventures within them. T'Pring had been hired on, originally, as a record keeper; it has proven a difficult habit to break, even now that her position aboard this ship has little to do with a need for employment.)

T'Pring moves about her routine without haste, but neither does she linger in reflection as she brushes her teeth and hair and sheds the simple robe- of a silken, Terran style- which she had chosen for her meditation.

The revelations of the hallucinatory Spock-child are undoubtedly worth considering--but at a later date, in the darkness and stillness of her quarters, among the smoky haze of the alien scents she has adopted as a meditative focus. (Not only have many Vulcanic spices been lost among the rubble of her planet, but those that remain are difficult to obtain this far away from major Federation outposts.)

She thinks of other things, instead, such as how the braid of her hair is not entirely unlike the elaborate hairstyles of her youth--though less cumbersome, not being piled high atop her head. It is left hanging loosely down between her shoulder blades, tracing the straight slope of her spine.

So too does her manner of dress evoke a reminder of Vulcan without mimicking it; there is the freedom of movement of a traditional robe, combined with the metallic sheen of formal dress. T'Pring typically clothes herself in a simple, lightweight, sleeveless jumpsuit which cinches at her ankles but flows loose about her legs, as well as a stiff, tight vest in a heavy fabric which cuts a sharp line at her shoulders and reaches high up her throat. Both are a deep purple in color- matching her gloves- though the vest is slightly darker and shimmers with the play of light across its surface.

T'Pring has found this combination of garments to be comfortable, casual, and in keeping with the common fashion trends across the galaxy, thereby rendering it inconspicuous.

For economy of space aboard their small ship, the crew have few items of clothing and opt instead to clean them frequently; their choices in attire must therefore be well-suited to a variety of tasks. The combination of sleevelessness and drapery allows her a wide range of motion, while the stiff vest provides additional protection to her torso--a flawlessly logical combination, given the life she leads.

Flawlessly logical. She would roll her eyes if she were human. As if logic is something more than a tool--as if it is the beginning and end of the argument, when incomplete or incorrect data can result in a perfectly logical decision which is nonetheless wrong.

Such scandalous thoughts. T'Pring wishes she could blame the humans for them.

[animebw]

Sarazanmai: Series Reflection

I suspect my relationship with Kunihiko Ikuhara as an artist is going to remain a pretty complicated one for a very long time. The dude’s unquestionably a man of great ambition, but my experience with Penguindrum didn’t exactly sell me on his ability to execute on that ambition. As I’ve said time and time again, it is hard to tell a story using non-literal means; too little explanation and you lose your audience in confusion, too much explanation and you lose that surreal magic that makes metaphorical storytelling so special in the first place. It takes a hell of a lot of skill to pull it off, the patience to finesse every detail, the courage to commit to your vision, the agility to dance between meanings and the charisma to pull your audience along without losing them along the way. And if that’s the arena in which Ikuhara’s planted his flag, then I can only hope he’s consistent enough to clear those impossibly high bars time and time again. It’s no easy feat to devote your skills to such difficult stories, and there’s no telling if Penguindrum’s an outlier in his oeuvre or an indication of where he usually ends up. But if there’s one thing that Sarazanmai proves, it’s that he absolutely has what it takes to make this kind of storytelling work.

Sarazanmai is a hell of an achievement no matter how you slice it. It starts with one of the single most ludicrous premises I think I’ve ever seen in anime, and not only does it run with that premise all the way, it pushes it to extremes it didn’t even need to go to. It’s a male magical girl show about invading the buttholes of giant zombie-ghosts, an exploration of the eternal conflict between desire and love, a surreal fever dream with enough mindfuck imagery to make Evangelion blush, and a goddamn musical spectacle on top of everything else. It’s loud and explosive and utterly goddamn ridiculous in every conceivable way, yet somehow, it all makes perfect sense together. Because Sarazanmai succeeds in all the ways that Pengnuindrum didn’t. It has surreal, symbolism-driven storytelling that actually makes emotional sense. It has characters that can mess up, grow and make bad choices without becoming so cartoonishly unreal they lose their ability to connect with us. It operates on dream logic that’s able to guide your attention and bring you to all the conclusions you need to reach. No matter how wild this show gets, you never lose track of what it’s trying to tell you, or why it needs to tell you it in such a bizarre way.

And that’s the magic of Sarazanmai: underneath all the crazy imagery, this is a truly heartfelt show about the power of love. Not the easy, simplistic power it’s often portrayed as in anime, but the genuine, moving power of connection and its ability to change people’s lives for the better. It’s a story about how hard it can be to connect, all the selfish desires and unresolved hangups that make us unable to open up to the people in our lives. But it’s also a story about the desire to try regardless, to shake off our arrogance and reach out to grasp something real and lasting, no matter the pain it may bring. It understands how difficult it can be to escape the pull of greed, how our desires can cloud our judgement even when we think we’re being selfless. But it also understands how powerful the pull of selflessness can be, how the connections we forge and the people we let into our lives are not so easily broken. And it accomplishes all of that with breathtaking animation, stellar character writing, and a truly inspirational spirit of imagination and wonder. In a lot of ways, I feel like this is kind of the perfect distillation of Ikuhara’s skillset; it’s a show about taking the abstract and making it real, both in terms of the journey the characters go through and the spellbinding direction that brings that journey to life. And it proves once and for all that there’s nothing keeping the extreme, the bizarre, and the baffling from also being touching, moving, and utterly engrossing.

Do I have complaints? A few, maybe. The repetition of all the exact same animation sequences over the course of the battles makes the beauty of that animation lose some of its impact. It’s still got a touch of Ikuhara’s obtuseness in how conveniently it wraps up all loose ends. But those are nitpicks in the grand scheme of things, and they don’t take away from what a truly remarkable experience this has been. Sarazanmai is a winner from start to finish, and the next time I pick up Ikuhara’s works, I’ll be going in much more hopefully than I would have before watching it. Thus, I give it a score of:

8/10

Aaah, that was a blast. Thank you all for joining me on this adventure, and I hope you’ll stick around for the show that will take its place! I’m still working my way through the 2019 anime I missed, and considering what a freaking head trip this was, I think it’s time to kick back and relax with a simpler, more accessible pleasure:

Demon Slayer

Let’s see if this one lives up to the hype, shall we? See you next time for the start of a new adventure!

[brightlycoloredteacups]

Resgination

@ivartheboneme

Brynhilda and the Murder Couple 

Brynhilda sits on the toilet. She’d only try it once, she told herself. Despite the risks, she’d try it once, and then it would be over. She didn’t think she ever wanted anything so badly before. She refused to ignore a desire so strong. So there she sits, alone in her bathroom, waiting for the results. Leg bouncing in irritation. Why did these things have to take so long?

           When the little timer on her phone goes off she jumps up and dives for the test. She pauses for a moment, closing her eyes. She doesn’t pray, she’s never prayed, but she hopes. She hopes to whatever is out there that this is the moment her wish comes true. She feels utterly foolish. She can’t say how long she stands there, eyes screwed shut, mouth forming the word ‘please’ repeatedly in the silence of her bathroom.

           She cracks open an eye, looking at the test. Her shoulders immediately drop. The test is negative. “I’m not pregnant.” She says to the empty space of her bathroom. Of course, she isn’t. Having a family of her own was entirely too much to hope for.

           Brynhilda drops the test into the trashcan and emerges from the bathroom. Looking about her home, she feels lonelier than ever. There’s not even a hint of warmth in her spartanly furnished home. Everything is cold and neat. Lifeless. Just like her. Just like her life.

           For a moment, she thinks that maybe she should try being ‘softer’. Maybe talk in a quieter tone, say less than she already does. Maybe cover up her muscles. That might attract someone. She pushes that thought away harshly. That train of thought was nothing more than a last ditch effort not to come to terms with reality. It would attract the kind of someone she didn’t want. She sits at her windowsill, grumpy, and looks up at the stars. Even if she had the strength to completely bury the person she was, eventually, they’d ask about her scars.

           She absentmindedly runs her fingers over her rough knuckles. Ylva pops up in her head, a flair of jealousy following, the image. Ylva had Ivar, a man who kissed her scars, her twisted kneecaps. Ivar and Ylva who’s depravity matched each other’s. Why couldn’t she have that? Why couldn’t someone hold her at night when Boggvir came for her in her dreams. Why couldn’t someone make her feel pretty, buy her stupid gifts and make her days a little brighter?

           It’s simple, the voice inside her head says, you’re a dog. You’ll only ever be a dog, doing tricks on command. You’re good for two things, fighting and killing. Why did you ever think you could do anything else? Just because you wanted it enough? Please. She brings her knees to her chest and buries her head inside her arms. But I’m lonely, she thinks, so lonely.

           She simply can’t understand it. She managed to find a friend. Two friends, if you counted Ivar on a good day. Yeah, the little voice says, two friends that-. She stops it in its track. She doesn’t want to think about this, she doesn’t want to ruin the image of Ylva in her head. She can’t, her friendship is the one thing she really has left in this world. Sure, the voice still whispers, but how long will you have it? She presses her lips together. That is a reasonable question in her mind. How long will she have it?

*

           Ivar looks at Brynhilda with glee. There was only one time she’d ever looked so uncomfortably rigid. She’s in his office downtown, a rucksack on her back. Usually, she just plops down on a chair and puts her disgusting boots on the edge of his desk. She’s done it so much the corner is rubbed smooth. But he can’t come to care now. She’s about to ask him for a favor. From the way she was so stiff, hands behind her back, feet slightly apart, he knew it was going to be a dozy. Was it money? He hopes its money. She hates asking for loans, considering he’s the man that already writes her checks.

           He’s working on his taunts when she speaks. “I’m turning in my resignation effective immediately.” His smile drops. “What?” He says. This is a joke, right? It must be a joke. “The original terms of our contract have been completed. Everyone that has tortured Ylva, their associates, all her enemies, are dead. She no longer needs protection.”

“What about me?” He asks, standing up angrily. Where the hell is all this coming from? Why is she just abandoning him like this. “If you recall,” Brynhilda says, “You told me once that you didn’t need my protection. You were fine without me before, and you’ll be fine without me in the future.”

“That was-”

“I thank you for the employment opportunity. Give Ylva my best.” She says shortly, stunning him. She turns and leaves his office before he can pull himself together enough to argue with her. “Brynhilda!” He yells, scrambling after her. By the time he gets out of his office, she’s nowhere to be found. He curses, and goes back into his office and tries to figure out what the hell had caused all this.

           Had the last job he sent her on been too much? No, it had been a present for her, and she’d come back, face beaten but smiling. Had he said something? No, couldn’t be that either. Brynhilda was not one to shy away from challenging him. He wracks his brain for information, combing over the last year at least. Everything had seemed perfectly fine. More than fine when Brynhilda found out he and Ylva were expecting.

           It couldn’t be the new baby. Could it? Ivar shakes his head, telling himself not to be stupid. Brynhilda had baby fever the moment she found out Ylva was pregnant. Hell, the woman had even paid for, and built, the entire nursery. She even started Ylva on a new diet plan. She was just as excited for the new Lothbrok as the rest of them were.

           Ivar glares at the door. What the hell had gotten into her?

*

           Ivar watched Ylva closely. His wife had been worrying her napkin since dinner had been set. Ivar had told her about Brynhilda’s strange behavior today. Until now, his wife hadn’t been too worried. “Ylva,” Ivar whispers, placing his hand on hers. “I don’t think Brynhilda is coming.”

“But she always comes,” Ylva argues. “I had Lars make her favorite. She always comes when he makes her favorite.” Ivar is going to try soothing her again, but doesn’t get the chance. “Did I do something wrong? Did I upset her?”

“Don’t be ridiculous, of course you haven’t.” Ylva’s sharp eyes turn to him. “Did you upset her?” Ivar presses his lips together in annoyance. “You’re always fighting with her. What if you pushed too hard this time?”

“We’ve gotten better.” Ivar points out. It’s true. His recent dynamic with Brynhilda changed when he did something stupid and she rescued him. Neither of them bring it up. Beyond their constant bickering, however, they haven’t had an honest fight in months.

Ylva continues to glare at him accusingly. “Don’t you think if I really upset her, she would’ve tried to kill me?” He pauses, thinking back on his relationship with his bodyguard. “Again?” He adds, shuddering at the knife incident. Ylva huffs and sits back. “But why didn’t she talk to me? I’m her friend. Friends tells each other stuff.” Ivar pulls his hand from hers and shifts in his seat. In the back of his mind, he’s cursing Brynhilda to kingdom come. “Sometimes,” Ivar starts, then stops, trying to find the right words. “Sometimes people need to do things on their own, figure things out for themselves. I think something may have happened recently, and maybe she just needs time to herself.” It was the only logical thing he could think of.

           Ylva nods slowly, coming to terms with Brynhilda’s absence. He can still see the frown that furrows her face, but what else can he do? What can any of them do?