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guiltysecretpasttime · 3 years

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Untitled Linzin fanfic

(Yet again?)

This came to me while staying at home one day (one day of many, mind you). Am I okay with starting another multi-chapter Linzin story? Maybe. Will I push through with it? Absolutely. Should this be taken seriously? No, please don’t. Am I abandoning my other work? Of course not.

Don’t take this plot seriously since it’s just something that I felt like I want to write down and share. But… let’s see. Consider this a crackfic /trope centric fic eh haha. Consider this my contribution to this teeny tiny space in the fandom.

Please leave a comment or a reply as to what you think about this. I’m gauging this to be like 3 to 4 chapters long only though.

I think this will keep as untitled for now – until I figure out the right title. And summary / overview.

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Untitled

Overview

Legend of Korra fanfic – Linzin endgame AU

1 of 3 (or 4?) chapters (or more, if I decide to post them in chunks) – I really haven’t thought this out (shrugs and looks around shiftily)

Pre-canon AU (prior to Book 1)

The airbender gently slid the door closed, careful not to disturb any of its sleeping occupants. He knew he was late but as with everything – his children always came first.

He looked up at the moon, peeking from behind gray clouds. The rain did not let up at all during the day.

It was a pity. It was, after all, the first time that his children found themselves on an Ember Island vacation. It was to celebrate Jinora’s birthday – at least that was what the press release was.

He hurried across the courtyard, ignoring the squelching sounds that his sandals made on the mud and puddles. Passing no one on his way, Tenzin finally reached the right hall.

He quickly dried himself before entering what everyone knew as the Fire Lord’s family hall, which was precisely why they selected it. He crept into the dimly lit hall, shadows were wavering across the pillars and the walls. Nonetheless, the pretense of a nightcap among the grownups was well executed with the spread on the long table.

He sat down immediately beside his mother, who inclined her head in acknowledgment.

Fire Lord Izumi cleared her throat and the soft buzzing of conversation silenced.

“Now that we’re complete – let’s get right to it.”

The airbender’s eyes wandered across the room, to everyone sitting at the long table of the Fire Lord.

Everyone who was anyone to his late father was present. Everyone alive, that is. The lack of guards or security personnel was nothing new in this situation though – in a room of bending masters, it was almost foolish to expect guards to be standing in attention, alert for any disturbance.

“As we know the Red Lotus is back at its game.” Lord Zuko now presided the meeting and went straight to the heart of the clandestine gathering. “There has been reliable intelligence that they are gaining traction on the ground and there are rumors of freeing their known members.”

To their credit, no one in the room gasped or expressed their incredulity of such a claim.

Bumi began to share all the pertinent information from the report (Tenzin idly thought that being a commander suited his brother’s temperament). It was alarming to hear of pockets of violent incidents across the nations and the United Republic that can be traced back to the Red Lotus.

Chief Tonraq took the action to inform his brother Unalaq to strengthen the guards at the North as one of the prisoners were being held there.

Katara said that the White Lotus has already been informed of the case and she had personally requested to have the number of Zaheer’s guards increased. Bumi spoke of fortifying the defenses in all the other security prisons.

“Well, if everything is secured, why even call for us?” The gruff voice of Toph Beifong finally joined the foray.

Suyin fidgeted from Toph’s side, clearly uncomfortable with the discourse.

Truth be told, he did wonder at Suyin’s presence.

When Lord Zuko issued the invitation to Ember Island, he was surprised at the arrival of the Zaofu Beifong family, knowing that they have been estranged from some time. He thought that maybe it was just in keeping up with the ruse of a family reunion. Nonetheless, here they are now and Su was found to be in their midst. She was the youngest child of their generation and had been, more often than not, shielded by her mother when it came to serious and bordering dangerous matters. It had always been the eldest Beifong daughter who shouldered the brunt of the situation.

But then again, no one called attention to the empty seat at the other side of Toph Beifong tonight. Tenzin was sure it was not allotted for Baatar (who had stayed behind to see to the bedtime of the children).

Despite her stature, Toph still managed to command the room. “The Avatar is currently far from Republic City and I don’t think her parents will be taking her on a trip to Zaofu anytime soon. I don’t see the need for us,” Her emphasis heavily implying her family. “To even be here.”

All of a sudden, Tenzin realized the former Fire Lord looked all of his age as he drew in a breath. “While that may be true, Toph, the Red Lotus is looking for a gateway to the spirit world. They think true power and equality will only be brought about by uniting our world with the spirit world. Or barring that, a way to force the Avatar’s hand.”

“But she’s a child!” The Avatar’s father choked out.

“We are well aware that never stopped them.” There was a slight pause in remembrance on what had happened the first time the Red Lotus attacked the Avatar’s family. There had been losses.

Kya spoke up, trying to figure out what that could mean. “If the prisons are heavily guarded and all the leaders of the nations have their own security detail, what else are they looking to? What is in Republic City? What are they targeting?”

“The airbenders.”

All heads turned to a figure who had been leaning in the shadows of one of the pillars. Tenzin wondered how he could have missed her.

Lin Beifong pushed herself off the pillar and grudgingly took a seat beside her mother. “Is it the airbenders then, Lord Zuko?”

All of a sudden, Tenzin realized Lord Zuko looked all of his age as he nodded solemnly. “They knew they need to lure the Avatar or in its place, use a master airbender to their bidding.”

Said master airbender’s eyes flashed. “I would never -!”

“They could use Jinora as leverage.” Understanding was visible on Bumi’s face. “Everyone knows Jinora can already airbend.”

“That’s sick.” Su managed to murmur, sinking further into her seat. “Using kids in their nefarious plans…”

“They’re not known for their mercy, sweetheart.” Bumi shrugged, years of being in the military hardening him some.

“We can add more protection for the children.” Katara threw a concerned glance at her youngest child.

Toph scowled. “So, what are you suggesting? Aside from the White Lotus, Republic City police would need to pull funds to provide bodyguards at Air Temple Island? Mind you – it would be hard to get this funding for a civilian.”

“I’m sure the White Lotus would be enough.” Fire Lord Izumi attempted to mediate what was rapidly about to become a heated discussion.

“Maybe not,” Tonraq disagreed, already shaking his head. “If we pull in resources across the nations for the high security prisons and the sentries for Korra, I don’t think we would have any to spare for Air Temple Island at this period. Recruiting and training more could jeopardize the quality of the White Lotus.”

As the people around him continued to toss around arguments and recommendations, Tenzin could feel everything closing in.

When his wife passed a little over a year ago due to a stomach bug that had gone untreated for so long, Tenzin had stepped down from his role as part of the city council and instead turned to raising his two daughters and rebuilding the Air Nation (or what was left of it). The transition of public figure to private citizen was a welcome balm to him and his young family. His mother and sister had stayed on the island for a couple of weeks during Pema’s illness and subsequent passing, but they did have lives to go back to in the South Pole.

Tenzin thought he managed okay – training acolytes, tending to his daughters’ needs, documenting what was available of the Air Nomad culture… His visits to Republic City were now less frequent compared to his council days. He had developed a routine and he thought they were coping well.

But now, with the tenuous peace that he finally thought he attained was now at the risk of crumbling, he was at a loss on what to do. It had been a while since he felt like this – back when his father passed, and even then there was someone he had with him to support him.

“We need to send them away then.” Iroh’s voice drew Tenzin’s attention back to the discussion. “They’ll be sitting ducks at the island.”

Toph snorted and Izumi glared at the blind woman’s reaction to her son. “Yeah? Then what – they join the Fire Lady’s entourage? Or maybe head on to the tundra with the Avatar? The Red Lotus would probably be grateful that you placed all their targets in one area.”

Izumi countered. “That would solve the issue of spread out resources – if we concentrate them in a location, that may work.”

“On the other hand, what sort of excuse would you give for Master Airbender here to be away from his temples that long?” Lin asked with a tone so casual, you would have thought they were discussing the weather. “It would not do for the Red Lotus to know that we are unto them so soon when we have yet to strategize how to take them down.”

Tenzin found himself silently agreeing. Lin always was the pragmatic one.

Zuko stroked his beard in thought. “We could have them over – extended vacation maybe? Or we go around on vacation to the temples? That way we can use the Fire Nation’s security detail.”

“That would be a negative.” Iroh reddened as he realized he just spoke against his grandfather. At his encouraging nod, the younger firebender continued. “That would be a logistical nightmare. Too many variables to consider.”

Bumi suddenly perked up. “That’s it!” The shaggy-haired man stood up with a snap. “Variables – and what you all said.” He waved a hand across the table. “They can join the Fire Lady’s entourage -.”

“What!” The collective disbelief echoed in the hall.

He raised his hand in supplication. “Hear me out -what if he joins the Fire Nation Royal family as actual family? Surely questions won’t be raised.” Seeing that no one was getting his point, he decided to say it plainly. “I’m saying what if Tenzin marries Izumi?” There was a lot of disagreements to his pronouncement and so he raised his voice. “That way, it won’t be odd if he stayed there or if they become under protection of the Kyoshi Warriors.”

If Lin was the pragmatic one, Bumi always was the wild one.

And practically everyone had a say on that.

“That would never pass, Bumi.” Lin.

“You can’t pull the wool over the eyes of the public with that. What more the Red Lotus?” Kya.

“Sorry but I don’t think Master Tenzin here is my daughter’s type.” Zuko.

“Dad. Well, aside from that, the optics for that kind of union would not bode well for international peace.” Izumi.

“I don’t need a stepdad.” A beat. “Siblings would be welcome though.” Iroh.

“I agree with Izumi -this may come across as the Air Nation siding with the Fire Nation.” Tonraq.

“I doubt the Earth Queen will remain quiet too.” Su.

“Meh. I say just toss Junior here and his spawn to some remote resort (or here even) and just say he went on a vacation.” Toph.

A snort. “Now that won’t fly – Tenzin never goes on vacation.” Bumi.

“Bumi, it’s not nice to make fun of your brother’s troubles.” Katara.

Tenzin simply shook his head at his brother, who still did not look deterred at all even as the conversation around continued to dissect and put down his ludicrous suggestion.

The older man was frowning, walking around the table while partaking on the board of dried meat, fruits and cheese laid out for them.

From the other end of the table, Lin tossed grape into her mouth while Su said something that sounded like “manners!”.

At that moment, Tenzin made the mistake of catching his brother’s eye. He did not trust the gleam in Bumi's eyes.

“I got it!” Bumi once more got hold of everyone’s attention. “True, Izumi as a bride might be to farfetched, but there are merits to the Tenzin gets married deal. No questions will be asked if he spends time with family, out of the public eye, you know – a regular honeymoon. As to the lovely bride, why not someone he has had history with – that would make the whirlwind romance and wedding more plausible, won’t it?”

Tenzin’s heart sank at who his brother was implying.

Oh no. Surely he didn’t mean…

“Why not marry Lin Beifong?”

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Note: Why not indeed? 🤔 where am I going with this? You shall find out real soon. Lemme know whatchuthink.

#linzin #linzin fanfic #the legend of korra #lin beifong #tenzin #toccatina's fanfics #toccatina wip #toccatina untitled

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kakatenzo · 4 years

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kkyam royalty au 1

okay I have two fic ideas that are centred around a royalty au and i wanted to post both on here and see which ones ppl preferred!

here’s royalty au 1 i’ll post the second one tomorrow

(ps this is un beta’d and it is 2:40am so i have not looked over it at all. just typed and hit send)

“You come here often?” Kakashi ask sleazily.

It’s a cheap shot. He knows that, he’s sure he’s had better one liners at the tavern after one too many drinks but Kakashi can’t bring himself to care. The entire night has been occupied by stuck up nobility and empty conversations that carried across the ballroom. He’s just surprised he has managed to survive the entire night despite not coming from a royal lineage himself, it seems that all that condescending behaviour blocks all common sense and Kakashi tries not to be too smug about it. It’s a good thing he’s an excellent liar and charming if he really put his mind to it, and now he’s putting all his effort into trying to swoon this doe-eyed brunette. Kakashi hasn’t seen him before unlike the other parties of the monarchy who often were presented during ceremonies and announcements, so he assumes he is visiting from another kingdom. It’s perfect, Kakashi thinks, he’ll bag a noble for one night and never see them again.

“Yes actually,” the brunette answers frowning and it catches Kakashi by surprise. “Konoha’s been my home since I was born. I suppose you are visiting?”

Well, that’s one idea out the window so Kakashi replies dumbfoundedly, “Uh, yes.”

It seems to jerk the brunette awake. “I apologise for I have misplaced my manners, good sir.” he says before straightening his shoulders and giving a bow. “I am Yamato, nobleman of Konoha.”

Kakashi quickly dips into a bow. “Kakashi, crown prince of the Hatake kingdom.”

Yamato raises a brow. “I don’t recall the Hatake family mentioning a visit to the kingdom.”

The crown prince disguise had worked well the whole evening and if Kakashi is going to be honest with himself, it also gave his ego a small nudge but now his ego is deflating because it seems like he decided to try to court one of the only smart people in this ballroom.

“It was all very last minute, so I apologise for the short notice.”

The back of Kakashi’s neck prickles with heat and he resists the urge to ease the collar from his throat. The tavern is going to have a ball when they find out he got kicked out from the ball because he found a guy attractive.

A small, almost bashful smile encompasses Yamato’s face instead and he amicably says. “I apologise I did not mean to doubt your presence. How are you finding the ball?”

“Eh,” Kakashi says loosening up and his shoulders return to their usual hunched position. “Everyone here is on their high horse.”

For a moment, Yamato looks horrified but then he laughs. Gentle and warm, and it invites Kakashi to relax further. “You’re very honest, do they allow the crown prince of your kingdom such brash honesty?”

Kakashi returns a laugh because he is the opposite of honest. He is conning this poor man with his endless spindle of lies from the moment he had opened his mouth. “I’m only honest to people that I like,” he winks, “but I’m sure there are more honest people than me.”

Yamato shakes his head. “I’ve been attending these royal balls since I was a child. Everybody treats you like you’re below them and make you feel small over the silliest things.”

“Why do you keep attending them?” Kakashi asks and tries to ignore the sincerity that pools in his chest. “Can you not decline the invitation? It would save you from a lot of misery and hassle.”

“I seldom do,” Yamato’s eyes slide to the side and breaks their eye contact. “My aunt she—she’s very high up and it’s pertinent I attend these events to create connections with other kingdoms.”

Kakashi squashes the warmth of sincerity and replaces it with the hot rush of want. “Do you want to make a connection with me?” he offers haughtily and Yamato rewards him with a scandalised expression and a wonderful flush that disappears under his collar.

His smile is timid but Yamato’s voice is firm when he says, “I’m not opposed to the idea of making connections with you.”

“Let’s go make our connection somewhere less crowded.” Kakashi says and offers his arm.

Yamato quietly latches onto the crook of Kakashi’s elbows and Kakashi escorts him out to the courtyard. They are greeted by the cool air of the evening and the luminescent glow of the moon who casts a soft spotlight on the shrubbery below her. The roses sleep gently under the calm glow of the moon, they rest because they are tired after dancing with the sun all morning. The rest of the greenery follows suit, all the branches hang low, the leaves don’t dance as they sleep to the orchestra of chirping crickets. The courtyard is large and paves a quarter of the unending garden, its stones are smooth and even unlike the rough cobbled pavements in the centre of town. The courtyard is fenced off by a low stone wall which Kakashi hops onto and pats the space next to him, offering Yamato to do the same.

They’re both facing away from the large doors of the ballroom and Yamato tilts his head back as if he’s drinking in the light of the moon. “This is my favourite place in the palace.” He says quietly like a confession.

“I can see why. It’s peaceful out here.” Kakashi says in agreement. “What do you like to do for fun, Yamato?”

“What do you mean?” Yamato answers. His head snaps down to look at Kakashi and he almost looks baffled.

Kakashi quirks a brow. “You know, when you’re not doing these parties or your duties? What do you do in your spare time?”

Yamato bites his lip drawing Kakashi’s attention. “I like to tend this garden.” He decides after a moment.

“Is that all?” Kakashi presses. He’s not a royal but he’s sure Yamato has at least some hobbies that don’t involve standing around and looking pretty all day.

Even under the moonlight Kakashi can see the deep blush that spreads on Yamato’s face. “Well,” he starts. “I like sword fighting and I used to practice with the knights until they found—well, let’s just say nobody really liked to challenge me. The knights were all frightened they’d accidentally hurt me and then would get executed.”

Kakashi can’t help the laugh that escapes his mouth. “Really?” he says gleefully. “I never expected you to be invested in combat.”

Yamato looks away then. “I was interested in a lot of different things, but I had to whittle it down because it didn’t seem right, for someone like me to do them.”

Someone like Yamato? “I thought noblemen could do whatever they wanted as long as it didn’t betray the kingdom.” Kakashi frowns. He’s sure he had seen the duke wandering around doing activities that Kakashi wouldn’t crown ‘duke-ly’.

“I guess they just have high expectations,” Yamato shrugs. “Enough about me, you’re the crown prince! I’m sure you have much more exciting things to share than me.”

“Where do I start?” Kakashi says coolly as he rapidly searches through all his memories. How the hell was he going to fabricate a royal story? He had many in the town and in the countryside, but they all consisted of him working or training and neither seemed princely. He then forces himself to remember all those conversations he had with those prudish Lords and Ladies in hopes of bringing up a hobby that was vaguely plausible.

“If you don’t mind,” Yamato breaks his rapid-fire train of thought. “Can I ask how you received your scar?”

Kakashi’s fingers find the line that staggers under his eye before it disappears into his mask. “It was from an attack,” he answers honestly for the first time that evening. “My friend and I were out where we weren’t meant to be, and we had been ambushed. This was from a knife.”

He brushes his hair from his brow and slowly follows the ridge of his brow, over the curve of his eyelid and then over the soft fabric of the mask. Yamato’s eyes follow the path carefully, his eyes bright under the moonlight and his mouth slightly open in awe. “Is that why you wear the mask? For your safety?”

Kakashi nods quickly in agreement.

“You’re lucky to have survived, Prince Kakashi.” Yamato quips and hearing his name in Yamato’s mouth makes his heart jump.

“It was a fair fight.” Kakashi says easily. “I won in the end anyway.”

Yamato’s eyes widen and he sits up eagerly. “Do you get to train at your palace?”

Kakashi thinks of the field. It is by no means a training room nor the mighty barracks that housed the knights. During winter, when the ground froze over, was when he would accumulate the most bruises after a spar and during summer, the soil would be so dry that it would kick up everywhere. It ended in his eyes, his hair, under his nails and he always came home dirty. He thinks of his makeshift targets and dummy, the way they’ve been branded with marks since he was a child and how they’re worn and yellowed with age. He wonders if Yamato had managed to brandish a shiny sword at all and practice his footing on even ground.

“Yes, all the time.” Kakashi answers and he can’t look into Yamato’s eyes. “I begged my father so I could protect myself and it proved worthy.”

Suddenly his hands are engulfed with Yamato’s own warm ones. “Could you teach me something?” he asks earnestly.

Yamato is smiling so widely and Kakashi realises that Yamato may be the only genuine face he has encountered tonight. “Sure,” Kakashi says and leaps to his feet with Yamato following suit. “We have no swords, so we’ll focus on hand to hand combat.”

Kakashi begins with stances, he notes the importance of the stance and how to make sure there are no openings that make Yamato vulnerable. He then moved onto basic attacks, how to disarm your opponent and the weakest points of the human body.

“You’re a quick learner,” Kakashi comments nonchalantly and gently fixes Yamato’s arms by raising his elbow slightly.

“Can I fight now?” Yamato asks with a glint in his eyes.

Kakashi splutters. “I’m not going to fight you, Yamato.”

The nobleman drops his stance. “How am I going to learn if I don’t fight someone?”

“Your practice stances will kick in.” Kakashi lies. He had always made his students fight him.

“Don’t lie to me. The knights spar all the time!” Yamato protests and Kakashi bites back on a grin.

“I’ll go easy on you,” Kakashi offers. “I wouldn’t want to hurt your pretty face.”

The deep flush invites itself again on Yamato’s face as he enters his first stance. They both move shift around in a circle, waiting for the other to make a move, arms and hands close to their face and chests, and their eyes locked onto each other intensely. Kakashi throws the first attack to which Yamato quickly parries and it leaves his neck exposed. Kakashi hooks his arm over the crook of Yamato’s neck but Yamato grabs his arm with both hands and throws Kakashi off. He stumbles back and Yamato follows with two quick punches, Kakashi ducks and before Yamato can throw a jab, he rises quickly, years of agility drilled into him and knocks Yamato back onto the grass.

He lands with a soft ooft and leans back on his hands, he looks up at Kakashi with bright eyes, a ruddy face and a wide grin. His hair is ruffled but his shoulders are much more relaxed. “You’re very skilled, Kakashi.” Yamato compliments catching his breath.

Kakashi stretches his arm out to offer a hand and pulls Yamato up. He jumps to his feet and ends up nearer to Kakashi than he had anticipated. “You’re a quick learner,” Kakashi parrots from earlier. He’s distracted by their vicinity. “You did well.”

Their hands are still conjoined and Kakashi’s eyes drop to their clasped hands before dragging his eyes back up to Yamato’s dark gaze. Something snaps in the heavy silence between them, and Kakashi finds himself leaning in but Yamato stops him with a gentle press of his free hand to Kakashi’s chest.

“Kakashi,” he says warily but his brows furrow with determination. “I have something to tell you.”

Before either of them can get a word in the doors to the ballroom burst open and they both break apart from each other as if they’d been shocked. Queen Tsunade steps onto the courtyard and they both bow to greet her. Kakashi’s head swims as he straightens back up because Queen Tsunade is not a force to be reckoned with. He’s sure she’s caught him, she knows that he’s not a royal at all and has been parading around as a fraud all evening, and the mere thought of her punishment sends an awful bout of guttural anxiety.

“Ah, there you are Tenzo!” Queen Tsunade bellows across the courtyard and approaches the duo. “I thought you had disappeared before the ceremony and I was getting worried. Come along now, you know we can’t start it without you and the people are waiting.”

The relief that Queen Tsunade isn’t here for Kakashi doesn’t take the edge off his nerves. She’s even more powerful in person and this is the closest Kakashi has gotten to her. She’s shorter than he had expected, but her stoic glare and booming voice has commanded many rooms. Her blonde hair is loose over her shoulders, they fall gracefully frown the crown atop her head, and she places her hands on her hips, crinkling the jade green dress she’s often seen in. Kakashi is glad he no longer has Yamato’s hand in his grasp because he’s sure his hand would slip out with how much his palms are sweating.

Yamato shoots him an apologetic look. “I’m sorry I’m afraid I have to go. Where can I find you later?”

“Let’s meet here.” Kakashi says with the intention to bid Yamato goodbye before he returns to his regular civilian life. He had told enough lies tonight to last a lifetime.

“I look forward to it.” Yamato says sweetly before turning to follow Queen Tsunade back inside.

Kakashi lets out a sigh of relief and steals one long glance around the garden that Yamato had tended himself. He cranes his head to the moon, she had been the only audience to their dance, if you could call it such and turns on his heel to return to the ballroom.

Gai is easy to find in the crowded ballroom because he is impressing a small crowd with handstands. Kakashi joins the crowd in watching Gai perform and remembers when he had challenged Kakashi to see who could hold a handstand for the longest. Unfortunately, it had been winter and the ground was damp with rain that left their hands muddy, cold and unmoveable.

Towards the centre of the room, a servant calls for the audience’s attention so Kakashi steps forward. “I’m so sorry to interrupt the entertainment, but I believe there is a royal announcement.”

Gai fixes himself back onto his feet with unyielding control and the small crowd reward him with a short round of applause before they all usher each other to the centre of the room.

“Kakashi!” Gai booms. “It has been the most wonderful evening!”

“I’m glad you’ve been enjoying it,” Kakashi says while Gai swings an arm around his shoulders. “Would you like to watch the ceremony?”

“Why, of course!” Gai exclaims. “It would be of our best interest to make the most of our stay.”

Truth be told, Kakashi really could not care for the ceremony because all he can think of is Yamato’s ruddy grinning face under the moonlight. How his eyes glittered even in the dark shawl of the night sky. (How dark his gaze had been when they were all but pressed close to each other with the moon as their only witness.)

Although they are on the outskirts of the crowd, Queen Tsunade’s voice doesn’t fail to reach them from across the room. “Foremost, I would like to thank those who have attended today. It is always a pleasant sight to see, the unity of the kingdoms and our people, especially for an occasion such as this.” She pauses and the room waits with bated breath. “I am here tonight to proudly announce my heir and who will be next in line to the throne.”

Her speech sends the room to a stifled but frenzied whisper. Heir? Queen Tsunade had no children. Her husband passed away before she could bear any heirs. Who is this heir? Has she passed the lineage of Konoha to a neighbouring kingdom’s prince? How are we to trust this new heir to rule Konoha?

Queen Tsunade continues resiliently. “I apologise for hiding him from his people, he was too young to be exposed to the masses but I assure you he has been in this kingdom the entire time and I am confident that he will serve you, our people, very well. That’s why he is here today, because he has come of age and has grown into a splendid young man.” She smiles softly, pride shines in her eyes and she steps aside. “I would like to introduce my dear nephew, Prince Tenzo Senju, as your next ruler.”

The room bursts into a cacophony of applause as Tenzo emerges and joins his aunt, Queen Tsunade, at the front of the crowd. He gives an obligatory bow, back straight as if he’s rehearsed it a lifetime and just like the one he gave Kakashi earlier that night. Except it’s not exact because his hair is ruffled from their short spar. Gai is clapping wildly next to him but it seems as if Kakashi can’t move his arms. The noise is far too loud—no, it is far too quiet and Kakashi drowns in the rushing noise of his thoughts filling his head. Realisation sinks in, like the first chill of winter that sinks deep into your bones, but you’ve not prepared a coat and you’re left shivering in the early rays of the sun.

Then Tenzo turns and catches his eyes. He spares Kakashi a tight lipped smile, empty of the mirth from earlier that evening. No wonder why the knights didn’t allow Yamato to train, because they would have been fighting the crown prince of Konoha. He had little hobbies to do because he’s spent his entire life preparing to be the next ruler. With each piece that clicks into place the sinking feeling in his stomach only tightens.

“—Kakashi,” Gai says and it shakes Kakashi out of his trance. There is a firm but grounding grip on his shoulder. “What’s the matter?”

“Nothing. I’m just looking forward to meeting someone in the courtyard later tonight.”

#kakayama #my writing #WHEW this ended up longer than expected #kakashi #yamato #yamato tenzo #tenzo #kakashi hatake #naruto fic

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murdockquills · 4 years

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if i wanted to get into gotg, where should i start? what are the best runs? pls help

oh, my friend, I am SO excited to help you!

first of all, it is both good and bad that the Guardians [as we know them — there was a very old Guardians team but we can ignore that] is fairly new! so there’s not a whole lot of material to dig into as opposed to, y’know, some other Marvel characters. there are a lot of tangential comics that include these characters but for all intents and purposes I’m only going to include the most pertinent ones. if you so desire to dig deeper, I’m always here to help! these will all be put into chronological order.

PREQUELS — all of these set the scene for what will be the foundation of the Guardians, which I consider important but if you don’t want to jump in with these that’s fine! I love them though; who doesn’t love space wars?

Drax the Destroyer: Earthfall (#1-4)

Annihilation: Prologue

Annihilation: Nova (#1-4)

Annihilation (#1-6)

Nova (#1-3)

Annihilation Conquest: Prologue

Annihilation Conquest: Star-Lord (#1-4)

Annihilation Conquest: Quasar (#1-4)

Annihilation Conquest: Nova (#4-7)

Annihilation Conquest (#1-6)

Nova: Knowhere (#8-12)

Guardians of the Galaxy: Legacy (#1-6)

THE MAIN EVENT — now that the Guardians have been born, here we are!

Guardians of the Galaxy (2008) by Abnett & Lanning — this team looks and acts slightly different than our current one, but this is where it all began! you can’t go wrong with this run, it’s great.

The Thanos Imperative by Abnett & Lanning — this is my favorite Guardians-related storyline, hands down; a MUST read [especially if you like Star-Lord and Nova]

Guardians of the Galaxy (2013–2016) by Bendis — this is the cursed run. I hate it. I hate it so much, it made me quit reading comics for the entirety of its existence. that being said, it isn’t ALL bad - there are some moments that I can accept, and as a whole it is important to know because this was the largest chunk of their history but just.... proceed with caution and a grain of salt.

GotG: Original Sin — I’m putting this here because this is, in my opinion, the only part of the Bendis run worth reading and it comes as a stand-alone paperback. this is Peter Quill’s recounting of the events of the Thanos Imperative, which is important.

[this is where Civil War II and Secret Empire take place and in which the Guardians are involved but Civil War II is bad and Secret Empire is just.... eh]

All-New Guardians of the Galaxy (2017) — this is probably my favorite run! it’s fun. it’s a bit goofy. it’s everything that we love about the Guardians, all the space hijinks included. there’s some incredibly emotional solo issues focusing on the characters which kill me. and Nova is back!

[this is where Infinity Wars takes place — the Guardians play a huge part in this but it is so many different issues that it would take an entire post in itself to explain]

Guardians of the Galaxy (2019) by Donny Cates — this run is pretty good, though the story is a bit all-over the place in my opinion. it has a lot of heart even if the fun is traded for some very serious plotlines, and everyone is kind of depressed in the aftermath of the Infinity Wars. the roster also changes up a bit.

Guardians of the Galaxy (2020) by Al Ewing — and now you’re all caught up! we’re about 7 issues deep in this run currently and it’s good so far! it’s brought back a lot of things that haven’t been mentioned since the original run, which is very exciting to me and I’m eager to see where it goes!

as for solo spin-offs, I honestly haven’t read all of them so I can’t give many opinions on them save for the Star-Lord ones, which are all garbage except Star-Lord: Grounded (2017). that’s my favorite comic of all time. ALL TIME. so I have to plug that one. it’s essentially a prequel to All-New GotG.

let me know if there’s anything I can help clarify but hopefully this works! comicbookherald.com has detailed lists of issue numbers and books if you have trouble finding any! happy reading!!

#guardians of the galaxy #gotg #marvel #comics #ask #reading order #nova

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recurring-polynya · 4 years

Note

Love your writing! Renruki prompt: Married!RenRuki get into a fight and Renji's acting all gloomy when he goes to work the next day. He accidentally~ shares his woes with Byakuya.

Ahhh, I am not good at writing fights!! I think I am on the record as to saying that I think Renji and Rukia only fight over stupid shit, and I had a heck of a time figuring out something for them to fight over. Anyway, I did my best, at very least, this contains a lot of Byakuya Being Byakuya.

💔 💔 💔

“I think it’s in here, sir,” Third Seat Yuki explained, leading Byakuya into the Officer’s Lounge. “On second thought, you wait out here, I’ll bring it.”

Sixth Seat Taniguchi was sprawled on the floor, groaning. Rikichi stepped over him, and looked around. Fifth Seat Kuchiki had his leg propped up on a table, a bag of ice on his knee. Seventh Seat Shirogane and Fourth Seat Kuchiki were leaning against each other on the couch, snoring in unison. Rikichi picked his way toward the couch and poked Shirogane in the arm. “Hey! Hey, Shirogane! What happened to the training reports on the first-years?”

“Eh?” Shirogane asked, sitting up. “Training reports, right.” She shoved Kuchiki to one side, and extracted a thick binder, bristling with colored tabs from the depths of the couch. It was barely in Yuki’s hand before she was slumped against Kuchiki again.

“Found it!” Rikichi announced cheerfully, waving the binder and picking his way carefully back out.

“What… happened?” Byakuya asked gingerly. “It is not usually like this, is it?”

“Oh, no, sir,” Rikichi replied. “There was sparring after morning drills.”

“Everyone must have had an excess of enthusiasm, to have worn each other out so,” Byakuya observed. He was a bit sorry to have missed it. A spirited affray sounded much more entertaining than the interminable breakfast meeting with Lord Noragashi he had endured.

“Er, not exactly,” Rikichi excused, rubbing the back of his neck. “When I said ‘sparring’, what I meant was, ‘Vice-Captain made everyone fight him.’ He was in a bit of a mood this morning.”

“I... see,” Byakuya drew out. It had been quite some time since Abarai had felt the need to pummel his way through the top ranks. Byakuya had hoped it was a sign that the top officers were improving, but apparently, it had just been the recent improvement in his lieutenant’s disposition. Disappointing. “Any indication as to what precipitated this sudden bout of pugnacity?”

Rikichi paused and glanced around. “I think he might have had a tiff with the missus,” he said, voice barely above a whisper.

Byakuya arched an eyebrow.

💔 💔 💔

Byakuya pretended to be deeply engaged by the newest edition of the Standards for Disposition of Historically Significant Hauntings while taking occasionally surreptitious glances at his adjutant. He needn’t have bothered with the covertness, Abarai was clearly too tightly wrapped up in his own misery to have any sort of situational awareness.

The thunderstorm of ire that had possessed the man earlier had passed, leaving behind a drizzle of gloomy resignation. Abarai had dragged his brush half-heartedly across his paperwork for a while, but now all he could manage was to stare out the window listlessly.

Byakuya was not a nosy man and clearly, this was none of his business. In fact, he ought to chide his subordinate for this childlike behavior. However, Byakuya hesitated. This could very well be pertinent to his sister’s happiness. Now that Rukia no longer resided with him, how was he to know her daily mood, her overall humor? If there had been a row, surely Abarai was the one at fault. It was practically Byakuya’s duty as a brother to discern what had passed between them.

“Lieutenant,” he said sternly.

Renji seemed to come to himself suddenly, and straightened in his seat. “Yessir!”

“You seem out of sorts this morning.”

Abarai swallowed. “Sorry, sir! I don’t… I’ll do better, sir!”

Byakuya folded his hands. “Obviously, I expect only the strictest of professionalism from you, as always, Lieutenant, but you know that I care for your well-being. We are family now. If you have a problem you wish to talk through, you know that I am an excellent listener.”

Abarai’s face was overcome with what was obviously great emotion at this generosity. “Er… it’s nothing, sir. Really.” He grabbed his brush and began writing with great vigor.

Curses. That hadn’t worked at all. “Rukia is in good health, I trust? All is proceeding accordingly?” Perhaps there had been a disagreement regarding their pending offspring. Perhaps Abarai had suggested a ridiculous given name, which Rukia, in her wisdom, had rejected.

Abarai’s eyebrows furrowed. “Uh, yeah. Same as, uh, yesterday, when you asked.”

“You seemed distressed. I wondered if perhaps she had fallen ill.”

“Oh, no, nothin’ like that. She’s actually been feelin’ a little better lately.” He fiddled with his brush and looked back down at his paperwork for a moment. “Look, sir, can I ask your opinion on something?”

“Of course,” Byakuya replied, carefully keeping his face in its usual, disinterested mien, despite the fact that he was, in fact, very interested.

Abarai nodded slowly. “Okay, so, imagine there’s two people, see, a boy and a girl, kids like.”

“I can imagine it.”

“And they grow up together and they fall in love, right? But it’s hard for them to tell each other that, because they’ve been friends a long time. And they drift apart, it’s not looking good for either of them, but then the boy writes the girl a poem. It’s not a very good poem, it’s about how tall he’s gotten, not a great call on his part, but the girl goes for it, and she writes this lucky bastard a poem back.”

Byakuya nodded slowly. As usual, Abarai’s storytelling was circuitous and only dubiously coherent. Byakuya was familiar with the basics of Rukia and Renji’s courtship, although he hadn’t known poetry had played such a key role. He found that rather charming, actually.

“It works out,” Abarai continued on, “and they get married. Now, this woman is basically perfect. She’s beautiful, loyal, loving, the whole package. On the other hand, the guy is a real piece of work. He clearly does not deserve her.”

“I am following,” Byakuya nodded.

“So he’s a huge jerk, he doesn’t know what he’s got, and he cheats on her.”

Wait, what? “Excuse me?” Byakuya echoed.

“It doesn’t make any sense, but that’s what you get for marrying a guy who writes you a poem, I guess. He’s such a scumbag, in fact, that he thinks she’s cheating on him, too, just because she never calls him on this really obvious affair, and that’s how the slimeball mind works, I ‘spose.”

Byakuya tried to perform some mental math. Abarai had only been married to his sister for five months. How had he possibly had time to accomplish all this? Byakuya was beginning to think this was not actually an autobiographical story, in which case why was he telling it?

Abarai was waving his hands around enthusiastically at this point. “So he spies on her, trying to catch him in the act, and get this-- all he catches her doing is writing a poem about how she hopes he’s staying safe while gallivanting around with this other lady! I just bet he felt bad!”

All of this was beginning to sound vaguely familiar. Byakuya squeezed his eyes shut, trying to place this story in its proper context.

“Now, don’t get me wrong, this guy is a sleaze. I am not defending this guy in any way. But it’s not really about him, see? It’s about the lady, and the purity of her love for him--”

Byakuya gripped his head. “Abarai, this is just the plot of Izutsu, isn’t it? The noh play?”

“Oh, you’ve seen it?” Abarai asked. “We went on Wednesday, and I thought we both enjoyed it, but then yesterday, Rukia asked my opinion on it, and I gave it to her, and, uh, a big fight happened.”

“Of course I have seen it, it is one of the classical noh dramas! And Ariwara no Narihira is one of the Six Poetic Genius, he is not ‘a sleaze.’” Byakuya paused. “Rukia had strong opinions on it?”

“The strongest of opinions. She said the lady was dumb for pining over a shi-- poet, and that someone should have konsoued her in the first act. And I think she just really missed the point, I mean, it’s noh, it’s not like anyone’s here for a good time, how are you supposed to have any heartfelt songs about suffering in love if you ain’t got any suffering, am I right?”

Although one would never be able to tell from his facial expression, Byakuya found this entire shaggy dog story interesting on a number of levels. For one, every time he had ever taken Rukia to noh and asked her opinion of it, she had replied that the costumes had been very beautiful or that the dancers had been very skilled. She had never once expressed an opinion on the content. Reason number two was that Hisana had very strong opinions on the content of noh dramas. In fact, Hisana used to refer to Izutsu as the ‘Never Trust a Poet’ play. Byakuya very distinctly remembered her opining that “the husband was bad and he should feel bad; he should be the one who has to come back and haunt the damn well.” Byakuya eventually came to realize that Hisana’s complaints were primarily a ruse for the purpose of getting him riled up, and that the best way of short-circuiting them was merely to start kissing her and then to get riled up in a different way. He would give up his sword before he shared that piece of information with Abarai. The third interesting piece of information, though…

“I would not have expected you to take theater criticism so personally, Lieutenant,” Byakuya observed mildly.

Renji opened his mouth and then closed it again. “It’s just a dumb play,” he muttered.

Byakuya minutely adjusted the position of a paper on his desk. “Art is a reflection of our strongest emotions and a chance to explore the boundaries of concepts like love and forgiveness. It can be quite disconcerting to find yourself on the opposite side of a philosophical divide from the one person in your life whose opinions on romantic love are actually pertinent to you.”

“I just don’t understand why she’s mad at me!” Abarai lamented, throwing up his hands. “I liked the play, she’s one who said it was dumb. I don’t see how you can get mad at someone for liking a thing.”

Byakuya sighed, and reminded himself for the millionth time that Abarai had spent his formative years literally headbutting the humanoid mountain goats of the Eleventh instead of metaphorically headbutting an equally stubborn classical literature tutor. “Clearly, you find ongoing devotion in the face of obstacles to be an admirable quality, and were moved by the wife’s pining, which is, broadly speaking, the main theme of the play. However, consider the perspective of the one who is pined after, presented in this piece as a flawed idol, a cause of agony and suffering so severe that it persists past the confines of mortal existence.”

“Oh,” replied Abarai. There was a long pause. “Oh.” His face transitioned through a number of contortions, but not further words came forth.

Byakuya picked up the Standards for Disposition of Historically Significant Hauntings again, and pretended to flip through it. “Do you need to take an early lunch break today, Lieutenant?”

“Um, ah…” Abarai looked at his calendar. “I got Advanced Hakuda Skills with the upper seats at 11.”

“I don’t think they’re up for it today,” Byakuya noted dryly. “Go ahead.”

Abarai scrammed.

#my writing #this is the last of the OLD old drabble prompts!!!#i still have two medium old ones to go #but i am hereby declaring renji's birthday CLEARED #this is VERY REALISTIC #by which i mean it is slightly autobiographical #except in my case it was over a kdrama #jeez i did SIGNIFICANT RESEARCH for this #these drabbles are supposed to be LOW EFFORT #but I have NO CHILL #i have never actually seen izutsu #noh stans please do not get up in my mentions #i mean i am sure i deserve it #but please i am so small and tired #also 'never trust a poet' is from a very old youtube video where bjork explains how computers work #i think about that video at least once a week

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realtacuardach · 4 years

Text

Water Cooler Talk

Take 3 for the Obiyuki Bingo Challenge - Office AU

...

Meet me by the water cooler, Miss.

Shirayuki shot a mortified look at the phone - which she could have sworn she’d put on vibrate when she’d walked into the office earlier - as it trilled a short snippet of “Secret Agent Man,” her text notification for Obi. She slapped a hand over it to muffle the sound, and looked around shamefacedly to see if anyone noticed.

The office was filled with the sounds of typing on keyboards, phones ringing, and papers shuffling. Ryuu, who was sitting closest to her, had his headphones securely in his ears and was examining the cells of his spreadsheet with the focus of a scientist with his specimens. The only person who seemed to notice her phone faux pas was Yuzuri, who grinned over from where she was standing by the copier and winked - she knew what that sound meant, she’d helped pick the musical sting with Shirayuki months earlier.

Shirayuki’s ears burned as she hastily turned to her computer screen, meticulously checking that everything was in order on the flyer before saving it and signing out. Yuzuri winked again, perplexing Suzu who was nearby with his own copies, and mouthed something like, “Go get your man.”

Shirayuki didn’t have anything clever to say in response, but she kept walking instead of running back to hide in her cubicle, so she counted that as a win.

She walked past the cubicles, past the conference room (where Zen raised a hand in greeting but was brought back to the conference call by a discreet clearing of the throat from Izana), and past the break room (where Mitsuhide was putting another notice up about keeping public areas clean) to where the water cooler stood beneath a decent-sized window. Amid the clicking of keyboard keys and the glare of computer screens, Shirayuki was glad for the scenery she could see from the window - a cluster of tall trees.

She could see the cooler and the trees, but she couldn’t see Obi. She looked down at her phone to see if she’d misread the text, when there was a vigorous knocking at the window. A few months ago, she would have jumped and yelped, but prolonged exposure to Obi reduced her reaction to simply almost dropping the phone. “Obi!”

Obi waved at her from the sturdy limb closest to the window, pointing enthusiastically at the window. She shook her head and unlatched it. “What in the world are you doing?”

“Sorry, Miss,” he grinned unrepentantly before launching himself through the window and landing like a cat in front of her. He looked behind him and nodded in satisfaction. “Didn’t even graze the cooler this time.”

Shirayuki folded her arms. “This time?”

“Eh,” Obi waved a hand through the air. “It’s a dull story, Miss, I’d hate to bore you. Thanks for letting me in.”

She let it go for now - the better to catch him unawares later - and instead went for the pertinent question. “Why were you trying to get through the window?”

“I left my ID at home,” Obi replied, as though that answered everything.

It didn’t. “Isn’t there an easier way to get inside?”

“Well, I would’ve just hacked my way in, but I’m still on probation.” Shirayuki didn’t doubt his ability to do so - the way he’d entered the company at all was because of his skills in acquiring information, whether digital or the more tangible variant.

It was just a shame that he’d been gathering information on the company and not for the company.

Shirayuki rolled her eyes good-naturedly. “Or you could have used the door.”

“The door? Ha!” Obi thumped his chest for emphasis. “I could have used the door, Miss, but I’ve been getting out of practice. Being in one place for so long, my skills of daring and derring-do are fading away. See,” he added with a mock pout, patting his stomach morosely, “I’m getting flabby.”

If there was an ounce of extra fat on him, Shirayuki certainly couldn’t see it. In fact, if she hadn’t seen him with his shirt off at the company pool party, she would have thought him positively skinny.

She made a mental note to accidentally buy too much food at lunch so she could slip it to him.

“Uh huh,” she said dryly, folding her arms, “and the fact that you didn’t want to explain to Kiki how you lost your ID again had nothing to do with it.”

“Princess Kiki?” Obi looked shocked. “Why would you think that? Do you think that myself, worn by the world and its trials, would be afraid of Kiki?”

“Yes.”

Obi nodded. “With good reason - that woman is as scary as she is beautiful.”

She’d also been the one to catch him - Kiki wasn’t chief of security for nothing - and Obi had nurtured a feeling of mutual parts terror and respect for her ever since.

Shirayuki giggled. “Scared of Kiki.”

It was hard to pick out when Obi was blushing, but Shirayuki knew him well enough to see the tints of red near his ears. “And you aren’t?”

“No,” she replied, “because I don’t break the law.”

Really, corporate espionage should have gotten Obi more than a slap on the wrist, but Zen had seen something in the other man when he’d gotten called back to the office early that morning. Something that led him not only to advocate for Obi - saying that letting any skills go that could get Obi as far as he’d gotten would be a crime - but also to offer him a job on the spot.

On a probationary level, of course.

Izana had been easier to convince that anyone expected, making Shirayuki wonder if he’d had the idea of counter espionage in the back of his mind for a while. Mitsuhide had been skeptical, but eventually accepted him with ill grace.

Kiki had shrugged. The closer he was, the easier it was to keep an eye on him. Besides, she liked making him jump. She had eventually warmed up to him, but she would still allude to details of his capture, which was apparently as hilarious as it was embarrassing, whenever he tried sassing her.

Obi nodded. “Smart of you, Miss. Although it is more fun -” he held up his hands in the face of her glare - “I’m kidding. It hasn’t been all that bad sticking to the straight and narrow - mostly.”

He was good at it, too. Even sitting at a desk, he’d managed to acquire more information about their competitors than Zen thought possible.

(Possibly Izana as well, if that single eyebrow raise had meant anything.)

“I like it.”

Obi smiled down at her in a way that made her insides melt. “You would, Miss. You’re a good person.”

“So are you!”

Obi snorted and waved a hand.

“You are!”

“What can I say,” he replied, his eyes softening, “it’s kind of growing on me.”

#obiyukibingo2020 #obiyuki #office au #so i'm 3 for 3 for Obi window entrances for this Bingo #I regret nothing #also I may actually make this Bingo!#everyone can see the love #but them #those goobers

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thewildwaffle · 5 years

Text

Abduction - Chapter 19

This may be the longest chapter I’ve written so far. The next shouldn’t take long to get out either, I’ve already got a good start on it. I’ve been reading this out loud to several of my friends, and I’ve definitely noticed things change in my writing, or in my characters, or I’ve noticed plot points I started to set up and then never followed up on. I’ve said it before, this is the first draft. As always, if you have any feedback, comments, or any notes to leave, please feel free - I live for that stuff! And added bonus, it helps motivate me to write more!

Stay lovely, friends!

Also, the reason Mike decided to learn morse code is the same reason I learned it. The story Mike learned in school about the POW who used Morse Code to send a message is true and you can learn more about Jeremiah Denton here

***

First Chapter Previous Chapter Next Chapter

The Burnti medics hadn’t been gentle about fixing Jebannuck up. His wounds were cleaned and dressed, yes, and everything seemed to be on the mend, but the process of getting to that point had been rough. And slow. He’d made plenty of trips to infirmaries before (and probably would make more in the future if he lived through this whole ordeal). Honestly, he was surprised at the level of care he had received at all.

He didn't fight them when he was put in this cell. There would have been no sense in that really. Plus, he wouldn't have had the strength or energy to fight back even if it had been logical to do so. Whatever Commander Rozar or anyone else in charge around here had planned, he’d just have to be sure he was ready.

He hoped the humans were okay. It seemed to him that they would be. They were civilians. That's what he kept telling himself. They are civilians, he'd correct himself. They were and still are.

What troubled him really was Commander Rozar’s interest in them. He didn’t like it. Not one bit. Mike and Wenona, as well-intentioned as they were did not do themselves any favors by defending him. He had been in no danger, or at least, no immediate danger. They just worried about him. They’d jumped in to “save” him- their “friend.” Was that a normal human thing to do? Sure, he’d saved others before, crew members, teammates, civilians, employers, and the like. There’d been a reason to do so. Orders. Duty. Responsibility. He had no doubt he would do whatever it took to save another Sefra like himself, but the humans? It still puzzled him how they had seemed to adopt him into their pack bonding tendencies. It was something he never, never thought he’d be a part of.

If he was completely honest with himself, his heart felt a little warm at the idea. He chuckled to himself inwardly. Funny how close proximity and a few life-threatening experiences could bring him so close to aliens he had been trying to avoid before.

Jeb leaned back against the wall, closing his eyes. Maybe that was why he’d been so well taken care of, all things considered. Whatever Rozar was planning, he needed the humans cooperation. It’d be easier to get on their good side if he was kept alive- as a show of faith at best. Or as ransom at worst.

What was the Burnti Empire planning? They wanted an alliance with Earth and were willing to destroy the planet’s relationship with the Galactic Confederation to do so. But then what? Jebannuck knew more about humans than most on his crew, they were resourceful, durable, and for the most part, glent-tic crazy. He shuddered to think about what all the Burnti Empire could accomplish with the Earthlings as allies.

He shifted. His back slid across the smooth metallic wall behind him. The pain was gone. From what he could tell, there was hardly any scarring after the medics had done their job. He could sit comfortably in his cell, or get up and move around freely. Or as freely as one could in a glorified prison cell.

It was a relief that the Burnti Empire seemed to follow a high code of treatment for their prisoners. that's great and all, but he was still a prisoner. So were Mike and Wenona. Simmo? He wasn’t really sure of her current standing. She'd be fine though. She'd find a way to sway their current predicament to her advantage. That was the way Montauk always seemed to work. Whatever her plans were, Jebannuck was sure he could rule her out of any strategies he'd have to make to get out of here. Thank goodness.

The guard somewhere outside his cell was relieved of duty. Like clockwork.

But the new guard wasn’t alone. A familiar blue scaly alien entered and stood in front of his door. Jeb recognized it as the one in the back of the throne room when they’d met Commander Rozar.

At first, it didn’t say anything, just tapped and scrolled through a datapad it held in its short stubby fingers. Jebannuck watched it silently, growing more annoyed with its presence with each passing moortik.

“If you’re here to intimidate me to give up any information, you might as well go back now and tell your superiors you failed.”

His visitor didn’t respond at first. When she did, she didn’t even look up at him.

“I think not. Besides, the information I’m after is hardly Galactic Confederation classifieds.” She made one last swipe on the datapad and looked up at him like she was calling for the next person in line at the galactic vehicle registration department. “Name?”

Jebannuck frowned. What the frewan were they playing at?

He must have been taking too long because his interrogator, a Blue Donkun if he wasn’t mistaken, tilted her head back and sighed loudly, “Name. Your name, please. I haven’t got all day.”

Whatever she was playing at, he wasn’t going to make it easy. “Tokkannib Sefra.” That was actually the name of his grandfather. He wouldn’t mind his grandson using it though, he’d died shortly after Jeb had entered basic training.

The Donkun’s face didn’t move, but it seemed to emanate a sense of tired frustration. “No. It’s Jebannuck Sefra, correct?”

Jeb leaned his head back against the wall behind him and growled. “Tell me something, is it common Burnti practice to ask questions you already know the answer to?” He lightly rubbed at his jawline, “Seems like a pretty inefficient work ethic.”

The Donkun’s short, wide snout twitched. “My orders. Your name. Jebannuck Sefra. Correct or no?”

Jeb dropped his hand back down into his lap and studied the Donkun. She was short, as most of her species are, barely reaching half of Jeb’s height. Her neck, arms, legs, everything about her was stout and somewhat blockish. Even the set of horns (if one could call them that) on her head and running down to her stubby tail were more like little white nubs than anything.

“Yes. Correct. That’s my name.”

The interrogation continued like that for several moortiks. His name. His age. His assigned ship. His assigned position aboard said ship. How he had sustained his injuries. How he and the humans had escaped Gamnut 4, and on. All of it was information they should have already known or would have been hardly inconvenienced to look up themselves. But she kept asking them, ardently typing down every answer he gave before moving on to the next question.

Finally, she asked something that once again made Jeb pause before answering.

“What was the designation code of the escape pod you used?”

Why, by all that is bright, would they need or want that information?

“I don’t see how that would be pertinent.”

The Donkun took a deep inhale and lowered the datapad slightly. “Look, this is the last thing I need. What was the designation code?”

Jeb thought about it. What was the designation code? He’d had to enter it to get it to launch it from the Gladius, and again a few times later at the console to activate different sustainability protocols. It was also painted on the hull as a way for rescuers to identify it.

“GLA-8…” he paused and tried to remember. “GLA-8-C2… Uh, C2-137, no wait, 147. I think it ended with 147.”

“GLA-8-C2-147,” the Donkun murmured slowly as she entered the information. All the while, Jeb’s mind was firing, trying to figure out why the Burnti Empire would want that information. Why would they want or need any of this information, really? Then it hit him. If rescuers could use the designation code to find a launched pod, then the Burnti could too. But why? Why would they want it? It was basically only good for spare parts at this point. Unless...

“If you think you can get anything on the Galactic Confederation from the pod’s console, you’re going to waste your time. It’s an emergency escape pod. You won’t find any information of interest to you from it.”

Again the Donkun barely looked up from her datapad as she finished up her notes. “Eh. Maybe not. We’ll see though. If there is, it will just be an added bonus for us. If not, well, no big deal. We’ll still have it in our possession as evidence.” Jebannuck frowned. “Evidence of what?” She turned around and began walking back towards the exit. “Evidence of what?!” Jebannuck climbed up to his feet, staggering a bit with his still-sore muscles.

She paused and looked back at him over her shoulder, her bored expression now tinged with annoyance. “Evidence of our rescue of the humans.”

“Your rescue? That's not what happened, that's not the truth! You abducted us!”

She hummed. “It's Commander Rozar’s truth,” she turned back and walked out the door, leaving Jeb alone with the guard once again. “So it's the only one that matters.”

***

It was bight. Like, stupid bright. Why did these lights have to be so up in his face?

Mike squinted to try to make out shapes in the shadows beyond the glowing panels surrounding him.

He'd been on film sets similar to this before, backstage sometimes when his parents had been interviewed or were guests on talk shows. He'd even been called on stage once when his parents announced that their son would be piloting a mission around Jupiter. They were going for the “family business” spin. It was a publicity stunt, really. Were there more qualified pilots in the company? You betcha. But were any of them the only son of the founders and owners of NearStar Explorations? No, they weren't.

Maybe as it turned out, lucky them?

No. He had to stay positive. This plan was going to work. This… this had to work.

Oh, who was he kidding? With Rozar in charge of all of this, it was probably going to suck.

So, the plan. Yeah. He took in a deep breath and ran over things again in his mind.

Morse code. He’d had a few teachers and professor go over it briefly in various classes. It was simple enough. He’d even spent time trying to memorize it a time or two - the reason being that if he knew Morse code, he might be able to use it and see if there were secret messages being sent around in everyday life. Like flickering lights, or in the weird clicking noise the elevator at the academy made sometimes, etc.

As it turned out, there weren’t. Or at least, not as far as he could tell.

There was a story though, one that a teacher had shared about the uses of Morse code. It had really stuck with him through the years. During the Vietnam War, there’d been a pilot who had been shot down and captured, tortured, and later forced to appear in a press conference on tv by his captors. He said what they wanted him to say - that the POWs were being taken care of, that everything was fine, all of that. But while he was there - while he spoke, he blinked out “TORTURE” over and over in morse code.

And so he’d been practicing. He couldn’t remember all the letters he needed, but he remembered the pattern, and between him and Wenona, they figured something out. He’d also been blinking a lot lately to make what he was about to do not seem so conspicuous. It was especially easy to do when you were being blinded by stage lighting.

If he squinted or shaded his eyes, he could make out the hustle going on beyond the shadows. Strange, scaly blue aliens were bustling around, checking monitors and running cables. One with hunched shoulders and wispy hairs running down its spine ran up and clipped a small microphone inside the collar of his shirt. It was easily hidden by a colorful sash. It seemed to be part of the fashion or uniform on the ship. He wondered briefly of what the different lengths and colors meant. The ones he and Wenona had been given were a solid light blue color. It was the same color as the blue he remembered seeing on the hulls of many Burnti ships when he was still aboard the Gladius.

Red lights started glowing where he was pretty sure he’d seen cameras. Were they recording? Was this live? Or were they just going to record it and edit it? Was he going to throw up? Oh man, he hadn’t had stage fright in years, but there were definitely butterflies flappin’ around down there now! How many people were going to see this? How many planets? And not just that - what if he messed up? What if he had to talk and blink code at the same time and he lost track of how many blinks he’d done in the middle of a word? He and Wenona had practiced before after they found out about this whole ordeal, but that was back in their holding room. This was happening for real now.

“Are you ready there, gorgeous?”

Mike jerked his head jerked to his left. He’d been so focused on not freaking out that he hadn’t noticed the new alien show up. The first thing he noted was the skin. At first, it looked rough or coarse, but upon further inspection, Mike realized it was just an illusion of the swirling patterns of color and shadows that seemed to be constantly changing. Its head was vaguely shaped like a lizard’s, though the snout was very short and blunt. It was honestly kind of hard to see what the rest of it looked like. It was wearing a lot of fine sashes and fabrics. Like, a lot of them. It was small though, the colorful crest on top of its head made it probably as tall as Mike’s chest. If that.

Another smaller alien was setting up a mic amidst the sashes, while another hovered about on a double set of gossamer wings, applying a fine translucent powder to the colorful face.

“You look like you're a lost deer head in the light.” She gave a musical laugh. Or at least he thought it was a “her”. He had a hard time telling with some species. Especially for ones he hadn’t encountered before. He’d learned a while back to not guess out loud. It got awkward sometimes. But for this particular alien, he couldn’t help but think she was a she. She sounded like a she. Wow, that was a lot of colors! It was kind of distracting.

“Did I say that right?” Mike forgot to not stare. He blinked a few times to try to make him blinking out code later seem more normal. What was it that she had said? What was she trying to say right?

“Uhm, yeah I think so,” he muttered as he tried to collect his thoughts again. “Wait, what?”

“It’s an Earth phrase, I believe.” She gave him a smile that made her small, slitted eyes nearly close completely. “It seems like an odd thing to say, but I’m sure it must make sense back on Earth?”

Mike smiled back, only remembering at the last minute to not show his teeth in his smile. He didn’t need to freak anyone out or scaring them. “Uh, yeah, deer in a headlight, sure am I guess.” That was what she had said, right? Oh, he needed to calm down! Seriously, where was this stage fright coming from? Deep breaths, deep breaths.

“Oh is that how it goes?” She gave another laugh. The colors across her face changed again. It was… mesmerizing. He nodded absentmindedly.

The smaller aliens finished their tasks and retreated back to the shadows beyond the stage lights, the winged one giving one last brush to the topmost sash before it flitted away.

“Now, before we start, your name is pronounced Mike, correct? I’d hate to get that wrong on live stream.”

He nodded, “Yeah. Mike.” He blinked a few more times for good measure.

“We’re going live in 7… 6… 5….”

Mike took a few more deep breaths and tried to focus on the patterns he needed to get his message out.

“Greetings all from the Arum Bloom, Second Command Cruiser of the Glorious Burnti Empire. For all our loyal returning viewers, you of course already know me, but for those of you who may be new or guests to our stream, my name is Urma Kalabretti Esh.” Music began playing from somewhere. It sounded happy and upbeat, but whatever instruments that were used to play it sounded tinny and hollow. There wasn’t a live audience present, but someone was doing a great job of playing recordings of various species cheering.

After pausing long enough for the music to die down, Urma Kalabretti Esh continued, “Thank you, thank you! Of course, it is always my delight to share with our lovely viewers the news, stories, and enlightenment of the Burnti Empire!”

She turned her head toward what should have been where the middle camera was set up. Mike realized they must have gone for a wide shot. He was on camera now. Okay. First letter. First letter? Oh, shoot! Uh… P!

Short blink. Long blink. Long blink. Short.

“Today we have a special guest with us to share some very exciting news. Prepare yourself, viewers, we’re in for a treat and a tale! May I introduce Human Mike Rockwell all the way from Earth!” The music started up again. It sounded a lot like the first time, but the melody was slightly different.

R. Short blink. Long. Short.

I. Short. Short.

S. Short. Short. Short.

“Now Human Mike, you’ve been with us here on the Arum Bloom for nearly three solar rotation sets, correct?”

O. Long. Long. Long.

“Yes.”

Oh, shoot, what was N? He sometimes got mixed up with N and A.

Long. Short. Pause. E. Short. Pause. R. Short. Long. Short.

“And you and your companion, another human, were found and picked up by our gracious Commander Rozar shortly after the fall of the Confederation Blockade?”

Was he being too obvious with the blinking? Someone was going to figure out what he was doing and stop him, right? Would they stop him on live stream, or would they wait until a break? Was there a break? Did aliens do commercial breaks? What would they do if they caught him? Oh shoot, he should start blinking again. Wait, what was the question she asked?

“Uh… yeah.” He hoped that would be a good answer to whatever the question was.

Short, long, long, short. Short, long, short. Short, short.

“Now, we all know your people have an alliance with the Galactic Confederation,” she paused as a series of “audience” voices moaned, hissed, and otherwise sounded very unhappy at the mention of the GC.

Short, short, short. Long, long, long.

“But tell me, Mike, were you yourself ever aligned with or signed up with a Confederation crew?”

Short. Long, short. Short. Short, long, short.

“No.” Short, long, long, short. “I was a pilot for my parent’s company.”

He focused on blinking out the word on repeat. All the while, Urma Kalabretti Esh continued the interview. For a good little while, she mostly fed Mike questions that he only needed ten words or less to answer. Together, they painted a picture of events that Rozar or whoever had made up- how he and Wenona had been abducted by a Galactic Confederation ship, had been forced to serve on board and to fight until they’d escaped in a pod during the battle at the blockade.

“Now, Mike, is it true that you and Wenona were stranded for a time on the planet Gamnut 4?” The “audience” gasped.

Mike continued to blink.

“Yes, everyone was distracted. We got away and we landed in an escape pod.”

“Gamnut 4,” the alien host gave a worried look, the swirling colors on her scaly face muted slightly. “From what I understand, it’s registered as a category 1 death world. That must have been terrifying for you two all alone!”

Long, short. Short. Short, long, short.

They hadn’t been alone, he wanted to say. But that wasn’t what had been scripted. “Uh, kind of. It wasn’t too bad. Actually, it was a lot like home.”

“Ah yes, how interesting! Your home, Earth, is registered as a category 3 death world, am I correct?”

Short, long, long, short.

“Um, yeah I guess. It’s just home, so I’ve never really thought about it as a death world.” And he hadn’t. At least, not before he left Earth. He’d heard so much about other homeworlds while aboard the Gladius. Most of them sounded like dream vacations spots.

“Truly remarkable! I suppose Gamnut 4 seemed like a breeze after growing up with all Earth could throw at you.” The colorful patterns brightened again. Mike tried to not let himself get too distracted. Thankfully, he felt that at this point, he had fallen into a bit of a rhythm with the code. Hopefully, the message was getting through.

“Now Mike, I know after you were rescued from the planet, Commander Rozar explained the situation with Earth’s alliance with the Galactic Confederation.” “He did.” Short, short, short. Long, long, long.

“Isn’t it terrible?! First, they block the Burnti Empire, getting a monopoly for Earth interactions, and then they turn on their supposed new allies by abducting you and who knows how many else?!”

The “audience” erupted into a cacophony of gasps, snorts, shouts of outrage, and whatever other noises they had on file to play.

Short, long, short. Short, short. Short, short, short. Long, long, long. Long, short. Short. Short, long, short.

“Tell me, Mike, if circumstances had been different if the Galactic Confederation hadn’t forced our people apart, do you think a Burnti/Earth alliance would have been better than what your people are currently suffering through?”

Oh, she was laying it on thick now. He knew she would. That’s how it was planned to go. He said what she wanted to hear. Or rather, what Commander Rozar wanted to be said.

Short, long, long, short. Short, long, short.

He agreed. He commended. He praised the Burnti Empire for saving him. He recommended them to his leaders back on Earth. Inwardly, he grimaced. He cited off all the things that had been scripted for him to say. All the while, the words felt dirty in his mouth.

Stick with the plan. If he didn’t, who knows what they’d do to Jeb.

Short, short. Short, short, short. Long, long, long.

Someone would catch on, right?

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#abduction #chapter 19 #jeb #jebannuck #mike #wenona #burnti empire #gladius #HUMANS ARE WEIRD #humans are space orcs #aliens #space #humans #morse code

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luckyspike · 5 years

Text

God should have made a universe full of nebulas - a Good Omens fanfiction

i wanted to write about Crowley’s fall so I did. party on.

Link to AO3 if you’d prefer to read it there

He hadn’t meant to Fall. He really, honestly, hadn’t. He had said as much to Aziraphale, once, twice, four hundred times over the years, but he was pretty sure the angel never really believed him. After all, it sounded idiotic. Who Falls by accident? It’s definitely something you mean to do, brought about by a willful wrongdoing without a hint of good intention in your heart. ‘Ah, but,’ the casual observer may say, ‘the road to Hell is paved with good intentions.’ And certainly there are good intention rest-stops along the way, but everybody knows the road to Hell is actually paved with frozen door-to-door salespeople. And, thanks to the ever-changing nature of the world, telephone scammers.

They were in the back room of the bookshop some months after the Nahpocalypse. Azirpahale was sitting on the couch, smiling contentedly and sipping his moscato, one of Crowley’s legs in his lap and the other draped over his shoulders. His wings were out, draped lazily over the back of the furniture, primaries spreading out on the worn floorboards like a bridal train. The demon was lounged back against the arm of the couch, glass of red wine in hand and shoulder-length hair in his face, wings out as well, although not nearly as full as the angel’s: the left one, the better one, was splayed across the floor while the right one, twisted and contracted, broken by the Fall, was cocked between the demon’s shoulder and the couch cushions, the few feathers remaining warped by the awkward positioning. He was lightly drunk, and he hadn’t yet devolved to declarations of love for the world and Aziraphale, so he was still in control of his faculties. “Did you know,” he said, in a lull in conversation, after Aziraphale had finished a cathartic rant about internet sales, “that I Fell by accident?”

Aziraphale nodded, and made a point of not shifting awkwardly. Crowley often mentioned his Fall in an off-hand way, usually with some degree of pitch-black humor or sarcasm, the same way humans joked about the deaths of loved ones, or horrible tragedies being personally inconvenient in petty ways. “You have mentioned it before, yes,” he replied, trying to keep his tone light.

Crowley looked into his wineglass pensively. “Guess I have done, yeah.” He swallowed another mouthful. “You wanna hear the story?”

“I -” he paused. His brow furrowed, and he debated sobering up a little. Crowley couldn’t be serious - demons didn’t tell stories about their Falls. At least, not that Aziraphale knew of. Not that he had a lot of experience with demons outside of Crowley and a few vanquished foes from back in the Mesopotamian days. “You’re drunk,” he concluded, reasonably. “Not a good time.”

“Not a much better time, you ask me.” Crowley nudged Aziraphale’s cheek with his knee. “C’monnn, I know you’re curious.”

“My dear, I rather think this is a subject better saved for a more subdued situation,” Aziraphale said quietly, running his hand through the feathers in Crowley’s bad wing. “I wouldn’t want to upset you.”

Crowley groaned, and momentarily went limp. “Aziraphale. You’re killing me.” He looked up to catch the angel’s puzzled expression. “I’m offering, angel! ‘M not that drunk, I assure you I’m fully consenting or whatever to this. I saved the bloody world with you - okay, I was there with you when the world was saved, you can stuff it - for Someone’s sake. We’re going to buy a house together.” He made a face. “Like a couple of pensioners. You were in my body!”

A sigh. “Well, when you put it that way. But if it’s going to upset you …”

“It’s upsetting me how you keep assuming I’m gonna get upset!” Crowley propped himself up on his elbows, ticking points off on his fingers. “Was it traumatic? Yes. Awful? Absolutely. Do I miss God? Sure, I guess, just like everyone else. But!” He held up the other hand. “We have the other points: I met you, got forgiven by you which means way more than some distant authority figure by the way, all great. I get to be me, fantastic. I don’t have to talk to Gabriel ever, the best.” Aziraphale was watching him, and, slowly, Crowley’s expression softened. “I wouldn’t go back to being an angel, angel. ‘Member what I said to you when we were talking about the apocalypse? Back when I’d just dropped off Adam?”

Aziraphale thought it over. “About the dolphins …?”

“No, Aziraphale, honestly, that’s not even pertinent.” He waved a hand. “You said, ‘well I’ll be damned’, an’ I said, ‘it’s not that bad, when you get used to it.’” He raised an eyebrow and shrugged. “I‘ve had a long time to get used to it. An’ … an’ you’re around which, you know. Doesn’t hurt.” There was silence in the bookshop, and the two studied one another, both thoughtful. “If it’s gonna upset you -”

“No.” Aziraphale held up a hand. “I mean, it might. I … I do not like hearing about bad things happening to you my dear but …” He took a breath. “Crowley, if you want to tell me the story, I’d be honored to hear it out.”

“I want to.” He sat up, and then laid back down, face-first, across Aziraphale’s lap. Absently, the angel buried his fingers into the soft scapulars, and Crowley hissed happily. “Jus’ keep doing that, though. An’ top me off, first?”

Aziraphale did. “Right. You can stop any time if you want to, you know.”

“I do.” He took a breath, and another gulp of wine. “Right. Okay, so -”

In the Beginning (or rather, Some Period before) …

The stars stretched out before him, lightyears away and yet practically in his lap, all at once. In his hands, stardust like clay, clinging to his fingers and wrists, slick and gritty. He swirled a palm-full of stars, and watched it move thoughtfully, and considered.

Raphael had said they needed more asteroids, planetoids, comets, all that tosh, and less stars. No more nebulas, he had been told firmly, with a disapproving look, as the Archangel sighed and looked over the lesser angel’s work. It’s a nice nebula though, Raphael said. I’ll find somewhere to put it. Just … stop making them. Try a comet, they’re kind of the same.

He had tried a few comets. They were not the same. They were, well, boring. They didn’t do anything besides slingshot around a galaxy, messy and dribbling. A nebula - a really good nebula - now that is a big interesting star factory, swirling around and bouncing on its own, doing what it likes once you let it go. It makes things, things which nobody in Heaven has anything to do with - totally independent. Some explode in a shower of ions, that’s always disappointing, but sometimes, oh, the ones that succeed are so worth it. Gorgeous and glorious and amazing.

God should have made a universe full of nebulas, the angel thought. He looked back to the stardust, still twisting in his hands, and breathed on it. It ballooned - they always did, if you knew what you were doing - and formed, and lo, a new nebula was born. He smiled at the thing, and hung it in storage. That would be Raphael’s issue, later.

If they didn’t want more nebulas they shouldn’t have made them so bloody delightful, the angel thought. He didn’t say it, though. Not then, anyway.

“What’re you doing?” He jumped and turned to see another angel - a familiar face, although after the Fall he wouldn’t be able to recall her name, only that she is now called Amii - watching him intently. “I thought old Raphael said no more nebulas.” A quizzical look. “I distinctly remember something about comets.”

The angel sighed. “Yeah. Yeah, but, you know, comets … comets are boring. Not much of one for comets, me.” He shrugged. “And what’s an extra nebula or two, when you get down to it? Space’s big.”

“Space is big,” the other angel intoned, thoughtfully. “But Raphael is an Archangel, with orders straight from, you know.” A cocked eyebrow, or at least the impression of one - forms were more a loose concept in Heaven, in that time before time. “You don’t want to go against those, eh?”

The lesser angel hedged. “Well, no, obviously, but you know … Well, it’s not like anyone’s checking up. If it was really supposed to be comets only, don’t you think I would be like, incapable of making anything else? I mean why not just make me forget nebulas? Or just … instill me with an overwhelming love of comets?” He crossed his arms. “Way I see it, until someone tells me to stop -”

“Raphael did.”

“Well …”

The other angel chuckled. “You sound like someone else I know. It could get you in trouble, you know.”

“How?” the lesser angel challenged. “She is a being of true love and forgiveness, isn’t She? What, I’m going to get a stern talking to and maybe a transfer to a different department? Hah, ok, I’ll just keep doing what I’m doing until then.” He stopped, and then wheedled a little. “You know everyone likes a nebula.”

“They do.” The angel-now-demon-known-as-Amii looked to the stardust residue coating the lesser angel’s hands. “Clean your hands off, I think you ought to meet someone.”

“Who?” but even as he asked, he was shaking the stardust loose into the cosmos, forming clouds and smears of light that drifted away.

“You ever met Lucifer?”

He raised his eyebrows. “The Lightbringer? No, not me. I’m not nearly important enough.”

“I think he’d like you.”

“Do you?” he asked, with genuine surprise.

The other angel nodded. “I do. I think you two should talk. Here, follow me - I’ll introduce you.”

And she did. Lucifer was everything you’d expect from someone called ‘Lightbringer’: charming and charismatic and easy to talk to, easy to go around with. They drank of the manna together*, surrounded by a pack of other angels of all sorts of ranks, and talked about the universe, about stars, about God, and a lot of other things in between. “Makes you wonder if Creation really is infinite, you know?” the starmaker said to Lucifer once. “Or is that just, you know, a rumor. I mean, why limit what all we can make, what all we can put it in if it’s infinite?”

“It does make you wonder,” Lucifer said, thoughtfully. “I’d like to get answers if I could, I think. I’d like to ask, anyway.” There was a chorus of general agreement. He turned his attention back to the starmaker, and nudged his shoulder. “You know, I heard She is working on something new. A new planet.”

“What? All by Herself? You’re having me on.” He laughed. “Why would She do that?”

“Another good question,” Lucifer said, a glimmer in his eye. “Gabriel says he’s seen Her working on it. Supposedly -” he lowered his voice, and the assembled angels leaned in, although in this place, where time and space and sound were optional, they didn’t really need to. “Supposedly, She is making new life to live there and only there. A new Creation. A microcosm of our Host. And She has a Great Plan.” Murmurs of confusion, surprise. Questions of ‘why?’ and ‘what’s wrong with us?’. “Makes you wonder, doesn’t it?” Lucifer asked. “I reckon, if She’s so omnipotent and infallible, why would She need to replace us? She created us. Theoretically, we should be perfect. But, I guess not.” He stood, spread his hands. “If we need replaced, after all. So is She really infallible?”

“I mean maybe it’s like a reboot?” the starmaker suggested. Lucifer turned his attention to him, and he realized, suddenly, that he wasn’t sure what a reboot really was, which rather hindered his ability to make a simile. “You know, like Angels 2.0, all the good stuff plus some upgrades.”

“Upgrades,” Lucifer said flatly.

“Yeah, you know.” The starmaker wilted a little, suddenly the center of attention, but he plowed ahead anyway. “Maybe more wings or something.”

“And then what of us?” Lucifer asked, voice low. Suddenly, this was not a light conversation. This was not just idle questions in a group of like-minded people. “When there are Angels 2.0? Are we obsolete? Or just playing eternal second fiddle? A piece to be moved around in this … Plan?”

“I …” He stammered. “I don’t know.”

“Wouldn’t you like to ask?”

He paused. “I suppose I would, yeah.” He thought about it, and then, surprised, found his resolve hardened. “Yeah, you know, you have a point. Why would She do it all again?”

Lucifer nodded. “Be a lot easier if someone could ask. Be a lot easier if we could … talk it over. Maybe She needs a little more input in decision-making.” There were murmurs of agreement. The starmaker, with a sinking feeling, frowned. “Angels, brothers, sisters - I hear your concerns. And, you know, as a member of the first circle, well …” He gave the impression of drawing himself up, and the light flaring off of him burned brighter. “I think She and I need to have a chat. I think we deserve answers.” Lower still, he added, “And I think we need to know if She has them.”

The chat, as evidenced by the heaps of mythology, did not go well. But you know that part, broadly. The angels who had gathered around Lucifer - including the starmaker - were hunted down in Heaven. Some, angry that their questions were to remain unanswered, or furious that they were to be replaced by Her newest creation, fought back. Blood was shed. Angels, flaming swords gripped in their hands, swarmed unto other angels, who parried, or ran, or were unmade.

The starmaker ran. He ran as far as he could, to the furthest reaches of space, but it was no use. The others had seen him. “You never were good at following orders,” Raphael said, flaming sword held aloft. It would have been easier if he looked angry, but he didn’t. He was crying. “I should have known. I should have - I should have known.”

“I didn’t mean it.” The angel held his hands up, placating. “I’ll make all the comets you want, Ralph, really, I promise, no more nebulas.”

“No. No, you had your chance.” He advanced, and his expression hardened. “Don’t make this harder than it is. Please.”

“Raphael, please, you know me, always getting up to something but it’s all, you know, well it’s never anything really it’s always just talk and -”

“Please stop talking.” The sword hefted. “Please. You talk too much. You talk too much, and you’re too good at it, and I can’t do this right now.”

The angel, wings wrapped around himself, hands raised, drifted back in space, bumping into a galaxy, pitching it on its axis. “Raphael -” he stopped. He couldn’t not stop. There was a flare of light - blinding, horrible light - and screaming. A form, and nobody needed telling who it was, was falling from on high. He was burning, too, as he fell, plunging downwards. Up to that point, nobody had realized there was anything below Heaven but he went through the bottom of that, too, and kept falling.

Falling. With a capital ‘F’.

And then there were more. Some jumped. Some were thrown. Some - and nobody was really sure how - just Fell, without any observable force acting on them. A lot of them screamed, but some of them didn’t. Somehow, that was worse. They burned like magnesium, streaking through space and out of Heaven, to somewhere Below.

The starmaker watched, and Raphael did, too. And then he turned back, eyes wide.

“Don’t kill me,” the starmaker whispered, his hands reaching into a cloud of stardust, twisting it, trying to hold it, to find comfort. “I don’t want to die.”

“That might be worse,” Raphael pointed out. He hefted the sword. “The Lord is merciful in all things.”

“So which one is the merciful one, then?” Raphael stopped. The sword stopped. Flames - silent and roaring all at once - licked the blade and burned away stardust. “You don’t know. I don’t know. But … but I know I don’t want to die.” He unfurled his wings, and looked down. With one last glance to the Archangel, he said, “Bye, Ralph.”

And he Fell, too.

It wasn’t great. The starmaker had free-fallen before, while he was flying, and it wasn’t anything like that. Think of it like this: falling down a hill on a rollercoaster is all well and good, because you know you’re safely held in the car, and will go around the curve at the bottom, and in forty-five seconds you will be walking away, laughing about what fun that was with your friends, and talking about hitting the ice cream stand for some soft serve. Falling off Niagra Falls, however, doesn’t have a meticulously-engineered curve at the bottom. There’s rocks. There’s definitely not ice cream.

He spread his wings, but it was of no use. He could tumble and twist, he could barrel-roll and somersault, but he could only go down. There was no deceleration, no brakes. And there was nothing below, besides the lens-flare pinpricks of other angels who had gone before.

So he Fell. It hurt, too, not physically but deeper than that, as if through every lightyear he pulled away from Heaven a little more of his soul ripped away. Which was absurd, he thought distantly, as he twisted, because his soul probably didn’t have feelings. He had Grace, and that’s what he was losing. He knew that, though no one had told him, because that was the only thing he could think of that would feel that way - the loss of Grace, which up to that point had done the job of trying to fill an empty hole in him that had once been brimming with faith. It was going, he was Falling away from it and burning up as he did, and with every millennium he Fell he felt colder, emptier, weaker. He stopped flapping. Stopped trying to stop. Stopped looking back. He went limp, head down, and let himself Fall. Maybe Raphael had been right.

He Fell for so long that he didn’t notice, not at first, that the air … changed. Got hot. Sticky. By the time it broke through to his consciousness - had he gone to sleep? - and prompted him to open his eyes, there was light, too. Sickly, yellow light. He looked to the source, and saw a pit of boiling sulfur.

“Oh, shit,” he said, and tried to hit the brakes.

It sort of worked. He didn’t hit The Pit at terminal velocity, anyway - some did, bursting out of existence with geysers of sulfur and acrid, greasy clouds of smoke. But at a certain speed, hitting liquid might as well be hitting stone, and he knew that. He braked hard, flapping and twisting and rolling and trying to create as much drag as he could and then, when it became clear that the options were to stick the landing or die trying, he dove.

His right wing hit first. It hurt. And then the rest of him caught fire. Or, he thought, it must have done. Nothing else could possibly cause that much pain. He plunged through the sulfur, flailing to slow himself, burning up and screaming silently, but alive, until the sensation of sinking stopped. He floated.

He wondered how long he could float there. It wasn’t so bad, not now that it all had stopped. Oh, sure, there was pain, his wing felt absolutely mangled and he realized he had no arms or legs, not anymore, who knew what happened to those, but it could have been worse. Beat death any day, anyway. So he floated, eyes closed, and debated staying there.

There was a rumble from Below. It had to be Below. It could only be Below. He opened his eyes, and swam up, paddling with the left wing as best he could, and tail - yeah, that seemed about right, what’s a tail anyway? Definitely wasn’t legs - whipping in the sulfur, propelling him to the surface. He broke through, eyes and nose and ears full of sulfur, the taste of ash in his mouth and fire in his lungs - weird sensations, painful but something he realized he was quickly acclimatizing to - and swam. There was an edge, in the distance. Rocky, sharp, smoking, coated in ash, but an edge nonetheless. A ledge to climb on. He swam towards it.

“Not so fast,” someone growled, behind him, and, with a sticky, charred hand on his broken wing, they pulled.

He didn’t think about it. It happened on something like instinct, although he was fairly certain that he didn’t truly have instincts. But either way, they pulled, and he struck, whipping around in an impossible arc and sinking long, needle-thin fangs - fangs? - into the other fallen angel’s bulk, bearing them below sulfur and hissing - hissing, that was new - the entire time. They screamed for a time, until they didn’t. Eventually, they let go, and they sank. He kept swimming.

The ledge was sharp, and he hissed when it scraped him while he dragged himself up it, but it was solid. His left wing gave him leverage enough to haul himself up to the waist, to get his … no. He didn’t have a waist. No, this wasn’t right.

For the first time, he risked a look at his form, limbless and burnt. And he hissed again, surprised and afraid and angry and lost, all at once, with about forty other emotions thrown in for flavor. For a bare minute, he debated letting go, falling back into the sulfur, and sinking down to the rumbling thing below. And then he snarled, and slithered out of the pool.

There were others around the pool. He slithered over the rocks, raw wounds on his belly dragging and scraping, a new agony with every move, and kept his distance, the other one in the pool still fresh in his mind. There were bodies, too. Dead angels - no, not angels, something else, now - scattered around, broken and lifeless and alien-looking. He stopped among a group of them and thought. Others were coming out of the pool, others were still Falling in. There was screaming, and gnashing of teeth, and even as he watched one tore into another, not unlike what he’d done, and began to eat. To eat. He shuddered and sank low to the ground, curling his body into a tight coil, broken wing held as close as he could. He waited. It would stop, eventually. It had to.

He was right, ultimately. The streaks of light from Heaven slowed, and then stopped entirely. He watched carefully, just to be sure, and then, cautiously, slithered forward. There was a gathering, ahead. A group. And nobody appeared to be eating one another, which was a bonus.

A heavy hand - hot, but not burning - landed on his back. He screamed and coiled, winding up to strike. “Relax!” He stopped. It wasn’t the same voice, not quite, but close. He turned around, and blinked in the face of a pillar of infernal flames. “Hail and well met.” The flames condensed, took form, almost like an angel but shifted to the left, who was waving at him. It looked, if it could be possible with milky white eyes and a mouthful of flames, apologetic. And familiar, in a distant sort of way. “What a mess that turned out to be, huh? I saw you fall - you’re the starmaker, right?”

He hissed, and tried to find the name. It evaded him. The other shook her head. “Not anymore. I know what you’re trying. But you felt the Grace leave you, yes?” He had. He hurt, and he ached, and he felt cold and empty and sick inside. “Our names went with it. You may call me Amii, now.”

“Amii,” he parroted, forked tongue and fangs and alien name unfamiliar in his mouth. “You knew me.”

“I did, if you were the starmaker. Can’t quite recognize you in that form, though - you want to try for something like you used to do?” She paused. “Or you can stay like that, since it’s technically your true form now. You’ll get used to it. Part of the deal.”

“The deal?”

“The deal,” Amii agreed. “The demon deal. It’s what we are now: demons. Fallen angels, technically, but Lucifer isn’t so hot on anyone using that term. I’d avoid it, if I were you, when you see him.”

“Demonssssss.” He looked around then, suddenly apprehensive. “Where’ssss Lucifer?”

“I’ll take you to him.”

“No!” He backed up, over the bodies of other fallen angels - demons - eyes wide. “No, no, not again -”

Amii grabbed the broken wing, dragging on the ground, and the former starmaker froze. Amii looked, for a moment, profoundly sad. “No choice now, I’m afraid. We are his. He is the King of Hell, and the King of Demons, and you have to go meet him.” She tried to smile. “At the very least, you need a name.”

“I had a name.”

“Not anymore. Come on.” She tugged, but was met with continued resistance. She sighed. “You don’t want to make him call you. Easier if you go on your own.”

“Let me go.”

Amii did. She watched, then, as the other slithered alongside him, and they started toward the crowd of other demons. “You can still heal yourself, if you want, and I can teach you how to assume the shape you used to have, approximately. It’s manageable. You survived, that’s the big thing.” She looked to the broken wing. “Wings can’t be fixed, though, I’m afraid.” She heard the sharp intake of breath from the other, and explained, “Lucifer told us She said that we will be doomed to crawl and eat dust for the rest of eternity as punishment for the rebellion.” She let her own wings out, such as they still were, both burned away to charred stumps spotted with sparse feathers.

“Rebellion? I didn’t rebel. I just asked questions.”

“Same thing, I guess.” She continued, the serpent beside her, until they reached the gathered crowd. There was a line leading to Lucifer, and Amii indicated the end. “You have to wait. You need a name. If you don’t go willingly, he’ll call you. It’s not very pleasant.”

“I’ll wait.” He slithered to the back of the line, past grotesque beasts that he didn’t have names for and others that had tried to resume their angel forms, but were marred by the Fall with boils and wounds and burns. He wondered, vaguely, what he would look like if he took that form right now. He looked down to his body again, bright black scales on his back and red on the belly, scars and burns scattered all over, and decided against attempting a transformation. He hissed, and drew his left wing in, and coiled up to wait.

Time hadn’t been invented yet, so the serpent didn’t have any idea of how long he waited, but when he finally reached the front of the line, the horror and pain and sadness had faded to a sort of background hum and were replaced at the forefront with boredom, which was a strange emotion to feel grateful for but an improvement nonetheless. He was also sick of the bull with the flaming eyes and nostrils and mouth behind him, lowing and stepping on his tail. He had been looking forward to getting this over with, but at the front of the line he stopped. Lucifer regarded him through coal-black eyes, luminescent flesh burnt off entirely, leaving only ruddy red leather. He had a crown of horns, twisting out of his head, a scaled tail like the lesser demon’s own, and the legs of a beast with cloven hooves. He had been so beautiful, before. Now, he was a monster.

Maybe he should not have been so eager to get this over with. Nevertheless, cautiously, he slithered forward, eyes downcast.

“A serpent.” Lucifer observed. “You need a name.”

“Yes, Lord.”

Lucifer considered it. “Crawly,” he declared, finally. The serpent would have winced if it had the facial musculature to do it. Crawly? It was too on the nose for him. Maybe he could change it … no, he thought quickly, pulling the brake lever on that train of thought with everything he had. No, that’s what got him into this whole mess in the first place. Taking liberties. Asking questions.

On the other hand that he no longer had, however, what more could they do to him? He burnt and felt dead inside, he ached, and he’d lost the ability to fly. His wings were ruined. He could barely speak without hissing. He surprised himself in that moment with a spark of optimism - really, in this place? - and thought, Nowhere to go but up.

Lucifer spoke again. Oh. Had he lingered too long? “Demon Crawly.”

“Lord, at your command.”

“I recognize your voice.” A hiss slipped out of Crawly, nervous and shaking and weak. He shrank back as Lucifer looked him over imperiously. “Show your other form.”

He couldn’t have resisted if he tried. He had never changed shapes before, slipping an angelic shape on like a suit, but it was easy. Most magic is easy, as all angels know: you just have to know one or two tricks about the backstage workings of physics and space-time, but once you’ve got that down there’s nothing to it. He had been a starmaker; twisting space-time had been his pre-breakfast routine. He shifted from serpent to his old form, or something approximating it, and there was no pain to it, which surprised him. Messy red hair fell into his eyes and then past his chin. He reached up to brush it away, and froze. His hand - the hand that had made stars and nebulas and waved stardust into the universe - was charred, burnt black, the ends of his fingers drawn out into claws. The char traced up his arms, ending just below the elbow and fading into scales instead, the same black and red of his serpent form. Cautiously, watching the claws like they might attack him of their own volition, he brushed his hair back, and experimentally brushed his nose. Flesh, not scales. Interesting. Horrific, but interesting.

Lucifer was watching him. “I know you. I spoke with you, not long before the Fall.”

He bowed, because he wasn’t sure what else to do. “You did, Lord.”

The King of Hell regarded him for another moment, appraising him up-and-down, and then gestured to a row of demons standing to his left. “Stand with them, demon Crawly.”

He did. He didn’t ask why. On some level, he was glad for the command, because in this form his legs didn’t seem to want to work properly - he might have been angel-shaped, but he still wanted to slither. He staggered to the line of waiting demons and stood at the end, lifting his broken wing as high as he could without worsening the pain, trying to keep the end of the phalanx from dragging along the sharp rocks. He wobbled on unfamiliar legs and fought back a wave of a very new feeling. He wasn’t sure he liked it.

Below the pain and the grief was hate, oh how that burned inside of him like nothing ever had before. Hate for Lucifer, and for his bloody questions, hate for Amii for introducing them, hate for Raphael and his fucking comets and hate for … for Her. It made him feel sick, when he thought about Her. He was so angry with Her, so furious, but then grief would surge up like a geyser and bank the heat of the hate, until another wave of anger fed it back alive. He had been the one that stepped out of line, it was his fault, not Hers. But then - why cast him out? He just had questions. She was supposed to be infinitely understanding and benevolent, forgiving and loving. Was she really so unable to handle a few simple questions?

I just wanted to make galaxies, he thought, watching Lucifer name demon after demon. Another lank strand of hair fell into his eyes, and he left it. He didn’t want to see his own hand again. He didn’t want to see the ash where stardust had just been. He ached, he felt tired to his very core and nauseous, like he might never eat again, but yet … he was alive. That was better than death. Right?

With trembling hands - claws - he reached out and gathered his broken wing closer to himself, combing the three primaries that were left with long, shaky strokes.

The demon next to him was watching him, black eyes empty and gleaming in the light of the brimstone. A frog, seated on the top of his head, croaked. “Who are you?” The demon asked.

“Crawly, I guess.”

The demon considered it. “I’ve never heard of you. Are you a Duke?”

Crawly blinked - ah, so he did have eyelids in this form. “I don’t think so,” he answered, eventually. “Are you?”

“I am Duke Hastur.” He looked vaguely disgusted that Crawly was not a Duke. “Why has our Dark Lord asked you to join these ranks?” Crawly had no idea. He said so. “Perhaps we will eat you later.”

Oh. He hadn’t considered that. Duke Hastur smiled not-very-nicely. A maggot crawled out from between his broken teeth, and re-entered his nose. Crawly shivered, and resisted the urge to transform back into a snake. At least there were no maggots. Not unless, he thought, he wanted to add them later, maybe. Which he had trouble believing he ever would. Rather than slither away, he stepped half a foot away from Hastur, and held his broken wing closer. The bones ground, and the joints, but he found a position that was nominally less painful than any other, and did his best to maintain it. It was healing up, he realized as the wing cracked and twisted in his hand, and some of the pain faded. Badly, still broken, but it was healing anyway.

It would never heal right. Guess it didn’t matter. At least it was still there - one of Hastur’s had been broken off entirely, oozing blood and ichor, maggots feeding at the stump.

As the Fall had stopped, the Naming stopped eventually, too. Lucifer stalked around the assembled demons, and addressed them. They were Fallen. They were damned to an eternity of suffering and pain, never to be forgiven for their sins. They were supposed to be kind, and benevolent, and faithful and loyal and obedient, and they had all violated that in some way. Must have done, to Fall. Crawly thought of his questions as his stomach rolled. Lucifer, too, grieved, pain apparent in every word, and near the end he cried out, voice breaking with pain and loss, and all of the demons fell to their knees, crying and hissing and screaming and roaring, as his pain washed through them, twisting and burning - burning again, just like when they were Falling, burning burning - and flames leapt up from The Pit.

Crawly would have cried, but he couldn’t. Serpents can’t cry. He clenched his fists over his ears instead, claws digging into his palms and raining ash down around his head, on knees and elbows, and whimpered until it stopped. The pain left him curled on the rocks, trembling and weak. Lucifer was talking again, and Crawly was aware of a rough hand on his shoulder, dragging him to his feet.

“The Dark Lord wishes to speak to us privately,” Duke Hastur snarled. “Stand, serpent.” There was no command to it - Hastur had no power over Crawly - but he stood anyway. Around them, demons were shuffling away, blank-eyed and staring. Crawly watched as they started picking up rocks, or digging them with their bare hands, fingers breaking and bleeding as they chipped the stones away, only to heal and re-break. He swallowed. A command, then. Had to be. But his mind was … clear, relatively. Considering recent events, anyway. So it was not a command for him.

He reached for his wing, for the comfort of his own feathers, and was surprised to find he could bring it around a little without pulling it. The pain had faded, too. Healed, then. Stiff and scarred and most definitely useless for the rest of eternity, but healed. How long had they been here?

Lucifer spoke. “Princes, Dukes, Knights … Crawly.” He stalked down to Crawly and lingered there, amused almost, Crawly thought, if that wasn’t a completely absurd thought (he must be starting to lose it, and who would blame him?), before turning and stalking back up the formed ranks. “The free-thinkers. The ones who thought it through.” He breathed out, and embers and flames flickered from his nose. “We were right. There were no answers. There was nothing beyond expected unconditional obedience, and willingness to comply with a Great Plan. And we were right, too - there is a new creation. She has chosen them, made them in her image. Our image, but imperfect.” He snarled. “But they obey. They do not question. They only love and do as they are told. She has created a world for them, and linear time, and they have been enjoying it for one day.” He spat the word. “They will live forever in a garden She has made for them, and go forth and multiply and be Her favored creation.”

“It should have been us,” one of the Knights murmured.

“Unless …”

Crawly blinked again. “Unlesssssss?” he whispered. Lucifer couldn’t have heard him, it was impossible. But he looked to Crawly anyway.

“Unless they can be tempted to wander astray.” Lucifer began traversing back down the line. “Unless we can interfere with this Great Plan. Unless we can corrupt their souls and bring them to our Pit with us. Unless we can ruin Her most favored creation, as She ruined us.” He paused to regard one of the demons, who mostly looked like a buzzing cloud of flies. “You were the ones who questioned. You will be my Prince, and lead the others to do this, Beelzebub.”

“Yes, Lord.”

“And the rest of you will serve your roles as well. Corrupt, tempt, bring them down to us. But not yet.” Lucifer had returned to Crawly, watching the demon with eyes black like obsidian, like lava cooling in the sea. “Because they don’t know, yet, that they can disobey. They only know right. They have no frame of reference for wrong. They cannot know without that power being bestowed on them, which of course She did not do.”

Probably learned Her lesson, Crawly thought. Won’t make the same mistake twice.

“Which is where you come in, demon Crawly. You’re very good with words, I noticed.”

Crawly looked to Lucifer like a rabbit staring down an oncoming semi. He should respond, he thought, or say something, but all the words were scrambled around in his head like so much flotsam in a flooded river, jamming up at the dam of his mouth and leaving him open-mouthed and staring. “I - ngk - Lord, ssorry, I shall teach … ?”

“No need.” Lucifer waved a claw. “Not at all, Crawly. There will be a tree, on which will grow fruit that contains the knowledge of good and evil. One bite, and they will have knowledge beyond any they’ll be capable of now. They will have the capacity to question, and to learn, and to doubt. They will obtain free will. They will no longer be beholden to Her.”

Crawly nodded. “Ah. Right. Sso find the tree, grab a fruit -”

“No need. The tree is in the garden.”

“What? Why do that?” he asked, before his brain caught up with his mouth and he remembered who he was speaking to.

“To ensure their obedience, I assume.” Lucifer smiled, thin and terrible and full of too many teeth. “All you have to do, Crawly, is talk. Ask a few questions. I cannot go myself - She will know if I appear there, and She has guards posted in the garden and the walls. Talk to them, and they will Fall as we did, in time.”

A lick of hate rolled over the grief for a minute, and Crawly sneered. Yes. Yes, make them fall. Misery loves company. And if She didn’t want questions, well … He could have laughed. Good luck with that. You give something sentience, questions will follow. “Yesss, Lord.” He bowed his head. “It will be done.”

“Good. There.” Crawly’s gaze followed Lucifer’s claw as the King of Hell gestured to a craggy cliff face, high over The Pit. “There is a crack in the cliff, it will lead to the Garden. If you succeed, you will be rewarded with privileges far above your station, demon. If you are caught, and you fail -” Lucifer shrugged “- there are others. I will find another who can spin words as well.”

Crawly considered it, in the privacy of his own head. And then he watched another demon claw a rock apart, weeping and breaking and re-forming just to do it again. He would succeed, then. Success was the only option. He squared his shoulders and focused on his form - look natural, look tempting. Scales and char faded, replaced with plain flesh, the wings disappeared, and the fangs shortened to incisors. His face burned on the right side, and he raised a hand - a normal hand, he could have gasped - to feel the raised scar. He didn’t have to see it to know, as he traced the curls under his fingers, that it was a serpent. “Got it, Lord.”

“Very tempting,” Lucifer growled, not unhappy, tracing his claw along Crawly’s jawline. “But you will be spotted easily by the guards in this form. You’ll have to use the other form.”

“Oh. Oh, right.” Another moment of focus - it was getting easier with every time - and he changed again, back to the serpent, wings still safely tucked away. Lucifer nodded, approving.

“Better. Now, get up there and make some trouble.”

Crowley - definitely Crowley now - sighed as Aziraphale ruffled his fingers through Crowley’s coverts. “And then you know the rest,” he concluded. “So that’s it. Turns out I’ve always been an idiot.” When Aziraphale didn’t reply right away, he looked up, rolling onto his side to get a better look. The angel, predictably, was crying. Crowley frowned, opening his mouth to make some flip remark, but Aziraphale took his face in his hands, oily from the feathers but still warm and pleasant.

“You’re not an idiot,” Aziraphale said softly. “You’re … yourself. You’re definitely Crowley, you’ve always had questions, but you’re not an idiot.”

“There are literal millennia of evidence that ‘Crowley’ and ‘idiot’ are synonymous, angel. Oof.” Aziraphale had pulled him into a hug, clutching him tightly to his chest. Crowley flapped, more ineffectively even than usual as his left wing was snagged on the arm of the couch. “Hang on, wait, argh, cramp, let go, angel, let me just.” There was more flapping, some hasty repositioning, and Crowley leaned back into Aziraphale. “Right, you can resume.”

“You’re not an idiot,” Aziraphale murmured again into Crowley’s hair. “Being inquisitive is the opposite of that. You only had questions.”

Crowley swallowed, and forced out a bitter laugh. The Fall … that was a long time ago. There were centuries where he wouldn’t sleep, and if he did he would wake up with screaming nightmares of the burning and the pain, the Leviathan roaring in the deep. That had faded around, oh, call it the third century. “It is a part of you but it does not define you,” Yeshua had told him - her, then - centuries before, while they’d stood at the foot of Chichen Itza and admired the jungle around. “You define yourself.”

“Says the son of God,” Crowley - Crawly, then - had pointed out.

Yeshua shrugged. “It’s a part of myself that I am happy with, for all the good and bad it will bring.” He’d looked sidelong at Crawly. “But you’re not happy with yourself.”

“I can’t undo it.”

“No. But could you learn to live with it? Incorporate it into your past, a piece of the history, and then write new history in the future?”

Crawly had thought about it while the Central American jungle faded away, and the snow-capped peak of Fuji soared above them. “S’Mount Fuji,” she’d said, while she continued to think about Yeshua’s suggestion. “Could move you here if you want to. No Pontius Pilate.”

“It’s very nice,” Yeshua agreed, “but no, thank you.”

There was silence as Crawly stared at the mountain peak, and Yeshua looked around, smiling softly at the people bustling around them, paying them no mind. “I can’t really ever get away from it,” she concluded. “I was given a name. It defines me. Crawly. The Serpent of Eden. Fallen angel. Damned for all eternity.”

“Change your name,” said Yeshua, like it was the most obvious thing in the world. “You make your own name.” Crawly had blinked, which was a rarity. Yeshua laughed. “Those who accept it will move forward with you, those who do not will stay in your past.”

“Except for my boss.”

Yeshua had sighed. “Well, bosses never are particularly good at remembering anybody’s name, anyway.”

“Crowley?” the demon blinked, and found, instead of Yeshua’s dark brown eyes, lined with smile lines even at such a young age, there were Aziraphale’s blue eyes, bright and curious. “Are you alright?”

Crowley frowned. “Sorry. Was miles away.”

“It happens. I was saying,” he went on, gently, “that I like that you’re inquisitive. I like that you ask questions. Can you imagine? Can you imagine a world where there wasn’t a demon who looked at the antichrist, the impending war between Heaven and Hell, and said, ‘well, why’s this all got to happen, then?’” He brushed a lock of Crowley’s hair aside. “Terrible to think of, dear boy. I like your questions.”

“Glad someone does.” He sighed, then took a few deep breaths against Aziraphale’s chest, while the angel rubbed his back. He was floating, a little - he’d never told the story of his Fall from beginning to end before, and while it was something he had filed away in ‘the Past’, incorporated into the rest of his essence, his being, the experience that is Crowley, to tell it like that made it feel just a little bit fresher. Just a little reminder. He took another breath, and felt fire in his lungs and tasted ash on his tongue, but then he smelled Aziraphale’s cologne. The floating feeling lingered, but it lost its grip on him, and a few more breaths, his face nuzzled into the nape of the angel’s neck, and he was back, back in the old bookshop, back with the angel who loved him even with the questions and the temptations and the stupid choices and the broken wings.

He took another breath and then, with the resolve of someone who will remember this moment for the rest of their life but also wants to move past it now, not linger and let it sour, he sat up, slid backwards on the couch until his back rested against the armrest and his legs were across Aziraphale’s lap. He adjusted his wings, swinging them over the arm of the couch, and then took Aziraphale’s right wing into his lap, picking at the feathers and combing them, out, though they didn’t need it. It gave him something to do with his hands, though, and for that he was grateful. “But yeah. I never meant to Fall. Just had a few questions. I’m still not sure why that warranted Falling, though.”

Aziraphale was watching him. “May I be honest? May I ask an honest question?”

Crowley considered it. He took another swig of wine. “Alright.”

“Did you have faith that the Lord knew the answers?”

“I … didn’t.” Aziraphale gave him a significant look. “You really think that’s all that it took?”

“Not having faith in the Lord? An angel without faith? Yes, Crowley. I think that’s what it took.” He rustled the wing, re-directing Crowley’s hands to another part. The demon obliged without remark. “I have known you for a long time, Crowley. You are an optimist - no, don’t interrupt me - you are an optimist and a believer in self-preservation. You always believe things will work out alright. But by the same token, you also feel that it’s your duty to ensure that. You have no faith that without your own efforts, things will be alright.”

Crowley frowned. “That’s not true.”

“My dear, you fought Armageddon tooth and nail, every step of the way.” He didn’t mention the part where Crowley had given up, when he thought Aziraphale had died, because that would have necessitated a discussion that Crowley not only has faith in himself but also in Aziraphale. It is not a discussion the angel feels like having tonight. “Look at Gabriel - he had nothing but faith that God’s plan would be followed. So did I.”

Crowley looks puzzled. “But you - no, you didn’t, because you tried to change the plan too.”

“Ah, no,” Aziraphale raised a finger. “I have always had faith that God’s plan will be followed. I did not have faith that God’s plan and the Great Plan were the same thing. Gabriel did.” Crowley has raised an eyebrow. “Let me guess - you don’t think God has a plan, yes?”

“Not a good one.”

“Perhaps not by your standards. It’s ineffable.”

Crowley sipped his wine. “In-effing-believable, says me. If it exists.”

“And this is why you Fell,” Aziraphale sighed, patting Crowley on the knees. Crowley frowned. “It’s not a bad thing, Crowley. It is who you are. You are a wonderful, complex, marginally kind - stop, don’t say a word - intelligent, funny, and overall brilliant person. The fact that you are also a demon is not any more defining of the person you are more than your hair color, your height, or the fact that even after 60 centuries you still haven’t learned to walk like a human.”

“Alright, alright.” Crowley took a sip of wine, and then glared at his glass until it refilled itself. “This conversation is making me feel some kind of way.”

Aziraphale looked concerned. “Oh? Good way, or bad way?”

“Not sure. We’re going to have to revisit it again some time.” He was watching Aziraphale over his wineglass, his lap still full of lustrous white feathers. “You think it’s that simple?”

“I have no idea, dear boy. It’s a theory. God alone knows.”

“And She’s not telling,” Crowley agreed. “I want to be drunk now. I can’t stop thinking about philosophy. It’s giving me a headache.”

“That might have been the whiskey shots.”

“No,” Crowley lied. “Come on, angel, let’s drink.” He snapped a finger-gun to Aziraphale’s wineglass, which also refilled. “How about music?”

“Mm.” Aziraphale’s head lolled back against the couch as he savored his sip of wine. It was very good, and he’d been saving it for a special occasion. They had decided that tonight, a night that shouldn’t have existed after the Apocalypse hadn’t come, and they were still together, was as special as any. “No bebop. Let’s play a game.”

“Strip Go Fish, right, I’ll get the cards.”

“No! Crowley.” Aziraphale looked wounded. “Why must you always go right to strip card games? I was thinking a board game.”

The demon groaned. “Oh, come on angel, I hate chess - you know that.”

“What makes you think I was going to say chess?”

“What other board games can you play with only two?” Crowley countered.

“Jenga.” He waved a hand languidly. “Some university students left a set here. Doesn’t require nearly as much thought as the other game they left where you have to make words out of these little tiles.”

“Scrabble?”

“It’s in a bag that looks like a banana.”

Crowley frowned. “I … have no idea. I don’t consider Jenga a board game, by the way.” Still, he stood up, swinging his legs to the floor and swaggering from the back room and into the shop, padding across the old floorboards to the front desk where Aziraphale kept lost items**. There was rustling, the distinct clunk of an elderly bong falling to the floor and Crowley cursing as he stuffed it back into the pile of lost gloves, and then more creaking as he returned, Jenga set in hand. “Right, where do you want this? Floor? Table? Table seems a better choice, only it wobbles, hang on, give me a book.”

“I will not!” He handed Crowley a stack of yellowing copies of the Celestial Times. “Use these.” Crowley accepted them, kneeling to stuff a suitable amount under one table leg, until the table was steady. He watched Crowley stacking the blocks deliberately, slowly, with the special care of someone who is just a little too drunk for the task at hand. He beamed, and the demon caught him looking.

“You really meant all that stuff you said about me, didn’t you?” His sunglasses had slid down his nose, one side cocked upwards with his crooked grin. “Brilliant and all that.”

“I did. If you hadn’t noticed, I do find you remarkably wonderful.”

“I’d noticed.” Crowley rested his hands flat on the table on either side of the assembled tower. He studied the blocks for a minute, and then, “You know the feeling is mutual, yes?”

Aziraphale’s smile warmed his voice, colored it with affection and peace. “I rather do. That said,” he added, standing unsteadily and making his way over to the table, wings pitching to help him maintain balance, “don’t think my tremendous fondness for you will at all diminish my desire to soundly defeat you in a game of Jenga.”

“I’d be insulted if it didn’t.” He grinned, honest and wide and genuine, before he downed the rest of his glass of wine and re-filled it anew. “Flip a coin for first draw?”

* It wasn’t that good. It hadn’t been, lately.

** Much like all shop lost and found collections, there were mostly just singular gloves and tatty scarves, but Aziraphale’s bookshop also had in its lost-and-found a lace handkerchief (lost 1884), a hatpin (1908), a fob watch (1936), a bong (1962), several lost bracelets (multiple years), a fanny pack (1987), a pager, (1989), two cell phones (1997 and 2001), an iPad (2012), and several board games (2016-2018). All abandoned Kindles, of which there had been several, had been inhumanely destroyed.

#good omens #good omens fanfiction #ineffable husbands #air conditioning #aziraphale #crowley #two supernatural beings sittin on a couch talking about eternal damnation #i worked on this too long #but oh well here we are #i wish i didn't enjoy fanfiction so much

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raguna-blade · 5 years

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Revolutionary Girl Utena

Just a singular episode this time but hey it’s what it is.

Revolutionary Girl Utena Episode 12

EPISODE OPENS UTENA DEFLOWERED JUST A GIRL

sure that's not worth investigating.

Ouch, that pasted over nameplate.

Depression utena is...yee. Wakaba, you're trying. Be the MVP we need.

That focus on the ring is weird feelin.

Utena's outfit got wrecked. No need to repair I got another outfit.

Uh...Not worth investigating nope.

God she looks so sad in a skirt.

Anthy, why. Also the red rose bordering.

God they both got that souless stare going on it's not ok.

Gotta be normal...? did I hear right?

EGG TIME!

What's the story today...? Toga showing off.

Juri: How'd you win you sketchy asshole.

Toga: I'm da best haha.

Juri: Scheming fuck.

Everyone else seems to hate this which is interesting.

Wakaba: Please stop being weird Utena, what the hell went down.

GO AWAY YOU RED FUCK.

Toga: Hey, wanna get back in the girl box? Eyyyyyyy. hover hands

God this handy fuck. Wakaba hit him.

Wakaba Speaks the hottest fire.

….It's not a slap, but does this mean wakaba get's to duel too?

Oh shit. Utena what the

Wakaba: HAHA I KNEW YOU WERE IN THERE!

Wakaba: I KNOW YOU AND THIS SHIT AIN'T YOU GET IT TOGETHER.

Egg 2?

Where the hell did he get this damn cellphone.

ANTHY ACTUALLY HAS SOME INTERIORITY OH MY GOD ITS CONFIRMED SHES NOT TERRIFYING SOULLESSNESS

Like we been done knew but her lack of reaction thus far, this is the clearest we've been.

Big ass rose murals. Jeeze.

Wakaba: Why're you being so weird. This kind of normality is weird. Please fix your shit.

Something wass stolen from you and made you a coward.

All the anthy images but that uh...on the nose metaphor is coming back and i'm real scared cause that shit keeps coming up and i'm waiting for the axe kick to come down on my dome.

It was a short depression, but damn we back in the game!

And Wakaba got hit with the charm special so.

Jesus Toga really? She's right there.

Toga: Wait, shit she's dueling me? What.

Shadow Girl Time: Fuck Normal, Normal Me Now, And that's weird.

Juri is The Other MVP, because she just brings the sword we needed to dunk asshole mcgee.

Fuck Him Up.

That I almost lost...god the concern....please be shadow jumping. It's almost certainly not but I can dream right?

Huh. His rose is red...? Why not white?

uh..u....This whole sword kiss thing is...maaaaaaaaaaaaaad uncomfortable.

Also, why the fuck does he know that.

And how is that abandoning her body...oh we got sword beams now.

No Ominous Theme? No Apocalypse. What is this shit.

Oh shit, broken swor-THERES THE SONG!

Oh man, this cutting up clothes shit, not cool Toga.

Oh this is Saionji 2.0 Isn't it? Superior oppent broken sword. Upped stakes.

Anthy...Recognizes this? And Crying. Um...That's the most expressive she's been.

And Utena Takes the W!

Wow, he looks fucking blown the fuck out. Definitely sainoji 2.0

Anthy pulls the rose bride schtick but it's ok this time since well...She seems to actually want to be with Utena?

Overall Thoughts: Well it's a oner today, but that's fine. And on that front, two things. Wakaba and Toga being the star of things, and Anthy seemingly finally being...less...Cold?

I mean heck let's start with that. I may have been overselling it, but genuinely up to this point, Anthy has been kind of weird to me. It's been really unclear what she want's out of anything and she seems absolutely married to the Rose Bride Schtick. She even drops the same script to utena despite Utena definitely being aware of the rules and such (although I guess there's ritual to be involved). But for once she very clearly seemed to have some actual desires. Even though she absolutely REFUSED to act on them in any meaningful way.

Like the level of subordination going on here is fucking uncanny, and I'm glad she seems to be coming out of it somewhat(?) but i'm feelin some kind of way about her actually seeming to give a damn about something and not quite so...robotic.

But ok, with Toga. He goes full dickhead here, but I love that he actually got somewhat roundly mocked by the rest of the student council. The way it sounded, none of them legit believed that He could beat Utena.

Which makes sense! I think. Like, if my idea that the duels are more a clash of ideals than actual skill, Toga didn't win by having the stronger ideal in regards to Utena. He won by making her have less faith, less belief in her own beliefs, played against her mentally, and then took the W. For like a few days. By that logic, perhaps he earned that win, his ideals were stronger. The Playing mind games and dominating thing he had going for him was....victorious over Utena's self confidence and belief in being the Prince or however I want to phrase that. Probably should figure it out.

But....It fails against Utena in the end. Wakaba see's to that, and we'll get there, but The mind games, the domination thing, they ultimately fall against Utena's self confident Be yourself, be the hero, be...A Prince I guess. Or at least that the Prince exists I guess.

hm...Be Courageous and Kind? I dunno. I feel, suddenly, I have a very unfirm grasp on Utena's philosophy/ideals here. But It seems to be very different from Togas, if only in the way they duel being clearly different. If nothing else, The Idea of being Respectful seems to be involved, Given Togas Sadism and how he ultimately loses....

hm.

But really, I want to point out the fact that this reads a lot like Saionji 2.0, which given their Rose Coloration hey appropriate, but this reads a lot like how Saionji got rocked. Hot Shit with the Rose Bride, top of the town, loses from an unexpected vector. The difference being, Saionji lost to some rando Girl Who seemed to come out of nowhere to rock his shit because of how he was treating anthy, while Toga lost to a rando girl who seemed to come out of nowhere to rock his shit because of how he was treating HER.

Now I say because of how he was treating Utena and not Anthy, because Anthy in this case isn't...Anthy. Like, Anthy, Utena's Love Interest/Friend (Right now I think they're more friends than full blood love interests cause I don't feel like Anthy is even in the remote dimension there right now and Utena....Doesn't seem to quite grasp her feelings at all? Dunno), is the ultimate prize of the Duel, but the reason Utena goes to fight has to basically do with getting her groove back, to being herself proper. And that means, in a sense, The cool confidant defender of the rose bride. Or at least, the kind of person who WOULD be the Cool Confidant Defender of the Rose Bride.

Which is concerning in it's own right but hey.

But todays MVP, Wakaba! I'm actually not sure how to feel about Wakaba as a whole right now. She seems to be kind of her own outsider dealie similar to Utena, and honestly her you're not acting like you thing kinda reminds me of Utena and Anthy (which with the rose bride ending thing is I...Guess? Dunno how to feel about it, and that's firmly in the theory realm right now). But the rousing from her...kind of being shoved into a role she's not terribly happy with, that she's going through the motions of acting out and accepting (see with Toga's uh...Wooing? Whatever creep show bullshit he was pulling) seems um...Familiar. That Anthy starts showing signs of life at the same time seems pertinent.

But Wakaba though! I kinda feel she needs to be kept an eye on cause she's been largely kinda ignorable thus far and given this series that's liable to come back and bite me in the ass. But her whole rousing of Utena, and being literally the only one who had any kind of faith in her (Arguable on the rest of the student council front I think, I felt they were inches from just out and out roasting him, but they were also kinda like, eh I guess she did get beat. Counterpoint though, Juri was waiting with that Sword, so I suspect it's less they didn't have faith and more they just knew Utena took one to the jaw and had to right herself first for the rematch so...eh) is...Interesting I guess? Wakaba's been very nakedly out and out about her interests and desires, and she wanted Utena to stop being a sad sack, she wanted utena to be... well Utena, I guess.

Dunno. Something to watch for I guess.

#revolutionary girl utena #Liveblog #analysis

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alchemisland · 6 years

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The Moors Mutt - I

Part II coming on Tuesday!

I. Old Stone

The beast I knew only in folkloric snippets. Hedge whispers perverting history to arcana through time immemorial. Perhaps too I had known it in nightmares, shapeless until named, becoming then familiar as a bedchamber.

It was grim autumn when that fateful letter arrived, setting in motion a chain of events both strange and unlikely. In retrospect, that a series of vignettes so bizarre could start with the simple act of a posted letter seemed comical.

The letter landed with a thud, dubbing me sole executor of the late Lady Renton Sizemore's last will, a grim charge requiring a trip to her wicked home, listed in the Briarscombe country house register as the third most bloodstained holding in England.

Dislike isn't the word. Lady Sizemore and I got on famously when last we spoke, thirty years ago. I wasn't the doting schoolboy turned dribbling manchild spending Saturday nights at bingo. Neither was she the elderly relation procuring coins from behind ears to the delight of the youngers.

We were not eachother's keeper. Why I was suddenly favoured for this sensitive task that required more mental finesse than anyone in the family gave me credit for out loud, puzzled me greatly. Somebody must have annoyed her at one of her events. Sandwich gala on the Pringle Estate destroyed by careless nephew's untucked shirt. In true family style, whatever infuriated her she took to the grave.

Once the money was apportioned, I was to ensure no stone went unturned, apt phrasing given its namesake. Cairn Cottage stood oppressively atop the mound some two hundred winters, a plundered megalith shielding against the bracing gales.

Up there the flowers bloomed blighted, grass grew sideways and only the sturdiest roots survived. Without the megalith's girth, perhaps those winds might have toppled the twisted demesne, but she held firm now as old.

Mystics, druids and spiritualists alike extolled the house's phantasmic virtues. Fringe groups scrambled to reserve exclusive use of the land for Candlemas ceremonies. Lady Sizemore didn't care, provided she was soundly remunerated.

Rumours abounded of hauntings, anomalies occurring on the land by midnight's trickery.

Upon receipt of instruction, I spurred my carriage toward Cairn Cottage, the house in whose shadow no local walked without rosaries.

Although my visit was primarily administrative, there was another matter pertinent to my interests. One muttering which above all others inspired fear. A cautionary tale warning children from the grounds by night. And sometimes, on cold and lonely nights, a brave man wandering alone might see fit to take the longer road home.

Worse than druids, they said a beast lived on the Moor. A hulking creature, whose snarling teeth bared in fullness of dark glowed like spears of starlight, whose stark brightness was dulled only by the gleaming viscera of previous engagements clinging in ragged flaps.

However the rumour started, it long sprouted legs of its own, more exciting with each recounting.

No smoke without fire. I intended to find the single primal ember, the lone truthful element, stripped of frill and frock, fancy and folly, bereft of myth, or loyalty to tradition. Was there something in the fields by night? Was it dangerous?

First came Sperrin, a grizzly hamlet outside the estate's confines. For a penny, a local lad promised to find a suitable nook for the trap. I visited the sole watering hole, a squalid cellar named Lar's. The tavern itself was not charmless, offering average vintage for below average prices, warmth, music, rustic flattery and inimitably, whispers of the beast.

The tavern's proprietor Lar was a man out of time. With his arms folded across his simian chest and those big lugs like trophy handles either side of his substantial forehead, he could have easily passed for a saxon chieftain. He stood astride the bar against a backdrop of coloured bottles. Immediately upon entering his eyes set upon me with great intensity. Unlike the merry keep of fireside tales, he offered no warmth in greeting. That you were found fit to sit his barstool was kindness enough.

Inebriates remained nursing drams, glowering at their respective lecterns. Occasionally I'd catch one staring at me, then turn away as I waved. After a while sitting and sipping, making a game of catching their nosy glances, I signalled Lar's attention. 'This is probably going to sound strange. Probably because it is. Hear me out though. Have you ever heard or seen anything strange out on the moor?'

Widened like an owl, Lar's right eye scanned me once, twice, three times before he moved a muscle. 'Have in fact. Not now though. Too many around. Later.' His lips barely moved. I tipped my nose.

Nearer closing, he poured a cup and sat, remaining on the business side of the bar.

'The beast, you say?' He leaned in close, one eyebrow raised, its shape the arching rod of a hooked line. 'I could tell you a thing or two about the beast alright.'

'Prithee speak, my curiosity is burning. I won't rest a wink until it's satiated. Tourist talk aside, do you believe, as men do God, a beast prowls these forests?' I inched forward, as if by closer proximity, the truths would be truer.

'Regular Theseus, eh? Monster hunters, we have had plenty. Lovers of darkness too. Students of forbidden arts. All are served here. Kings and paupers alike. Did you come all this way to hear me say that?' Lar spoke with great confidence. The manner of his prattling meant the tales he told were true, or this was practiced.

'No.' I replied, 'I have business in the cottage. My heart though, she belongs to this creature. I am not a quack, nor a holder of séances. I am not a man of low learning on the hunt for falsehoods. I am a lover of stories. Pray, continue your captivating narrative.'

He continued, 'Let it be said I was coaxed. You wanted this.'

In this ominous portent he let slip a mask of deft craft. There was artifice in his smile, a cheshire grin that touched either cheekbone. A whispered suggestion of hidden intent.

Everything made sense. Was I seeing clearly? More than ever. I saw his ruse; city boy down for the day, take him for a ride, tell him the usual stories. A pal of his will burst in at just the right time, scare me half to death, then they'll take me to the supposed hot-spot for the low price of everything I've got. Lar took me for a lettuce. Something in his warning tipped me. A little over-arch. If his performance was not theatre, then Shakespeare never wrote.

Doubtless once finished, Lar would proffer some overpriced talisman no fellwalker could risk refusing.

'Enough pussyfooting. Spill it. I'll need all the advice I can get.' Like a drill tip, I pressed my index finger into the bar.

'No matter what image I conjure in your mind's eye, the beast is yet more ferocious and terrible in the flesh. It's the great unreality of it.' He tapped his forehead. 'Your mind doubts what it's seeing, unable to comprehend its stimulus. Brave men are made mice in its shadow.'

'What evidence have you of such a creature?' I asked, draining my tankard. He did the same, then wiped the amber residue on the back of his hand. He looked me over once, as if to ask who I was to question. I returned a withering gaze, maneuvering my features to convey a similar message. For a moment the air felt charged with kinetic possibility. As when two pugilists circle to begin a contest, lead hands pawing. Neither of us wished to be responsible for qualms.

He broke the armistice. 'Evidence? If you didn't think it weren't here, you wouldn't have come. If you believed in your heart this week you'd be contending with a monster, you'd have stayed at home in your jams.'

'Nonsense, man! You forget I am summoned, not here of my own volition.'

'We, each of us, tell ourselves sweet little lies to justify how our limited time is spent. I have a right mind to think if the lady yet lived, you and I might still have met. On a yawning stretch such as this, arriving as you have: alone and curious. If there's one thing I can't respect, it's a self hating believer. Swanning around with all the cynicism of a non-believer, clad in the robes of an adherent, so that when the hobby is proved spurious you can point to your skepticism. You'd be first to the papers tomorrow if scientists verified the beast's existence, how you had journeyed and studied on your own dime to further the science.' Lar pursed his lips, knowing he'd cut me to the quick, vanished was his earlier reticence.

I hated how right he was. I was exactly this sort. Insulting people who believed the same things as me. First to refuse to enter a haunted house for fear a demon might take my soul.

I'd never concede his point though. I riposted, 'Few are more loathed than the opinionated barman. You speak much too readily. Do so again, I'll see your manners are checked for the next weary traveler willing to pay good coin.'

Lar's eyes lit, bulging with imagined riches. 'Let me fill your drink, sir. I meant no offence. We speak freely here. Manners soften. Soon one finds truths cannot be digested unperfumed. Here in the wilds, it's a duty to voice quarrel. Far from crown and court, unaired anger festers.' Lar gladly dispensed his pearls of rural wisdom as if they were sweets from a bulging striped bag.

'Really, man. Every idea can be made ridiculous if extrapolated to that degree. Manners take the edge off. I'm not offended by your candor. I intend to find the creature, if such exists. Have you no doubt about that.' I watched him pull another drink.

The returned tankard was too full to raise without spilling. I slurped loudly, head bowed. Like a pulled plug, half the liquid gone in a single gulp.

'What evidence is sufficient? Look around you.' Lar held aloft his hands, urging me toward his empty business, still cast in a sickly light from the last flickering sentinels.

He pointed toward the empty seats. A single patron remained hidden in the shadows. A local by his boots.

'We did a roaring trade before that bloody woman inherited the place. Once she came, the trade died. When I was a lad, that land was free to roam. No walls. She had them built to spite us. Worse rumours too and all, that she built those walls to house it.'

'It?' I asked

'It. The beast.' Lar's voice lowered to a whisper. 'A cage for a pet beyond control. That's your sort all over. Dabbling where you shouldn't.'

'Her sort.' I corrected, 'I'm not aristocratic. You're a presumptuous sort, you know.'

'Believe you're not the first to say. Her sort, whatever pleases. I don't subscribe to this theory. Me personally, I think it came from hell. One thing's for certain, it got worse when they shifted the cairn.'

'You say you have seen it?' Part of me thought I was the one stringing him along, but another more gullible me firmly believed, or wanted to believe, that he had seen something. Hoping not to seem needy, I drew myself close to him, the bar still between us, 'With your own eyes if you saw it, you must swear it now. Did you see it as I see you now, or as one sees the distant stars and erroneously assumes knowledge.'

'As I stand before you.' Lar gestured to his stained apron, which he then removed and hung on a hook overhead. He nodded to the barfly, who stumbled from his seat and shot the bolt across the lock, an angry black mechanism like a bas-relief, which clanked against the timber as he let it fall. 'That's Fergus.'

Fergus lurched over. One leg trailed behind him. I couldn't help imagining him as a gothic manservant, dragging corpses to the laboratory in pursuit of higher knowledge. He came to stand beside me. There were giants on the earth is those days. Though our eyes observed the same setpieces, his countenance betrayed little comprehension. He had the chiseled jaw of a marble bust in profile, but his mouth hung open permanently, moist lips pursed like a fish.

He placed an enormous hand on my shoulder. Such space was permitted between his splayed fingers that ten legions abreast might find passage unmolested. His knuckles protruded unnaturally, evidence of labour, something harder than masonry or smithcraft. Mayhaps soldiering overseas.

I stared at his hand. He never looked at me. I coughed, first mannerly, then more harshly, thinking to approach cautiously lest my assumption prove provident, that he had lost his sound during foreign campaigns, of whose spoils we all were beneficiaries.

'Don't mind him.' Lar said. He spoke softly in the presence of his friend, observing his movements closely, ready to interject with a steadying hand or a warning to the cruelly curious. I wondered were they brothers. They bore little resemblance, though stranger things I had heard. Lar took Fergus' wrist and pressed gently, disturbing the folds of his motheaten jacket. They shared a moment I could but observe, radiating warmth and glad tidings in a wordless wave.

'I mean not to speak boldly, and lash me with spite if I transgress overmuch, but I must know or I should forever wonder, are you kin?'

Fergus shared Lar's laugh with the same look of bemused ignorance.

'You hear that? Fancy man reckons we're brothers. Probly thinks we're all related down this end, and not in a godly way.' Lar laughed, a viking bellow.

Lar released his grip and the folds of Fergus' sleeve righted themselves. He spoke several octaves lower, miming offence at my observation. I started to explain I intended no hidden subtext, but Lar waved to indicate all was taken as delivered.

'We are not brothers. Close friends. Known Fergus here forever.' He gently tapped the giant's hand, slapped on the bar like some enormous muddy bird print. 'Used to be a keen cookie too, once upon a forever ago. Loved languages, Welsh mostly. Pugilism he loved more. One passion consumed the other. Anything burning so intensely inevitably cannibalises itself. Took one knock too many, stole his wits in an instant. A left hook across the bar sent him erstwhile. Twenty five minutes he was on the shores of night, learning the landscape of the dreamworlds, while we fanned his rigid form, wet his brow and whispered familiar names in his ear. When at last he woke a part of him was left forever in that place. I like to think, boyishly perhaps, it awaits him upon leaving this plain of lousy strife, like the belongings awaiting a homeward jailbird. The cloak of a lost lifetime. Not for him. He'll slide right into it, fit like a tailored piece, and all of eternity to speak. Not here though.'

Tears welled in his eyes. I took the reins, 'Think nothing of your emotions, man. We each have them. Doubtless I will shed a tear up in the old witch's place. Another life awaits, that much is sure. Grander than this. I'm sure he made, and makes, a fine man. Built like a gladiator. I am sorry to have dredged unpleasantness. I meant only to satisfy my own selfish curiosity. Forgive me. Please, continue.'

'I will at that.'

'It were one night, three years ago. Ferg was there. We'd been called out on account of strange noises near the workers' cottage. They wouldn't work until the evil was killed or driven away. We came down from the high road proper and saw it between the trees ahead. Like a horse it stood, with clumsy stilts supporting an ursine bulk that swayed as it shambled. It drank shadows to conceal its dread presence. Blackness it took for robe. In walking its front paws propelled its cumbersome form, while the rear set, less lengthy, dredged channels in the dirt. In motion it arched to reveal a belly spun of lighter felt, ashen in the scant moonlight. Bundled, it became an orb of shadow, nothingness.'

'Unbeknownst we watched it watching, green eyes like blazing protostars probing for movement. Well it knew to choose this site, one of only two wells being located nearby. In a flash then it was gone, satin-shoed away into the night.'

The tale Lar knew was a scorcher paused. He beamed, an actor awaiting applause. I gathered my jaw from the floor, brushed it and set it back properly.

Each word drew me closer, which Fergus mirrored, until we three sat as witches about the bubbling lip of their cauldron, a coven of pallid specters.

Lar paused to sip and nodded we join.

I wondered had my hobby, in a blink, become too dangerous to justify. It was well telling my employers of ghost hunts, but a wild beast - my insurance wouldn't have it! If it turns out some menagerie escapee, what then was it? Quest for wonder or recklesss folly? Weiss, Wellie and Wardun insurance, even in their most obscure policies, don't pay out for fools. That's why I chose them!

Lar went on, a fresh cigarette painting the air blue in his articulation, 'Each new, shifting moon we came to that spot and watched. We took it upon ourselves to rid the land of danger.'

'Fergus knows a bit about a bit, that's what's left to him, God bless. What he knows is knots. Army training dictates every officer have at least passing knowledge of ten or more useful fastenings.'

'Me? I know about animals. We make a fierce duo. We inquired in advance about a reward, to which the estate responded agreeably, so we set off with lengths of rope overshoulder and the angriest looking traps the furmen could spare, determined to snare it. We planted snares all about its presumed domain.'

'Nothing came. Not a rat. Not a wisp. Not never again. It's the mystery disturbs me most. I'd die happy knowing.'

In his voice a single note of longing rang, dispelling the subterfuge of his intentions and, in the length of a breath, his beings and inner machinations were laid bare. Far from the sinister goldlust and murderous intention I had silently attributed to him, he seemed eager in an earnest fashion, willing in the name of a job done.

I observed Lar, powerful and straight. 'Do I sense an unfinished quest?'

'Aye. Not too subtle, mind.' Lar flashed a toothy smile, the sort a condemned man spits at his executioner. 'You seem a serious man. I didn't know when you first came in parading your manners like fancy knickers. You can't be too sure about a man who gives too many pleases. You're not that sort and have proved such twice over.' Lar imagined that was a compliment from the look he gave me. Expectant almost, between child submitting scribbles for display and cat batting dead mouse onto pillow.

Well, of course I had something to say about that. Cats were hissing. A donnybrook of claws and torn fur not even a hearty stock of iodine could salve. 'And I might say also that I too had cast aspersions on your character, maintaining you were of sinister country stock. As you claim to have been rapturously convinced otherwise, as have I.'

'Once the lady's estate is divided and bequeathed I'll receive my own. I mean to inherit a substantial bursar. I will pay to you a fair sum. In exchange, you will guide me to the hotpots, generally ensuring nothing eats me. When we find it, you're in charge until it's bound.' If he came, it would be on my terms.

'Find it? Slow down. We've seen it once in a hundred times. I'll take you gladly all the same.'

Wordless, we shook hands and drained our horns.

'Tomorrow?' Lar asked. He drew my gaze to an unopened whiskey bottle, which I declined.

'Not so, good man. Tomorrow I will tend my affairs. In the evening, if all is ordered, I will return to discuss further a plan of action. Have you a room I might rent?'

'Not for everyone mind, so don't go saying. There's one in the back. I'll light the fire.'

'Please do.'

I left a generous tip. Before following the publican to the warm hollow, I shook Fergus' hand, assuming he too would be part of our fortean friendship.

While I slumbered, the nightmare broke free her paddock, thundering across the veil of my somnambulant phantasmagoria, its clanging hooves ringing shrill terror.

I saw spined creatures oozing pus, many-eyed. Edgeless orbs hissing like flying snakes from one black abyss to another.

Cats with human faces screamed. A hairless man with a tail curled upwards like a scorpions noxious pike disemboweled himself with a broken mirror.

Last came the bestial form, not unlike that which Lar had described, striding evilly. Two venom coated fangs, uncontained by its snarling mouth, curved inward toward its breast. Catlike claws glinted menacingly. Turning my third eye downwards as if to look upon my feet, I found I was formless, yet the beast circled knowingly around the space my corporeal form should occupy.

I knew instinctively this reverie was more tangible than the others. That if the beast should strike I would die or wake screaming with a crimson pool spreading below me. It sniffed the air, pawing closer.

I woke to my beastless chamber. Sodden, I sought a candle and in its gloam chronicled my nightmare. That night sleep ne'er returned, making groggy my morning plod toward Cairn Cottage.

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eurosong · 6 years

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ESC 2018 grand final - my ranking

Hey there, folks. So, I’m in LISBOOOON! I have a few posts upcoming today that I’ve queued, but here is the last big post I’ll actually write before the results tonight - my rundown of the grand final and ranking. I’ve tried to give a positive and negative for each of the songs.

Ukraine (14) + A lively, memorable and gently motivating start to the contest - How extra can you get with staging? Also, whilst I’ve grown to enjoy the song, it still makes me feel nothing because of its lyrical pot pourri.

Spain (2) + Adorable chemistry, true love and a song with a hint of old school magic. - Lost some of its gentleness and authenticity with the revamp – and I’m amazed that they added an instrumental crescendo but will do nothing to match it on stage. Slovenia (9) + A song of empowerment and being true to yourself by a strong badass woman that has become an undeniable earworm for me. Hvala da! - Will the staged hitch work as well a second time with a more knowing audience? Lithuania (5) + One of the most genuinely tender and sweet moments of the entire evening, and I love the vulnerability and emotion of Ieva’s voice. - Easily lost between Austria (7) + Extraördinarily rich and warm voice and a quality song that has a great progression between very different verse/bridges and choruses, which compliment each other rather than clash. - I don’t know what is more distracting, the bizarre outfit he’s wearing or the perturbed expressions he’s pulling. Also, that graphic where he appears to transcend is a LOL moment that undermines the seriousness of the song.

Estonia (15) + Elina has definitely got a voice. - This song has got little else. The great operatic arie make you feel things; this just makes me feel that the composers wanted to exhibit her voice but the lyrics and emotional journey were afterthoughts.

Norway (26) + It’s a song encouraging children to believe in themselves and write songs. If they compare what they write with the quality of this song, it’ll give them a lot of self-belief… - I don’t know how someone so smug became so beloved, and I’ll never understand how juries could potentially reward a song which basically consists of one awful jingle riff repeated over and over and over.

Portugal (8) + Portugal once again follow their own impulses, bring us something original and imbued with so much meaning and saudade. - I still find Cláudia’s voice very reedy. United Kingdom (22) + Surie is a real dame, a great representative of her nation and works like hell to get something out of this song. - The song itself is a cliché damp squib with painful lyrics and ridiculous sound effects in the background to try to make it less bland. Serbia (13) + Serbia returns to the final singing in their native language. Hopefully this encourages them to keep on that path and revive their reputation for having great success with Serbian language songs. Also, Balkanika are great people and they’ve served something very different to the typical here. And I love the more traditional vibes from the first minute. - The shift in instrumentation thereafter is less so. I also can’t help but find a lot of things about the song and performance offputting. Serbia’s answer to Deen and the ladies gravitating around him give me real “shindig at the cult compound” vibes.

Germany (12) + Germany’s song is a real emotional gut punch, sang well and with sincerity. - I really don’t like how they got around the no LED screen by bringing one just so that he could perform in front of a glorified lyrics video. It seems like lazy ass staging to me. Also, I could réálly do without the whole oh-eh-oh-eh-ohing.

Albania (1) + An absolute masterpiece in both music and especially lyrics, makes me emotional no matter how many times I’ve heard it. - Sadly, I doubt juries will recognise that. France (6) + This is one of this year’s best examples of the balancing act that is songwriting. They craft a beautiful and impactful song, but one that is simple enough to be widely understood. It will be a high point of human interaction in the evening and a powerful moment. - It’s a little on the repetitive side. And as a guitar player, I’m always a little distracted by seeing people bobbing about pretending to play.

Czechia (20) + It is a catchy song and Mikolas seems like a fun person on stage. - It’s still a song with ghastly misogynistic lyrics, and I’m sort of surprised it got through after an awkward performance in the semis. Is it just me, or did the Czechs pick backing singers who contrast in the most awkward possible way with Mikolas’ voice?

Denmark (19) + The lyrical message is nice. - It’s seriously one of the most repetitive songs of the whole year, and I hate the whole "doing the chorus three times in a row” schtick. Australia (23) + The intentions behind the song are nice. - Sadly, it’s just a wild assortment of clichés, and I’m flabbergasted it got through with a performance that more befitted a drunken aunt at a karaoke.

Finland (18) + Singing about overcoming demons and finding strength in yourself is something positive in my eyes. (I’m going to that well a number of times, I know.) - The performance is a hot mess for me, just throwing as many gimmicks and props at the wall as possible and hoping they stick. Also, Monsters really doesn’t show Saara’s voice in the best light, she gets quite screechy. And those demon children who sound like chipmunks take away any feeling of solemnity.

Bulgaria (16) + It’s a song with a stylishly mysterious and dark score. The lads in the group sing well. - I find Zhana a huge distraction – positioned as a centrepiece of our attention but barely singing. Also, I find it completely the wrong atmosphere for a song about true love. And the fly-by-night nature of the “common framework” means that the song is lacking sincerity and authenticity for me. Moldova (21) + They’ve ascended a little from the very depths of my ranking thanks to how likeable they come across on stage and the brilliantly communicative facial expressions they pull, which really bring the slapstick story to life. - At the end of the day, this isn’t a drama contest and the song itself with its thrusting dirty trumpet blasts and bizarre sound effects is appalling.

Sweden (24) + They’ve allowed a humble light tube store owner to survive another winter… - Sweden going back to the same old well of staging quality well above song quality. And can they please send a woman or band again? I’m getting tired of these presumptuous americlones - last year an ersatz Timberlake, this year a Bieber.

Hungary (11) + Absolutely one of the highlights of Thursday night. I got both chills and visceral thrills from such a candid and passionate performance. - Still not entirely my cup of tea and a tad repetitive.

Israel (17) + If this year really is a battle between Cyprus and Israel, then I’m with the latter all the way. Not my style of song but it’s thoughtful and on a pertinent topic. - Overly memetic, bizarre staging, and I still find it overbearing to listen to. Netherlands (4) + This is the song that is going to rock my socks off and make me want to dance. Love the message, love the music. - The cuts to the dancers seem less awkward but the whole idea is incongruous enough to confuse and put off potential voters.

Ireland (10) + I’ll admit, I felt genuine chills when watching this song and the rapturous applause the two lads got. Eurovision moments like this show us how the world should be. It’s a pleasant song and finally, Ireland is back in the finals. - I still believe a lot of the hype was generated by the video/stage show rather than the song, and Ryan seems a little opportunistic to me… Cyprus (25) + Portugal’s pyrotechnicians will have enough money for a very fancy holiday after this performance. - I can’t believe that this could be the winner. The music is extremely tacky, the lyrics are an afterthought, the use of one random Spanish word is galling (I made my students laugh by singing a song in Spanish and randomly dropping the word “biscuit” in the chorus) and I can’t help but think it’d be a huge step back for the contest. Italy (3) + One of the most moving performances and lyrics of the year – sung with an urgency and an anger that perfectly suits. And Metamoro are absolutely two of the loveliest people to ever participate in the contest and I can’t get enough of them. - The on-screen lyrics, meant to bring the song’s meaning to life, could actually prove a distraction.

#eurovision #esc #eurovision 2018 #eurovision song contest #esc 2018

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peachdoxie · 7 years

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Alright! My full review, I suppose, of Coco! Of course, spoilers galore, so be wary if you are avoiding them.

Two things. First, I will not be talking about the representation of Mexican culture in Coco. I’m not Mexican and so I’m not the person who can do that. I’ll leave that to actual Mexican people, who actually know stuff about Dia de Muertos and Mexican culture and whatever else. Second, I will not be comparing Coco to The Book of Life. Again, I’m not Mexican. Also, I’m sure plenty of other people who know both films better than I do to compare them. It’s been like three years since I’ve watched TBOL and so I can’t remember all the details either.

Now that that’s out of the way, I’ll start by saying that I did actually enjoy Coco. I didn’t think it would be a bad film, of course. My impressions of it from what I’d seen on tumblr were rather that it would be kind of lackluster and unimpressive, similar to how I found Moana (review here). Not visually, since the animation was gorgeous as usual for a Pixar film, but narrative-wise. If you want some of the worries I had before seeing it, you can read them here.

Instead, I don’t think those were accurate worries. I felt that the cartooniness was well balanced with the seriousness. The weirdness of Dante was really the only thing that actually felt out of place, in the beginning at least. But since he’s not an actual dog but rather a spirit guide (I can’t remember the word for it), it makes more sense and so I wasn’t bothered by him being that goofy. So the style of the animation actually worked for me and wasn’t a bother. And, of course, it was well done and very pretty and detailed and all that jazz.

The story of the film was also fairly solid, and thematically it was on par. Character-wise it was excellent, with one exception. I expected it to not be as good as it was, that some of the characters would be caricatures or stereotypes of stock characters, but they weren’t. For the really pertinent characters - Miguel, Hector, Abuelita Elena, Imelda, in particular - they had good backstories that explained their character choices well and provided for good character development, as well as a solid plot. That’s what I was most afraid of, since bad characters can lead to a bad story. Not the case in Coco, for which I was glad.

I’m going to talk about what I didn’t like as much now. I know it will seem like there’s a lot I don’t like, but really it’s just me being extremely critical of some small things that I think could have improved the film a lot. Keep in mind, I think Coco was really well done, so these aren’t serious or me saying I think Coco is bad. I always tend to spend more time talking about what I didn’t like than what I do, since most people agree with me on the things they liked. It’s the things I didn’t like that I have to explain in greater detail.

So, first major criticism. Hector’s identity as Miguel’s great-grandfather was very predictable. As soon as we met Hector and I noticed his gold tooth matched the one on the guitar that belonged to the man in the picture, I immediately had two thoughts: first, that Hector was lying about who he was and was actually Ernesto de la Cruz. Second, that he was the man in the photograph, Miguel had it wrong, and somehow Ernesto ended up with the guitar. Surprise, one of those is what actually happened. So I saw that coming from basically the first moment we met Hector. When he said his daughter’s name was Coco, I was like “yep, there it is.” The reveal was well done, but I saw through the plot twist from a mile away. I think they could have made that less obvious, but eh. It might just be a me problem, since I am very well versed in film narrative studies.

However, I do have bigger issues with one part of the story that I do wish Pixar hadn’t done because it’s cliched and out dated. I really wish that they hadn’t made Ernesto de la Cruz someone who murdered so he could commit theft of intellectual property so that his ambitions weren’t ruined. Sigh. I’ve seen that done too many times and it’s boring. And I don’t think this is because of me being me, either. Smashing We Used to be Friends with Stealing the Credit for the “big twist” (granted, it wasn’t the only one so there’s that) is sooooo overdone. I’d rather that didn’t happen, and I’ll explain why.

I didn’t see the betrayal coming, but that’s probably because, to me, it doesn’t really fit in the film. It’s kind of like Hans in Frozen, though better executed and with slightly better setup. The fact that Hector died of “food poisoning” was highlighted served as a Chekhov’s Gun, so at least there was that. But otherwise, I didn’t like Ernesto’s betrayal for two main reasons besides its overdoneness.

First, it didn’t seem to fit with the film thematically, imo. Coco didn’t need a third-act villain to still have a really great story with the exact same message. In fact, Ernesto’s betrayal seems a bit counter to the theme of family and remembrance and stuff. The main conflict for most of the film was between Miguel’s desire to be a musician and his family’s rejection of that because of the lingering impact of Imelda’s grief and anger. Which is great! That’s a really good cause of conflict! In the end, Miguel is able to reconcile Hector and Imelda by getting them to talk to each other and realize that Hector always wanted to go back and was trying to go back but died along the way. They reconcile over music and there’s still the dramatic tension of Miguel trying to get back to Coco before she forgets Hector in her old age. That’s a great conflict that leads to a lot of suspense and character development and resolution. I love it.

But throwing a villain in there? It actually seems kind of lazy to me. Like, the directors made Ernesto be a villain as a plot device to make drama for why it took so long for Miguel to get back. To me, it wasn’t necessary. More so, it was thematically inaccurate. Part of the conflict resolution was the reconciliation between Imelda with the broken heart and Hector with the regret and guilt at leaving them. The resolution relied on communication and understanding of each other’s perspective, as well as dealing with grief! Both Imelda and Hector were grieving for so long that part of the resolution, as subtle as it was, was about finally accepting what happened and moving on, together.

And tbh, I think that making Ernesto de la Cruz a villain - murdering his best friend just so his ambitions could be fulfilled - seems very much against that. It puts him as evil and, basically, irredeemable. That bothered me, a lot. I don’t like irredeemable villains that aren’t the central cause of conflict. The only reason why Ernesto was revealed to be a villain was because of the primary source of conflict. That’s just...bad writing, imo. Not like, super bad, but not really that good either. Why can’t Hector reconcile with both Imelda and Ernesto? If the theme is about reconciliation and family, why didn’t that happen with Ernesto as well?

(Okay, I will break my earlier statement about not comparing this to The Book of Life, for just a bit. If the makers of Coco were trying to avoid too many comparisons to TBOL by NOT having a trio of reconciliation at the end, like with Maria, Joachim, and Manolo, then they could have done other things that avoided too many similarities that would have made me happier. Plus, if too many similarities were what they were worried about, then making Coco three years after TBOL shouldn’t have on their docket. But, that’s unknown if that was their intent, so I won’t rant on that further.)

The second reason why I didn’t like Ernesto being a villain, besides the way that I didn’t think it fit narratively and thematically, is that I’m just really fricking tired of the Broken Pedestal trope. You know the one. Someone idolizes someone else, then they find out that idol is flawed, and they’re crushed. The pedestal breaks and the idol falls. Like, blah blah whatever moral tales you want to tell about the dangers of idolizing people because you’ll inevitably be disappointed and whatever. The side of me that abhors cynicism just wants that trope to go die a quiet death in a corner somewhere. Well, what I really want is for the broken pedestal concept to not be so polarizing! What frustrates me so much about Ernesto de la Cruz’s fall from grace is that it had to go from being “the best musician in all of Mexico who wants you to follow your dreams!” to “a man who murdered his best friend to steal his songs when his friend wanted to go home to his family.” Like, can you get any more polarizing than that? He goes from idol to evil in one scene.

This is probably more of a big “me problem” than any of my other criticisms, and perhaps I’m laying this a little too hard on Coco, since plenty of other films have done it, but Ernesto’s betrayal is made more frustrating to me because the film didn’t need to have this story line in order to still be good. It’s easy enough to have Hector still die young and still be forgotten by everyone WITHOUT Ernesto being a villain. Hector could have decided to head home with Ernesto wishing him luck, then died on the way back. Maybe no one knew what happened to him. Ernesto, overcome with grief over the loss of his friend, could have refused to talk too much about him and so no one ever really knew who Hector was. Or they had a big fight and Hector left. For whatever reason, Hector leaves the MacGuffin-esque guitar behind and Ernesto uses it out of respect for his friend. Ernesto, in the end, admits that he was wrong to have not made a point of publicizing Hector’s role in his fame as much, or that he didn’t remember him well enough in his fame, or whatever. Thematic reconciliation and everyone’s happy. Or I don’t know. Something like that. But basically the exact same plot could have happened without Ernesto being a third act villain! Ernesto is still flawed, but in the same way as Imelda and Hector because he was grieving for his friend and screwed up!

I just...am really tired of the “fall from grace” trope being used, especially in wake of all the stuff in 2017 that’s happened re: people being outed as sexual harassers and whatever. Granted, Coco was in development long before that, but I don’t think that’s a reliable excuse. Plenty of people have been revealed to have done bad things like that before 2017. Plus, like, it’s so negative! Why can’t Ernesto be an overall good guy who has flaws just like everyone else! And I know I’m ranting at this point but it’s so tiring seeing such polarizing falls from grace. Yeah, whatever messages you want to say about the dangers of idolization and of ambition and whatever cultural history there is behind them, I get that. Can’t we have the idol fall, but not all the way? Can they fall to a middle ground? From idealism to realism, instead of idealism to pessimism? Not that Coco is necessarily pessimistic, but hopefully you’ll get my point.

Anyway, part of the reason I’m going off about this so much is because I know that Pixar is capable of doing better than this! Yeah, yeah, I know that “Pixar” isn’t one singular entity, but they do have a brand and they do have an ideology of what they want their films to be like, and I know that several of the big names do tend to have influence on all the films Pixar makes, so I think my point is valid. Lee Unkrich, the director of Coco, has worked on basically every Pixar film in some authoritative capacity. Pixar has made very quality films where the conflict was character driven WITHOUT having any sort of villain. Finding Nemo is the one that really comes to mind (Lee Unkrich worked on it, just fyi). There was no villain in the film. There were antagonists, but not villains. There IS a difference between the two. So it ticks me off that there was a villain in Coco when a) it was narratively and thematically out of line, b) it wasn’t necessary to have the same theme in the end, and c) I know Pixar can do better than that.

Whatever. I know I’m being extremely nitpicky for Pixar, but that’s because I have high standards and I hold Pixar to relatively high standards as well, given their history. But like I said earlier, that doesn’t mean I think Coco is a bad film. In fact, I think it was really great. There were a lot of things I really liked about it. The animation was great. The music was great. The characters were all really well rounded and driven. The story was also fairly good, if not predictable. Even the villain, though I don’t think he should have existed, was well done in at least being consistent. I’ll probably see it again at some point this break, and maybe once again in Chicago as well.

As a last note, please don’t argue with me on my opinions or try to change my mind. You may disagree with me and you’re welcome to tell me that, but I really don’t want to argue with anyone. I’ve stated my opinions and why I think the things I do. I can’t defend them any more than I already have.

#coco #coco spoilers #anecdotes by peachdoxie

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