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luminescentlyricist · 3 years ago

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🎪 An Explosive Break - Identity V 🎪

With the release of Weeping Clown and thus more Hullabaloo lore, some of the things written here may be outdated slightly, but I have tried to keep it as canon-compliant as possible prior to this release. [Even then, I made mistakes in the details, but the general event progression is the same.] I hope you enjoy the read!

Mike stumbled where he stood, sitting quickly down onto his rough bed so as not to fall over. The acrobat was relatively new to the circus, but held utmost faith in himself. He’d spent the past few days unpacking and getting ready, but today was the one he’d been waiting for… He’d finally earned Bernard’s trust and been told he could perform for Hullabaloo. Checking in the mirror, he hastily locked the door to his small room. Sure, outsiders thought they lived in small tents echoing the Big Top, but the cloth was just an excuse to hide what little structure there actually was when the rooms were set up. He wasn’t quite sure whether it was to be considered a travelling circus, but he hoped so. The adventure promised to him was half of what had lured him into working there, flashy costumes and employment opportunities notwithstanding. Those he could showcase with just about any group that gave him half a chance.

Looking around the room, he spied one of his suitcases almost open, the materials within carefully wreathed in all manner of paddings. It was dangerous, carrying acids and other such hazardous equipment for his ‘special’ interest without having them locked up and secured, but it had been the best he could do at the time. Besides, if it hadn’t appeared to be a regular bag, there would’ve been far more questions to dodge. Despite being an acrobat, that type of thing wasn’t his strong suit. Standing with a slight groan, the world whipped around in front of his eyes for a moment. The bright lights weren’t the best thing for his eyesight, however young and spritely he appeared to be. Walking slowly over to the suitcase, he dragged it to sit on a rug near the farthest wall, tapping around on said wall for an inevitably loose board and finding one that he pried aside with his trembling fingers.

There weren’t exactly the best regulations in place for the hobbies Mike had, so he got away with what carelessness he displayed from time to time, but the thought of being discovered was the last thing he wanted anyway. Glancing back towards the door, a bead of sweat rolled down his forehead despite the lack of hot weather. He needed to pull himself together. As far as Bernard and anyone else was concerned, even his new friend Margaretha, the balls and other supplies contained within the hastily-constructed case were only for juggling. He’d hoped that was how it’d stay. Dragging his fingers down the worn leather, he fiddled with the silver clasps, managing to heave the lid over without crushing anything vital. With a heavy thud, it all fell open, revealing the result of his efforts. Pristine bottles, shining juggling balls and miscellaneous tricks kept securely in place with all manners of loops and button-straps, as well as being padded in thickly with whatever Mike was able to find with a moment’s notice. The invitation to Hullabaloo had come with little warning, and he’d not wanted to waste any precious travelling time in case it delayed when he was able to perform. He’d not expected any sort of introductory delay, but all came together in its due course.

Mike’d been there for a few months at the time, and his heart still ached for home, but there were ways he could carry those memories with him. This was half of the reason why he’d not properly unpacked for so long - sometimes, he kidded himself into thinking he’d leave. But there were new friends here too, like Margie and Murro, and they were his reason to stay. The dancer was charming and trustworthy, even though he’d only known her for a few days, and there were rumours that she’d be introducing her fiancé soon. He couldn’t wait to make a good impression.

The Wildling, though, was like an older brother to him. A guardian when the ringmaster was asleep. His heart squeezed horribly every time he read the crinkling letter underneath his pillow, though he intended to frame it and keep it close. Having a hard time coming to terms with losses was something that’d followed the acrobat wherever he went. He was becoming more aware of these patterns over time, and preservation of memories was becoming easier due to the technology available. Attachments were fine things to have, he told himself, and Murro was safe out there somewhere.

Eyes widening suddenly, the young man snapped out of his nostalgic daze. He pulled on some white gloves at his bedside table, wiggling his fingers to make sure they weren’t going to slip off. Someone knocked on the thin door, which was really just a panel of enough wood to cover the entranceway and give him a modicum of privacy. Nearly slamming the suitcase shut on his fingers in his panic, he called out to his visitor, unable to keep his tone from trembling. Peeling off the gloves and approaching the doorway, he quickly wiped off the sheen of sweat gathering at his palms onto his pants and cleared his throat.

“Mike Morton here. What do you need?”

His voice had always been soft, but nothing compared to the near-whisper that escaped his lips then. He’d not intended for it to come out that way, but hadn’t truly needed to speak to anyone for quite a while. Brow creasing in concern, the acrobat made way for the figure at the other side of the entrance for them to come in. Usually, whatever small area he could claim as his own was nearly sacred to him, but the circus was new and frightening. Some companions would surely be an asset to him while getting used to everything. One certain performer had shown him kindness from the very beginning, and he couldn’t have been more grateful for that, but she did little to ease his nerves when he was so tired all the time.

“To talk with a friend.”

The reply came after a moment’s pause, and the familiar dancer revealed herself in the doorway, leaning against the thin walls for a moment before Mike had the thought to usher her into the tent. Steps so light they could barely be heard, Margaretha picked her way through the strewn path of half-unpacked bags and perched on the end of Mike’s bed, crossing her long legs but remaining tense and ready to leave. Eventually, Mike snapped himself out of his uncharacteristic daze and retrieved a rolled-up piece of paper from his scattered belongings, hanging it up on one of the walls. Though not much of an artist himself, an old friend had designed a poster for him. However long it’d been since he’d visited home, he’d cherished that wherever he went. The performer’s mismatched eyes wandered to read the text, a gentle smile curling his lips upwards. “Mike Morton’s Birthday Party Show!”

For a brief moment he forgot he had a visitor, being so caught up in his euphoric memories. But Margie was a friend of the present, and had even placed enough trust in her companion to share with him a small secret. She’d slung an inconspicuous black bag over her shoulder and was setting it down on the bedsheets, her gaze doing a rapid and habitual sweep of the area to make sure nobody but the acrobat was watching. Ushering him over with one hand, she pushed the bag away with the other, setting its contents in her lap - a glittering music box, carefully modelled in the shape of a circus tent and adorned with the types of gems she’d previously only dreamed of.

“Isn’t it wonderful, Mike? Sergei had it made for me. He thought that being able to choose my own music for the dances - to an extent - may help ease my nerves. We are new here, as you know, and I find audiences can be unwelcoming at first. I can only hope you don’t get such thoughts.”

Mike, suddenly apprehensive to be in his own space, came to sit beside her on the bed, grabbing his gloves once more as he passed. He didn’t want to damage such a precious object with carelessness, much less get any marks on it that others would notice. Pausing for a second, his eyes found Margie’s as she nodded encouragingly. Opening the box with as much care as he could muster, Mike peered inside. Squinting, he looked up to his dressing table, finding a monocle and affixing the chain behind his left ear. Though just used as a cosmetic most of the time, he’d since put a magnifying lens in. Preparing his props had been tricky work until he’d committed the movements to memory, and swore he could do it with his eyes closed.

The details of it all were nearly overwhelming, but he could recognise how much care had been put into it, and that was all that really mattered. It wasn’t his, after all; it was Margie’s, and she was clearly smitten with both her fiancé and the gift. He took one glance at the handle and decided it would be insensitive for him to play it, seeing as it had been described in such a personal manner. Placing the lid back down, he smoothed his hand over the fine carvings and looked up at his friend once again to respond - he was easily distractible, so locking eye contact in some way was the easiest way for him to stay focused.

“It’s a remarkable show of craftsmanship, that’s for sure. He didn’t say where he got it?”

Margaretha laughed softly, taking the music box from Mike’s lap and placing it back in the bag.

“That’d ruin it, don’t you think? I can introduce you to Sergei, though, because we don’t have our show until tomorrow. You shouldn’t be watching your own troupe members perform without knowing their identities, at the very least. It’s early enough that you can get some undisturbed sleep afterwards. The lights are out today because Bernard is fixing things up for our new display, and it may well take more power than we’d otherwise have… I’ll be back in a moment.”

The dancer trailed off, standing up onto her toe tips as she left the bedside and the ‘tent’ in its entirety. There was an unfortunate chill in the air, and the short-sleeved outfit she wore diid little to shield her from the elements. Making her way to her own room, arms crossed and rubbing her shoulders, she was surprised to find Sergei and Joker waiting for her there. The clowns had evidently been discussing the upcoming performance, but stopped in their tracks when they saw Margie’s silhouette in the doorway. Sergei stood up, shifting his position atop her neatly-made bed - so clean that it looked virtually untouched - and gesturing for her to sit beside him.

“It’s a pleasure to see you, Nat- Margaretha… now if you’ll excuse Joker and I’s untimely intrusion, we were just talking about tomorrow’s performance. I was going to come and collect you, because we haven’t had a proper chance to talk since the ringmaster’s meeting, but you seemed busy.”

He raised a brow when the dancer didn’t join him, instead standing and gently grabbing her wrist to gain her attention.

“Are you feeling well? You’re restless, my dear.”

“I have other things on my mind, to tell you the truth. I told Mike I would help him settle in, and I mustn’t keep my friend waiting. Shall we move this discussion? I daresay he wouldn’t mind the company. I was planning to make sure he’d be familiar with you before our grand debut. How about you two come with me to visit him?”

Her reply was quiet, and she didn’t meet Sergei’s eyes. Usually, she wasn’t so reserved, but the dancer was definitely displaying nervousness beyond performance anxiety; it was true, but the thought of voicing any of her concerns was more nauseating than the issues themselves. Joker watched the exchange silently, bending down to fix a part of his prosthetic and swinging his leg back and forth to test the joint. He was simply happy to observe Natalie, if anything; the dancer had piqued his interest since the beginning. As much as he was jealous, he understood Sergei’s captivation.

Meanwhile, the Acrobat in question had set himself into quite a panic. He only had moments (before he thought his friend would return) to clear away his acids and materials in their cabinet, the likes of which was laid out on his bed where Margie had sat prior. It was made of dark wood, hosting a strong metallic loop at the top from which it could hang, with a thin layer of black felt on the back for protective purposes. He picked up a couple of large nails and hammered them into the wall, grimacing at the noise but knowing there was nothing he could do to combat it. Quickly, he began to sort things in the cabinet - acids in the shelves, juggling ball casings in a bag on the door, all in a flurry of movement that his own eyes could barely keep track of. Adrenaline was fuelling the young man, and it was just as well because of the others’ plans.

Soon after, Mike was finally able to hook it up on the wall. Fumbling with the ruffled collar he usually wore - lacking much in the way of a casual, out-of-performance outfit and preferring the colourful display - he lifted it over his head and set it down on top of the cabinet, a small silver key shaking free of the fabric to drape at his neck on a chain. It usually remained hidden amongst the folds, and for good reason. Access to his equipment wasn’t something he intended to give to anyone else, unless his ringmaster needed to do a check for security purposes. Taking this key off, he hung it on the handle of the cabinet, forgetting his caution as the sound of footsteps agitated him further. But they died down, and he decided that he’d have time to check on his companion - had she become lost?

Quickly grabbing a pouch with three casings and an acid vial small enough to fit in his pocket, Mike headed over to the tent where he’d seen Margie leave towards. His hands were trembling at his sides, and when he knocked the noise stuttered against the door-panel. Two seconds in, and he’d already shifted his first impressions with Sergei, who’d stood in order to open it. Instead of the critical scowl the performer had expected, a serene smile rested on the clown’s face when he stepped away to usher the stranger in, bowing slightly to show respect.

“Ah, Margaretha! Is this the dear friend who you were so concerned for?”

Sergei asked, glancing over his shoulder to check what her response was (in the form of a brief nod) before reseating himself. He didn’t want to check with Mike, though they were right there, for fear of overwhelming the already skittish-looking acrobat. However, he’d since straightened his posture and was already observing the room keenly, opting to sit on the floor with his legs crossed because there weren’t any more proper seats in the cramped area.

“The name is Mike Morton, sir. I didn’t mean to disturb your discussion, but Margie thought I should meet some of my fellow troupe members.”

Truthfully, Mike was still nervous, and it wasn’t just because he’d never met Sergei before. Joker was there in the corner, having been otherwise silently adjusting various things from his prosthetic leg for far too long to be genuine, and there wasn’t a thing about him that felt trustworthy. After a while of this observation, the man’s head jerked up, and he fixed Mike with a glare colder than any he’d seen before. Clearly, a mistake had been made, and Joker didnt take lightly to that sort of thing. He’d already been shoved into the same room as his rival. The last thing he needed was some nosy newcomer asking questions about his accident.

“Staring at someone sure is a strange way of meeting them, Mike. We communicate with words here.”

The sad clown murmured, scowl remaining on his face. Even though his expression was permanently downcast, he was clearly angered, and the atmosphere of the small room was immediately dampened. Shifting the positions of his legs on the floor, the acrobat looked away from his newfound adversary, unclipping the pouch from his belt and trying to ignore the trembling in his hands. Exhaling and attempting to regulate his breathing in order to respond, he busied himself undoing the drawstrings of the pouch he’d bought and tipping out its contents onto the floor. After a few moments of electric and uncomfortable silence between the performers, he rolled a vial in his left fingers and returned to looking at Joker, while the newcomers abstained from interruption. Though Margie calmed them all down, it would only make the situation worse to intervene.

The younger’s breath caught in his throat regardless, and he found himself unable to give Joker a proper response. This seemed to irk them even more, but there was little to be done. Just when Mike thought he might pass out from holding his breath in anticipation of another horrible quote, a gentle hand brushed against his shoulder, and Sergei stepped forward to stand behind him and glare at Joker.

“This is not the time for fighting. We are here to discuss and introduce, and nothing more. If you need to spit at each other, do it outside. We are all tired, but that is no excuse for treating others with disrespect. I’m sure Mister Morton here didn’t intend to forgo his words.”

Immediately, the acrobat relaxed a tiny bit, glad for the smiling clown’s company even if he was imposing in his own right. He nodded to acknowledge these words, but was otherwise absorbed in flicking the clasps on his juggling balls’ casings around. Intrigued, this captured the attention of his defender, who sat on the floor in front of his and looked back at Margie, who was gazing worriedly toward the darkening skies in her own right.

“On the other hand, Margaretha, you and I can stay back as long as we wish to discuss the performance. Things are skewing awfully, and the darkness is undoubtedly making things worse. I will make sure Mike can calm himself, then it’s best I help him find his tent. I think Joker will agree that he has overstayed his welcome already… I doubt I’ll have a good rest tonight; adrenaline is a powerful thing, and I would rather help you set up regardless.”

At this, the other performer heaved himself to his feet, teetering a bit as his prosthetic buckled but getting a hold of his balance just as soon. There was little point in arguing, it was true, and there were more important things he had to worry about than some passive-aggressive exchanges. Dipping his head to Margie and removing his hat with a flourish, he left the premises without so much as a glance to his fellow clown and the acrobat. They were different, and he didn’t often bother with those he couldn’t connect to enough.

Arriving at his tent, there was nothing to do but attempt sleep. Though he couldn’t possibly do that because his mind was racing with thoughts. Seeing the way that Margaretha had moved, so cautiously, and her overall unwillingness to be involved in the night (despite them being in her own room) was making him nervous. Regardless of his frail Weeping Clown character in shows, there was nothing much that moved the stalwart man. This was the one exception: some days, it were as if Margaretha were the only person in the circus who saw him behind his masks, and he wanted to protect her as best he could. Joker would be lying to himself if he said he didn’t have any feelings for her, but held back on his advances. Sergei was more trouble than he was willing to deal with, seeing how tightly-knit the two were.

Back in Margaretha’s tent, the woman herself had walked outside to catch some air, leaving her two friends alone. It was obvious, even before the pink reached his cheeks, that Mike felt ashamed of his performance in front of his peers. No matter how much he thought about it, he couldn’t muster the courage to say anything. A few excruciating seconds passed before the other man spoke and shattered the silence, warm tones alleviating some of the nervousness that’d consumed Mike’s thoughts. He could see why his friend trusted them so much.

“Say, Mike, what are those seams there? I’ve never seen such craftsmanship.”

Sergei asked, pointing to one of the distinctive red casings that the acrobat was fiddling with. It boasted silver-grey stitches that stuck out far more than usual juggling balls would call for, and it was clear they were closer to clasps than anything - meant to be shifted and opened, however deceiving their simpler appearance. At first, Mike’s fingers only tightened around the fabric. He didn’t know if Sergei really had his best intentions in mind. Sighing softly, he placed it gently in his pouch again, drawing the strings without another word. A response did come, luckily, but it was much shorter than he’d have liked, and the young man was displaying far more nervous behaviour than his usual bright disposition would allow.

“I made them myself, that’s why. Don’t trust anyone else to.”

He muttered, fastening the pouch onto his belt with a click and blinking sleepily. In his previous troupe, he’d found it more secure to glue magnets in between the leather belt-straps and sew them shut rather than having everything slip out all the time during performances. It was this sort of intuition that made Bernard recognise him as more of a valued member of Hullabaloo, combined with his naturally magnetic personality and willingness to try anything. Together with Joker’s mechanical knowledge, the two would’ve made an excellent team, but there was no chance of that union. Their ideals and viewpoints clashed too much, and beyond the stage they preferred keeping to themselves.

Mike shook himself back into the real world, cheeks tinging with a red flush when he became aware of Sergei staring quizzically at him. The man’s hands were balled into fists at his sides, but there was no other indication of anger, his expression frozen in a serene smile as always. He wasn’t satisfied with the acrobat’s response, but was equally sure he’d find out the truth in due time. He always found a way; his charm wasn’t just part of the show, and that was often deceptively detrimental to other people. The acrobat stood, unaware that his vial of acid had slipped out of its otherwise secure position on his belt and onto the floor until Sergei picked it up and held it out to him.

“A wise decision, that’s for sure. How about I accompany you getting to your tent? It’s getting late, and Miss Margaretha may need some time to herself. The power’s been diverted temporarily for my debut, so it’ll be darker for the journey, but I’m sure we can figure out how to get back between us.”

Mike curled his fingers around the vial carefully before slipping it into his pocket, only nodding a response. The dark was finally catching up to him, however much he doubted his ability to sleep. The coldness of Joker’s eyes and tone of voice wasn’t likely to leave him for a significant amount of time. Much like the man in question, the acrobat was mostly unfazed by things others might find unsettling; the way he’d been spoken to just dug into his skin a little too much to be fixed by blind optimism. The clown clearly had a vendetta against him. The reason was unclear at that point, but he was unwilling to poke around enough to get those types of answers unless it was strictly necessary.

The acrobat stood up quickly, the ground lurching under his feet for a few confusing seconds. Managing not to stagger, he took a moment to smooth a hand over the pocket where the vial was tucked and let out a relieved sigh. Given its contents, it would have been very easy to know whether or not it was broken, but he still liked to check. Small things like that were essential in keeping his mind peaceful when the circus was such a busy place. He found it more comfortable trailing behind Sergei until the man held the door open, at which point Mike took the lead and thanked Margie for her hospitality, falling back into step beside his companion just as soon. As courteous as the clown was, tension remained in the air wherever he trailed that made any situation uncomfortable - like the soothing he did was only an excuse to let things get worse when it was all gone.

The majority of the journey passed in silence, which relieved Mike of any increase in nerves for a precious few minutes. Leaning against his doorframe, the performer pivoted on his heel to thank Sergei for the company only to find they were staring directly past him, gaze fixed on the very same key that he’d been so careful to hide before that careless forgetfulness. While he wasn’t questioned about it, the clown did follow him into the tent, drumming their fingers against the wood of the wall on which the cabinet hung, dangerously close to where they key itself sat. Tension shivered its way into Mike’s shoulders, making them raise and pull visibly taut. Biting back as much nervousness as he could, the young man walked himself back over to the doorway and looked pointedly at his uninvited guest.

“I think you should find your way back to your own lodgings before you jeopardise your performance with sleep loss, sir.”

He muttered, barely awake enough at that point to prevent his voice from slurring.

Sergei agreed silently, slipping out the door and leaving it ajar. There was too much on his mind now that he’d seen the cabinet and the vial; though unaware of Mike’s bomb-crafting hobby and the true nature of the juggling balls’ construction, it had become abundantly clear that his fellow new employee wasn’t as open about things as he seemed. It’d warrant further investigation, also taking into account the previous protectiveness with which he’d held the key to the mysterious cabinet about him. The room wasn’t neat, either, but one thing appeared particularly amiss - an otherwise inconspicuous poster, yellowed with age and curling at the edges. It’d been stuck on like Mike hadn’t had enough time to think, placed on top of a board that’d raised enough to make it crinkle or pinch in various places when it already seemed fragile.

The once-smiling clown was acutely aware of his makeup smudging and being in dire need of a touch-up. He headed back to his fiancée’s tent on the way to his own, feeling an urge to make sure nothing was wrong after her strange and withdrawn behaviour earlier. To his surprise, she was slumped down in a sitting position and leaning heavily back against the room’s exterior, blinking at him as if she’d just been disturbed from sleep. Not unlike his own, mascara was running down her cheeks, and she flinched away from Sergei’s hand when he kneeled in front of her, reaching to wipe it off. Though it was getting colder and her clothes were less comforting, she refused to move from her spot. Shivering, she shifted slightly to wrap her arms around her knees, wanting to shrink back down into the dirt. Sergei was the last person she wanted to see. Joker had been speaking with her a lot more before then, and was helping her clear the fog from her eyes. Though the guilt was eating at her, she felt for Sergei less and less.

“What’s the matter, dear? You should come inside… the cold can’t be too good for you, and you must rest before tomorrow.”

The dancer didn’t look up at him, her silence weighing heavily in the air before it was interrupted by her coming to a stand. She gripped the fabric draped over the tent for a moment, not seeking Sergei to lean against. She was perfectly capable of fending for herself, and the clown needed to learn that. If she needed help, though, there were other people she could actually rely on. Turning to face the inside of her room, she craned her neck toward the man she was speaking to carelessly over her shoulder. Anyone could judge that she’d been waiting for him in the night, but the change in her attitude was far less predictable.

“I know.”

Margaretha - known as Natalie elsewhere, and to Sergei in private - didn’t care much for what he thought as she spoke. In truth, she’d rather have been with her other friends, but while he was around there were things she wanted to say to him. They were far more urgent than a need to sleep; though she’d desensitised herself to the majority of his affections over time, he was more powerful than he appeared. Bernard had taken a liking to him immediately, and since she was seen as a pair, a package deal alongside him… she shuddered to think of the prospects. She wasn’t ungrateful for what he’d done for her, and her earlier enthusiasm for the music boxes had been genuine when she’d visited Mike, but awareness had crashed over her since. It was all like a wave. Overwhelming, oppressive, leaving her struggling to breathe without any certainty as to where to drag herself next. But knowing about herself was better than the confusion, however painful.

Sitting back on her bed, she half hoped the clown wouldn’t join her. She steeled her resolve with a deep breath, the noise rattling in her ears. Everything was too much. If there was one thing she was good at doing after a lifetime of socialising with performers, it was masking her truer emotions. So she painted on a smile without make-up just in time for her fiancé to enter the room properly. He sat across from her, none the wiser. Drumming her carefully painted nails along the headboard of her bed, Margie rolled words around in her thoughts trying to figure out what was a good way to say what she needed to get out. There were two issues she wanted to point out, and one was decidedly lighter than the other, so leading with that one seemed the best bet.

“I’m just concerned about Mike, Sergei… I don’t know if he’ll fit in here, as Joker seems to have already made an enemy of him. I’ve no doubt he’s personable and easy to get along with, but that’s not enough. He’ll get torn apart!”

Usually level-headed, Margie appeared to be going off the deep end more than usual - her tone spiked upwards, and her hands were poised at either side of the jewelled cap she wore with all the intent in the world to rip her own hair out. They were trembling almost as badly as her voice before she gripped the sheets, manicured nails luckily prevented from digging into her sweat-slicked palms. She shifted about, anxious and unable to keep herself still. They were such small. erratic movements that it looked like she was flinching every so often. Even against the soft fabric, the sensations were irritating, but there wasn’t much she could do until her companion left.

The clown in question was looking at her with furrowed brows, expression an uncertain mixture of concern and anger. He didn’t want to be angry, but what she was saying just made so little sense. Why had she crawled here, out of the freezing weather, and acted in such a precarious way just to talk about someone else? He knew there was something she was hiding, and hated the idea of that more than anything else. Had he not worked for so many years to build trust in her, alongside genuine love? Irritably, he tugged at the collar of his outfit, otherwise maintaining his colder exterior. She didn’t need to know what he was truly thinking about. He gave her a simple nod in response, wanting to steer the conversation towards whatever was haunting his girl.

“While I do agree, don’t you think there’re much more… pressing matters to attend to, my love? You’re tenser than a tightrope.”

He responded quietly, leaning forward to place his elbows on his knees while waiting. Margie certainly could dance around the topics for long enough, but he could bring it all out of her with a few simple cues. Now that she felt he was truly listening…

“I don’t think this’ll work. We won’t.”

What.

Tapping the wooden frame of the chair he was sitting on, Sergei’s gaze swept up to meet the performer’s. Was she serious? After everything he’d done for her, all the care and love and effort, this was how she repaid him? There was only one logical reason for her feeling this way, and he had little time to deal with it. With them. A laugh burst forth from his lips, incredulous. It was just too much to process that late at night. Straightening his posture and clearing his throat, he lied flawlessly, as he’d been doing far too many times to keep people happy. Didn’t he deserve his happiness? That was what Natalie was to him, and he’d already fought tooth and claw to have her. Never again would she willingly slip through his grasp.

“As your friend first and foremost, my dear Natalie, I’ll drive myself to the edges of Hell before I fail you. Whatever you feel is best for you is likewise best for me. Now, I should be going… Rest, will you? Your dreams may treat you better than this unkind world.”

Sergei replied as curtly as he could muster, forcing a smile onto his cheeks. He’d smiled for too long, but then wasn’t the time to break. Pulling his collar straighter, he nodded toward his companion and pushed to standing, bracing against the arms of the chair. He looked towards the windows where darkness had set in, but his job wasn’t done yet. He had places to be with new and old friends alike. What Margie had said wouldn’t deter him from what he’d planned. If anything, the words she’d given him made the blood boil fiercer in his veins.

Still seared into his thoughts was the cabinet in the Acrobat’s tent. Surely there was some sinister thing going on, and he wanted to know what that was. Despite the strange colour of the liquid in the vial Mike’d dropped earlier, he’d given no indication what it actually contained. Slipping off his boots in order to soften his footsteps, he hid them behind a nearby lamppost and (luckily still wearing socks) proceeded to creep about the exterior of his ‘friend’s new room. It was the dead of night by that point, and the unpacking everything had completely exhausted the young man, so there was very little stopping Sergei from going about his business in peace.

Said business, of course, began with finding a specific loose board on the outside of the room that Mike himself had located beforehand. This would be the only way Sergei could enter without disturbing the performer, seeing as he’d proven to be so sensitive to noises that he could be driven to waking up from paranoia. The shifting of the doorframe would be too obvious, when he could instead set the board down to lean against the softer fabric. Fingers curling around the nearly-splintering wood, he finally located the gap thanks to the tent’s cover being torn and caught in it. He shifted it aside and stepped through, ruffle at his neck having been wisely abandoned alongside his shoes beforehand. Who knew what he’d knock over if he wasn’t careful? He certainly didn’t intend to find out after getting that far.

Sleight of hand wasn’t his strong suit, but that was why he’d chosen the cover of the night. Steps as light as his girlfriend’s, he raised onto his toes to prevent as much noise as possible while advancing toward the cabinet. He raised one trembling hand to sweep hair obscuring his ear, only to be met with the terrifying sound of the young man rolling over to face him in the bed. Poised, Sergei kept as still as he possibly could. His heart pounded in his chest like a jackhammer. There wasn’t even enough space to breathe properly, so he didn’t. Just when he felt like his head was going to pop like a balloon, Mike rolled in the sheets again and faced the wall. Thank god.

The clown relaxed so slowly it felt like he was moving one muscle at a time, just in case anything went wrong. His fingers closed around cold metal, and he exhaled all of the tension he’d been holding in his body abruptly. Edging towards the cabinet, ever careful not to bump Mike’s bed, he grabbed a vial of acid and bolted towards the ‘exit’. Every bit of caution he’d exercised up to seconds before simply wouldn’t mean anything if he didn’t get to Joker’s tent, and fast. A small portion of his waistcoat’s fabric was snagged on the wood, but he moved too quickly to give it a second thought. The rush of blood in his ears was all he could hear, so he wasn’t even aware of the alarming sound.

There it was. Joker’s tent was the largest in the area even though Bernard had sworn they were all the same, and despite what others claimed Sergei thought he was the ringmaster’s favourite instead of the starry-eyed blond he’d met earlier. There was a quick detour he needed to make, though, and it was one that made the ticking of the clock even more evident: he swooped into his own room and picked up a palette to tuck into a small bag and bring with him, relocating the vial from his jacket into the front pockets of it. Taking his time to get back to where Joker slept, he knocked on the door and tried to ignore the tension running through his whole body. The wait - though it only lasted a couple of minutes as the other stirred and came to the door - felt nigh-eternal.

Joker rubbed his eyes before stepping aside, face free of makeup but gaunt and tired as ever. He just wanted relief from everyone unless it was Margie, and was very tempted to shut the door on Sergei and let everything fester. But the other would use his foot to block it from closing if that’s what it took; there was no way he could afford to back away from reality now, especially if that meant jeopardising the steps he’d planned out meticulously. Disregarding his own tired body, a showman’s grin stretched wide to shift his expression and mask his sinister intentions.

“Hello, Joker… I apologise for the early morning intrusion, but I was wondering if you’d be available to help me. You see, I have my big debut performance with Margaretha tomorrow, and I cannot find an appropriate make-up look. Surely an experienced clown such as yourself would have some advice? I have my own supply of greasepaint, so you needn’t bother with that, but if you could give me a demonstration of some of your own work I’d appreciate it greatly.”

At first, the man truly did intend to close the door. But that would result in more trouble, seeing the time sensitivity of the question. So, with his every muscle telling him to stop, he ushered Sergei in and closed the panel behind them.

“You’re lucky I couldn’t get rest. Maybe this’ll help me for a while. You sure can talk a person to sleep.”

Joker huffed, gesturing for Sergei to sit down. His large hands weren’t the best at applying finer make-up, so he usually had one of the dancers do it for him, but he had no idea how basic the information was that the other really needed. To belittle the person who was hurting the target of his affections was one thing he planned to accomplish. Taking a seat himself, he heaved a case full of palettes and brushes onto his dressing table, switching the bulbs on. The zipper on the top of the case was straining. Sitting straighter, Sergei’s eyes were trained on the case, and he shifted forwards on his seat when Joker retrieved a specific range of colours. He was almost breathing down the other’s neck at that point, but the larger of the two was too tired to care. His eyes were already drooping, though not another word was spoken. It didn’t matter.

For a brief moment, Sergei became unsure of his actions. The weight of the task was looming over him, heavier by the moment. There was no other choice. Conveniently enough, his companion needed to wash the brushes from the previous night’s applications. This raised Sergei’s lips in a bemused smile. If Bernard were to find out the utter carelessness of this act, he’d surely be questioned. Proper clowns knew the greasepaint brushes needed thorough overnight soaking the majority of the time. Notifying Bernard could only happen tomorrow, and the plan left no room for tomorrows…

Watching until the weeping clown left the room, he spun into action. Taking the container of acid and one of the spare brushes, he became occupied combining the ‘ingredients’, dropping the emptied vial back into his bag and setting the liquid with powder in its pot. When all was said and done, he cleared his throat and waited for his ‘friend’ to return with the fresh brushes. Shaking the tightness from his shoulders, he sat his own palette down and began to idly apply a white base onto his face. Act natural. He was lucky that the greasepaint was liquid normally, because the consistency of his companion’s didn’t change noticeably. Soon enough, Joker returned, practically slamming down the cup of water he’d placed the brushes into.

He was angry about something, but Sergei was in no hurry to ask. He simply had to wait and confirm the other clown would take their own step into his plan, and then could leave and flee into the night with Natalie for good. Exhaling heavily, he stripped his calloused hands of their gloves and placed those aside. The next few minutes were spent in silence as Joker applied the base coat, this being as pleasant an experience together either would likely get that morning.

Those precious minutes were all Sergei needed as screams met his ears.

Joker gripped his rival’s shoulders with the adrenaline-fuelled strength of a thousand men, melting face glaring as much as it was able. He used this grip to heave himself onto a chair, sure he was going to die. But surviving was more agony than death, and the man who pushed him unceremoniously back to the floor knew this. He twisted back on his heel, well aware that Joker would no longer be able to speak his protest. At least not for that night. Thus. Sergei contentedly returned to his own tent, sleeping soundly for the first time in an age.

Mike Morton, on the other hand, stirred early. There was a strange draft coming in from outside, and the warmth coming from his thinning sheets wasn’t nearly enough to stave it off. He sat up and let out a groan of tired protest, peering with bleary eyes at the clock on his bedside. Six in the morning? Bernard had insisted on meeting with him at eight… there wasn’t much point in sleeping more. Despite however much he wanted more rest, his body didn’t shut down very quickly, so one of those hours would be likely spent trying to sleep anyway. He stretched for a moment, wincing at the cracking of his joints. A thought hit him like a train seconds after, and he shoved his hand underneath the pillow, exhaling in relief. The letter was still there.

There was no clear reason to be paranoid, but the hairs on the back of his neck were prickled regardless. Slowly pulling on his clothes, he came to strapping on his silver belt. The round in the centre could click open, so he was tempted to place something in there for the comfort, but decided against it. That which had once been habit made him feel self-conscious now that he was older. The other members of Hullabaloo made him feel young and inexperienced, but he knew better than to believe that. His relentless optimism in the face of mockery would have made him a good smiling clown, but the acrobat’s path was one he was more than happy to walk down.

After a few minutes of daydreaming and getting ready, Mike turned to his cabinet and pulled on the thicker black gloves he used to handle his materials, humming an idle tune as he went about clicking things to his belt. Something was amiss. He looked about, brows crinkling at the sight of an empty space on the shelf. Murro had warned him about such accidents - “I noticed that your cabinet wasn’t locked. Watch out for thieves.” - but he’d let it slip his mind. It felt like a betrayal of his friend’s memory, almost, but he shook the negativity away. Walking to his desk after double checking the cabinet was locked, he scribbled a note for Bernard and read it out loud. He could feel the key safely resting against his neck, entirely obscured by his collar. It made him feel a little better about his mistake, but the fact remained that he’d have to go and get more acid.

“Dear Bernard: I have an errand to run. When taking stock of my equipment, I miscounted and now have to retrieve something from a supplier. I may not be able to make it to the meeting as soon as I’d like, if at all. Apologies for this oversight. Regards, M.M.”

Folding it in half, the young man stuck it in his pocket and exited the room. Soon enough, he reached the ringmaster’s tent and slipped it under the door, hurrying to exit the premises so he didn’t disturb any of his fellow troupe members by making too much noise.

Two were already active, and that wasn’t something Mike needed to know. Sergei had told ‘Natalie’ to escape the circus grounds that previous night, after his altercation with Joker, just to make sure she never got mixed up in it all. He didn’t even need to considering what she’d confessed, but his own feelings for her were greater in that moment than any jealousy or accidental harm he may have caused otherwise. The Weeping Clown, in agony, had never let things rest. He’d dragged himself to his rival and mutilator’s dressing room just before the performance rehearsal, armed with clawed gloves so sharp they were nothing short of gauntlets. He’d sworn revenge, and he’d have it even if it turned out to be his last possession.

Swaying lightly due to his prosthetic being knocked out of place, he braced himself against the doorframe, leering in at the smiling clown. Even though only his face - and not his throat, for the most part - had been burnt, he hadn’t had the courage to speak. The side of his face remained thickly bandaged, and the lack of depth perception was truly throwing him off. Disturbed by the noise eventually, Sergei looked up to see Joker, scowling for the one time in their mutual feud’s duration. Oh, how lovely it was for Joker to see the Smiling Clown crack even for a moment. He then lurched forwards, using his pure unstable weight to pin Sergei down. Things weren’t over until one of them was dead, and Joker didn’t intend to submit to the darkness.

With a deafening crack, Joker bought the flat side of his fist down onto the side of his enemy’s head and rendered them unconscious, pressing the pad of his glove to the impact site in order to prevent bleeding as best he could. Due to how early it was, nobody present was awake, so he was free to rig up his tent in preparation for his little project. Nobody much visited him without Margie there, so he could also bar the doors and windows without raising much suspicion. He was in need of a new face, and had always wished to smile.

The pain that he felt performing self-surgery was little compared to that he felt in his heart without the woman he’d tried so hard to keep under his thumb. Even though he’d nearly succeeded in eradicating his only competition, she wasn’t around to see it and revel in it all. He’d liked to have thought he’d freed her from Sergei. Fuelled by this unspoken sorrow, this untamed anger, he affixed a mask over his face just in case people started asking questions. Keeping his head down, he became increasingly grateful for the cloaking darkness even though it began to fade. The work was easy enough… Nobody would get in his way for the first time in his life. He’d give his nemesis a grand send-off, if only to celebrate the loss more than the life of the clown.

Mike, completely oblivious as to what was happening back at Hullabaloo, had retrieved his acid and was slowly making his way back to the circus. The road was long and confusing, though, so he’d had to stop on the side. Sitting cross-legged, he retrieved some water and an apple from his bag. As much as he had his friends to keep him going, things became notably quieter since Murro left, so he’d been eating a lot more of the distinct red fruits simply to keep that memory alive to a degree. The Wildling himself had wished to disappear, but that was the last thing the Acrobat wanted to happen. He was the first one who’d shown true kindness in the troupe.

Joker knew that the power had been diverted to the main tent, so he made his way there and bashed in the door with his shoulder. Luckily, it didn’t possess a lock. With one hand, he held Sergei’s corpse, unceremoniously dragging the feet against the carpet. In the other, he heaved a bulky case of unknown materials, this being the first thing he thought to set down. It was up against the door as an extra layer of barricading just in case. There had to be an electrical box somewhere, or at least a few switches that he could mess around with… the sun was beginning to rise, and looking out the window nearly knocked him off his feet with the pain. Even though he’d donned a mask to help with the exposure, whatever acid managed to get near the opposite side of his face had messed with the light sensitivity in his singular good eye.

He knelt down to the case, running his fingertips along the edges before finding two small notches on the sides. Pressing these inwards, he twisted the lid off. Trying to grab the handle and open a clown’s bag of tricks would almost never work, and this was proof of that. Mike had never been the only one with a darker interest. Contained within were the makings of several different firelighting strategies, including gloves suspiciously close to those the Acrobat had put on to deal with corrosives earlier. Picking out all manner of tools, he was soon able to locate the electrical box, which was only guarded by a simple lock the clown would’ve been able to pick within a matter of seconds.

But he went about things more precisely, loosening things here and there to more or less dismantle the front panel before examining the results. Now this was something that all of the incessant tinkering work with his rockets had prepared him for. Electrical currents may have been less familiar to him, but he wasn’t trying to learn how to stop or initially prevent an electrical fire - he was going to create one, and intended to succeed. Squinting through yet another pounding headache, his hands trembled as he pulled a pair of rubber gloves onto them. As destructive as he wished to be, the only person he intended to burn (yet) was Sergei.

Revisiting the chest multiple times, it dawned on him that the whole ordeal was far more tedious than he’d accounted for. But the rigging was all ready, and all he needed was to flee. The case also contained the essentials from his tent, so he was perfectly capable of simply running. There was nothing he needed to go back to get. Everything was so meticulous, and yet the pyre would raze it to the ground. Sergei, in a sense, would represent Joker’s own rebirth. The Weeping Clown would finally be able to grin.

So he pulled the switch, and everything came to light.

The spread was fast, and the searing heat kept the clown on his toes. If he did so much as look backwards, he’d lose enough seconds to potentially jeopardise his own life. He powered forward with the chest in his arms, staggering more than he cared for but never falling. It’d all come down to that minute, possibly less time. All he could do was continue moving, stumbling near-blind and choking due to the heavy haze of smoke and ash that was being fed into the atmosphere. The main tent had caught entirely by that time, and it was creeping to the outskirts at an alarming rate, where some of the smaller tents were positioned. The knowledge that his own was already reduced to ashes was nothing. He’d begin a new life, one where he could always smile.

He was knocked down eventually by his prosthetic’s melting together, as he’d predicted. No time remained for him to get it fixed in the moment, so he took it off and dropped to a crawl in the dirt to get away from the rest of it all. There was no telling where he went after that, but the fire never did catch up to him. He left the smouldering wreckage of his workplace behind, though the weight of what he’d done would always carry itself upon his back. With a rattling cough, he dragged himself by his forearms (hands shaking too badly to help) into the shade of one of the last unburnt trees in the vicinity. Before his fatigue forced him into an uneasy sleep, he saw a silhouette emerge from the horizon that he stared out towards, embers popping behind him.

And Joker’s eyes hadn’t lied to him. Mike had returned from the supplier to find this carnage, immediately shielding his eyes to peer into the debris. Were his eyes deceiving him? The entirety of Hullabaloo, reduced to nothing. He didn’t even know where his tent was in the heaps of seared fabric and wood. The young man’s voice died in his throat, and he wouldn’t have been able to make any noises regardless of the oppressive air. Mike’s only thoughts were occupied by his friends, but he hadn’t seen Margie since the day before. Lethargy and grief pulled the Acrobat to his knees, and a fact made itself so obvious then that he wished he could be reduced to nothingness.

Murro’s letter had burned away, just like the rest of his hope.

#identity v #idv #idv fanfic #idv fanfiction #identity v fanfic #identity v fanfiction #idv smiley face #idv smiley #idv mike #idv acrobat #idv female dancer #idv margaretha zelle #🗺️ around the universe 🗺️

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vyladromeave · 4 years ago

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SHABOWKNIGHT HEADCANONS PLASTERBOATS

This is how Shabowknights work in my brain. It just is.

(Warning this is super long. like really long. its literally like 69k+ words im not kid. ding. i did include a couple poupble to help break up the bup the text. so. good lick.)

BECOMING A SHADOWKNIGHT

There is only one requirement for a person to become a shadowknight: you gotta feel it. you gotta reel it. you gotta feel it in the heart of the cards. sometimes ur having a rough day and youknow what thats fine. the shadowlord is totally there for you. hes your homie. your bro. your bromie. he can be anything you want him to be. but most importantly he is here for YOU. hes the cool boss. he lets you slack off on fridays, he puts slightly outdated memes in his powerpoint presentations. all for you. you’re welcome.

Now I hear what you’re thinking. What happens when the Shadowlord has a bad day? He can’t always be there for you, right? Wrong. The Shadowlord is on that grind, as the kids say. The grind never stops. no breaks. Stops? no stops. the only thing the Shadowlord is putting a stop to is ᴛʜᴇ ᴇɴᴛɪʀᴇ ʀᴜ'ᴀᴜɴ ʀᴇɢɪᴏɴ ᴀɴᴅ ᴛʜᴇ ᴠɪʟʟᴀɢᴇ-ʟᴏʀᴅ sʏsᴛᴇᴍ ᴛʜᴀᴛ ɢᴏᴠᴇʀɴs ɪᴛ. Hes up all night and all day, working hard for you. give him a big thank you.

Not convinced? here’s a cool diagram he made for you. this could be us. you could be partially dead BUT holding hands with your best bro the Shadowlord. and really, what’s better than that? ghat? yeah? no. nothing. nothing is better. look at this diagram and fucking weep.

•

SHADOWKNIGHTS AND IMMORTALITY

All Shadowknights are immortal, as in immune to giving a shit. they just dont give a shit. they can just sit around for hours not giving a shit. do you give a shit? you shouldnt. you shoulding. houlding. hold mushrrom. thats what you should be doing right now. what are you waiting for? well???????????

If you were a Shadowknight, you could be holding a mushroom right now. That’s right. a whole mushroom just for you. but you arent. so you wont. why not? what’s stopping you? pledging your undying allegiance to the Shadowlord isnt so bad, we promise. it rocks, actually. we have pizza parties at the end of every month. does your employer hold pizza parties at the end of every month? I didn’t fucking think so.

Now I know what you’re thinking. But I dont waaaannnaaa kill the person I love the most! Well guess what? Sometimes you have to make hard decisions in life. Which is why you’re lucky that this decision is actually an easy one! I mean think about it, end of the month pizza party, mortal emotional attatchments. attachemnts. atatchments. fuck. however you spell it. Which one sounds cool as hell? Thats right. I don’t even have to say it. you know the answer. you already know the answer. i put it in your breain and it stays there.

•

Your favorite pizza topping.

What do you want on your pizza? I know you’re technically not one of the bros yet, but theres no way you wont be after all this, so I figured I’d go ahead and get your order down. Yeah i know the pizza party is a month away. im not ordering it right now. im ordering it later. that way its still fresh when it shows up.

Although the delivery times out here in the nether kinda stink if I’m being honest. dont tell the shadowlord I said that though. he puts in a lot of time and effort to making sure everything is cool down here and like, really he doesn’t need to worry about the whole pizza delivery thing. like he already puts in so much time, the least i can do is cover the pizza thing yknow?

I actually made the pizzas one month. have you ever made hundreds of personal pan custom pepperoni pizzas. its a lot of work. seriously. I kept burning them. so many burnt personal pan piping hot pipper pepper pepperoni personal pan personal pizzas. luckily im immune to fire, and i can never die. if you were one of the bros, you could be too. here’s your pizza.

•

Consuming the Pizza

Go on. eat it. I made it for you. what do you mean when did I have time to make a pizza? just now, while we were talking. didn’t you notice? maybe not. I’m good at making pizzas quickly now. ive had a lot of practice. maybe we could make some personal pan pinni mini pan pepperoni pizzas togethethter sometime.

oh my god. wait. im an idiot. im a fool. i was so focused on making you your personal pan pipini piziza pepperoni peper piza that i didnt even hear what you wanted for your toppings. im so sorry. oh my gosh im so sorry. i really didn’t mean to, i just got caught up in the moment. really. i promise. i know this reflects really badly on the whole shadowknight thing, but i promise this is a rare occasion. really. all the bros here in the nether are really kind and thoughtful, so stuff like this rarely ever happens. I really hope you can find it in your heart to forgive me.

maybe its better that we dont have personal pipizini personal pan papaza pizzas. im not actually that good at making the pizazis. i lied. im sorry. im so sorry. this doesnt normally happen. i just wanted to sound cool. its been so long since someone’s considered joining the bros, i just wanted you to really like me. im so sorry. oh my god. im so sorry.

•

A Reformed Pizza

The pizza is metaphorical. we’re still friends, right? we’re still bros? future potential bros? the potential kinetic mechanical energy of bros? thats a little science joke for you, whwhwhere i just said the science words. I havent learned about science in a while, ive been stuck down here making personal pan pizzazos for a while. im sorry about the pizza thing again, by the way. i tossed your bad personal pan pizza in the lava pool over there to make up for how sucks it was. it was really bad. yeah. its probably a good thing that nobody ate it.

A Sturdier Pizza

The pizza is literal. We can make a new pizza. together. with my powers and yours combined. give me your hand. we are holding hands now. these are the hands that will make a new pizza. together. we can do it if we believe. do you believe? in our new world? in our now pizza? you should. you should believe. you better fucking believe it.

look at thsi shit. ohhhhooooooollyf uck. look at that pizza. holy shit. look at that piza. holy shit. balls.

•

Natural Abiblibties

sorry im still jsut thinkginbg aboutt he pizza. homygod. holy shit. did youz seetheat pizza. did you see it. arey you looking. at the pizza. ohmygodc. look at thits. is. its. the pizza. its fucking perfect look at it. ive never made a pizza like that before. we diddit tofgotehr. we did it. the pizza. we did it.

iknow itsnoth the end of the month yet but iwant to have a pizza party. lets do it again. we’re strong enough. we can take on anything tofeger. antyhign. even pizza. especially pizaz. we can. iknow you dont believe it but its strue. lets do it again. lets make a pizza one more time. what dtopping do you want to put on it this time? mushrrom? we can do mushrrom.

here. im handing you a mushrrom. you can put it on the pizza. its a topping. there are many toppings you can put on pizza. you can put on extra cheese too. then iets ecxtra cheesy. cheesy peezy. pizza.

lets do it together.

•

Additional Pizzas

we’ve made so many pizzas. thatslike two whole pizzas. wholy fuck. holy shit. thats twho whole pizzas. bro. thats great! thats amazing! thats two more pizzas than we had before. like seriously we set our mind to the piizza and our brain to the pizza and you smush it and you sus it and then you pizza. woaw! pizza. pizza.

what if we made more pizzas.we could make a pizza for everyone. everyone could knpow of our pizzas. everyone could be just as happy as us. isnt that great? isnt that amazing? we could all pizzas. we could ALL pizzas.

hold on. im calling the bros. they need to know. they need to pizza. ive got two bros right here ready for a pizza. do you think we can do it. thats double the pizza we’ve already made. it could be tough. i know this is a lot of pressure, and it really means a lot to me, but its ok if you want to back down now. pizza is a lot of work. its hard work. i know it is. you know it now too. but we can pizza. we can pizza together.

•

THANK YOU FOR PIZZA!

:) the bros really enjoyed the pizza. thanks for helping me make pizza very appreciate very cool. pizza. im handing you a pizza coupon right now i am folding it into your hand. what store does it go to? dont worry about that. its just a coupon for pizza, you dont have to worry about the specifics. they’ll know what to do with it.

they’ll know.

#april fools #unreality tw #???#this post is. something.#sorry it doesnt cover all the sections of the original post i got so tired. so so tired. this much gibberish takes effort to write.

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bitchapalooza · 4 years ago

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Prussia headcanons

• His declaration of being Awsome comes from when he was simply known as Teuton. He had trouble getting over his fear of dying during combat, even at such a young age. His fear increased after his father died and as a result caused himself to go overboard with the declaration, becoming attached to it to the point of being dependant on it.

• But that doesn't change the fact that everyone around him IS a loser.

• Wears old 70s clothes A LOT. It's true he can still pull them off but god it's outdated! He just finds it more appealing than today's fashion.

• In denial of his age. Will not slow down like his friends have. If you ask he will do a keg stand. He'll choke but he'll choke in youthful style.

• Still trick or treats.

• When he decorates for ANY holiday he goes all out.

• Still rides a horse everywhere. Refuses to drive.

• Entered a children's art contest because the prize was a free milkshake coupon book. 1) He froths at the mouth at the mention of free and coupons; 2) Milkshakes?????? Oh fuck yeah!

• He lost the contest.... Well more like he was disqualified and arrested.

• Goes through all the stages of grief when incredibly drunk.

• Says picturing himself as blonde or brunette is highly unsettling and makes him very nauseous.

• No one is allowed to put any kind of candles on his birthday cake because he WILL eat them. He says if it's on the cake, no matter if it's edible or not, he'll eat it as it IS on the cake. After all, he isn't one to waste food.

• Carries several bottles of sunblock on his person and reapplys by the hour.

• In fact, while visiting the beach he absolutely CAKED himself with LAYERS upon LAYERS of sunscreen. He did not want to burn like he did last time. Due to how pale he is his skin is just so much more sensitive than normal people's skin.

• Willingly eats crickets and other safe to eat bugs for survival. Otherwise when faced with a bug he's green in the face.

• Taught the dogs how to curse through howling.

• Goes to Austria's to play the flute nowadays rather than to pester him.

• Okay he still pesters him but really Austria is the only one who still plays classical music, no computers or "doo-hickies", as he calls them, included.

• Enjoys the occasional spa day with the Girls.

• Was a REALLY BAD stripper for a week. France was his only customer and that was out of pure kindness and support for his friend. France did not enjoy his view.

• Although it's pointless as no bodies were left behind for long, he erected a couple small grave stones in the nearby cemetery for Germania and the Holy Roman Empire. He's weeping to an empty grave but at least its something...

• Cannot eat animal crackers, goldfish crackers, or gummy bears. This hardened general, man capable of making anyone shit themselves out of fear, will cry.

• Enjoys many different genres of music such as rock and metal, the occasional pop is fun too, but he always goes back to the classics in the end.

• Scared of the Muppets.

#hetalia #hetalia headcanons #hetalia prussia #aph prussia #hws prussia

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stormxpadme · 3 years ago

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Whumptober 2021

No. 1 - barbed wire

Fo.A. 50

Mornascar heard it first.

Cyron's mare was not only equipped with a Mearh's enhanced senses but also with a lot more attention by nature than Aviriel who might have inherited her ancestor's bright fur and his strong legs but little of Arod's sense of responsibility. Legolas was being too busy trying to explain to her, by circling it several times, that the low-hanging limbs of a weeping willow were not ghost fingers trying to assassinate her when the far taller, black horse by their side suddenly raised its head, its ears cocked in alert. Unexpectedly, Mornascar sidestepped than ran off, suddenly ignoring Cyron's seat and voice aids completely.

"Let her run!" Legolas shouted after them when he see Cyron's back tense and his hand wander in agitation, towards the loosely knotted reins that his son hadn't needed in a while. Comparatively young as Mornascar still was, Mearas usually knew what they were doing. And now that Legolas managed to get Aviriel to stop her dramatic neighing and move on in her fastest speed, with a slightly harsher order than he'd used it during their little power tussle before, his own ears picked up some faint noise of warning in the distance as well. Yes … The closer he came to the river – way too far behind their companions for Legolas' taste, which once more had him question his own continuous decision against owning a Mearh of his own which King Éomer kept on offering him every year –, the more certain he was. From the river bend, there was the strong, deep voice of another member of the Mearas sounding. This one was filled with clear distress though. And it was a voice he was pretty sure he knew.

They found them behind a half-collapsed fence, belonging to a cattle field that was not in use at this time of the year and had been in an accordingly ramshackle shape to start with. For some reason, the stallion laying in the red-sprinkled snow on his side must have tried to jump the far too high obstacle and had promptly paid the price when the barbed wire adorning the top post had snapped.

Legolas made a note to himself to inform the farmer that there were far safer ways to secure a premise than such outdated, cruel devices as he leaned back to get Aviriel to stop and jumped to the ground before she'd even slowed down to a walk.

Cyron was already kneeling next to the White Lady of Rohan who was sitting sunk back against what was left of that fence, only semi-conscious and pale, a few strands of greying blonde hair crusted an ugly rust red.

His son eyes were wide with shock, but the quiver in his strong jawline was mostly compassion, not an alarm signal, so Legolas wasted no time, checking on the Lady himself, cowering next to Windfola's thrashing shape instead. A single look at the mess of blood-matted fur and raw flesh, marred by several loops of thorn-studded metal that dug deeper into it with every weakening move of the horse's trapped hind leg, let him know, there wasn't a lot he could try to do here without making it worse. "We can't help them. You need to ride back, ion." He gently closed his hands around Windfola's head, a few words of a song of healing on his lips that his wife had taught him – one of the few tunes that his profession did not bar him from using as it was only affecting the mind. The damage could not be undone, but at least he could try to make sure, no more of it would come.

"Just a minute." When he looked up, with a frown because Cyron was rarely questioning orders of this uncompromising tone, his son was busy breaking off a long piece of wood from the remaining fence and quickly got out of his tunic to cut it in stripes with a dagger from his belt. It took Cyron only until the next verse of Legolas' song – one about the spring in Aman where legend had it, the first of the Mearas had once been born – to put Éowyn's left leg which was twisted in a painfully unnaturally angle, into a stable splint. Considering that as the hunter Cyron had aspired to be from early childhood on, he couldn't achieve any more magical healing abilities than Legolas himself, he had learned a lot from his mother. When he straightened up after a soothing caress over Éowyn's wrinkled forehead, Legolas also couldn't help but notice how much the last years of continuous training had turned a scrawny fifty year old's body into the mildly defined shape of a gifted, devoted archer who would hopefully never see battle, though.

In any case, there was no reason to worry about his son going on one of his first quests, short as it might be, alone. Especially not in lands that had long not seen a glimpse of darkness. "Get your mother, and Tauriel. And we need proper cutting tools."

"A meat ax?" Cyron tried to mask his grief about the gruesome scene with a weak grin, and for the moment, that was better for their patients. Like Legolas, he knew of course, that there was hardly hope they could get both creatures away from this meadow alive. Still it wasn't exactly an empathic comment when they couldn't be sure how much or not Éowyn was catching of her surroundings right now.

"Wherever you get your sense of humor, spend less time with them." Rolling his eyes, Legolas nodded sharply at Cyron's horse but then a movement from the woman lying between them caught his eye.

Éowyn was still visibly out of it, but as if the last irritated exchange had got through to her, she startled up, scared by the shrill noises from her beloved mount that was only slowly responding to Legolas' amateurish attempts of getting through to it, its injured leg still twitching with cramps of pain.

"Calm down, milady. We're here." Cyron leaned over Éowyn again, gently grabbing her arm to get her to lie still which gave Legolas the chance to try it with another song, one that his wife had used more than once on him when his soul had been petrified by humiliating memories or the sheer, thick wall of black that had been his sickness for so long. "What happened?"

"A boar …" Éowyn's voice was still visibly rough from her unconsciousness; she tried to blink free her sight, without much success. "Windfola bolted. I don't know why …" Her wide-eyed gaze fell onto her mount once more; a wince came from her lips when she saw its sweat-covered body, the horrible state of his leg. She tried to sit up instinctively but fell back with a hoarse scream.

"Don't move", Legolas reprimanded her sharply. "I've got him. Cyron, go. Now!" It wasn't easy, leaving someone behind when you badly wanted to help; that was a lesson Legolas had had to learn very hard in his first time in Mirkwood's armies as well.

But right now, the most use that his son could be of was as a messenger, and fortunately, this time, he listened, easily swinging himself onto Mornascar's back and galloping off.

"Will he be alright? We're far from your settlement." Éowyn was clearly still trying to get her thoughts in order, and yet she was already worrying about the people around her again. It was only one of the things Legolas had come to appreciate her for deeply in their time.

"If I couldn't send my son on rides alone, I'd be doing a poor job, keeping your land safe, milady. Don't," he repeated, with more vigor this time, when Éowyn tried again to push herself upwards, to join him by her horse's side. The last hummed notes on his lips had only just managed to soothe the animal enough for it to lie mostly still; he wasn't sure that small progress wouldn't be ruined if it saw its owner torture herself needlessly. "I'll take care of Windfola best as I can. Take it easy please. You are hurt. Are you feeling sick?"

The Lady's usually well-tanned cheeks had taken a concerningly greenish shade, and she swallowed suspiciously thickly a few times, but shook her head. "It will pass. Never mind, I'll be alright. Just stay with him, please …" Her eyes were slowly filling with tears as she reached out to stroke Windfola's hectically heaving belly. "He's not gonna make it, is he?"

"I'm trying very hard not to do my wife's job, milady, as I usually fail at that. Ilya has worked miracles before. He just has to be still for a while." Legolas caressed down Windfola's narrow forehead and pressed a kiss to his nose, petting his neck praisingly when his patient finally stopped struggling entirely. "He understands that. He's a good boy."

"I wish he would have been that calm earlier," Éowyn answered with a hint of bitterness. "I don't know what it was. We've seen hundreds of boars in our lives. I'm guessing it was hungry; it tried to attack us. But we could just have outrun it. They usually give up quickly when something's faster than them. There was no need to jump that fence. It's too high. I knew this could only go wrong but I couldn't stop Windfola."

"Mearas have their own head sometimes." Legolas got his water bag from his belt and unscrewed it to feed the horse a few drops, slowly, bit by bit, just to counteract the worst of dehydration. Under different circumstances, he would have tried to distract him with a little bit of grass and a sugar cube or two – Arod had always responded very well to food bribery, a thought surprisingly hurtful after so many decades –, but the last thing they needed right now was a colic.

"Do you know he was supposed to be Éomer's?" Éowyn asked after just watching them for a few minutes, with her hand tightly clutching her fractured knee and small moans of agony punctuating her words repeatedly. "My uncle said he was too nervous to carry a warrior, so they gave him to me. When I took him to the Pelennor Fields, I think I wanted both of us to prove ourselves. And then he ran."

"So did Brego and Arod before we entered the caves of Dunharrow." Again, the melancholy image of the small, swift steed that had brought Gimli and him through the war in one piece lingered on Legolas' mind, and suddenly he had to fight a tear or two himself. A small, trembling hand on his shoulder helped getting himself back under control, a gesture he happily returned with a nod of silent understanding, before signaling Éowyn to lay down again. "Not many creatures can handle the smell of death. But they returned to us before we even left for Mordor, just like Windfola has come back to you."

"I know. I was never angry with him." Feeling a little stronger now, Éowyn reached out to her mount next, softly caressing Windfola's stress-darkened fur with gentle pressure of her fingertips. "Who would not have run in the sight of the Witch-king? It just felt like my family was right, like they have all been right the whole time. Like I didn't belong there, neither of us did. That even when we tried our best, it would never be enough."

"You killed the mightiest of the Nine, milady. I'd say you were exactly where you were supposed to be that day. And has Windfola not swiftly brought you to your home country two decades later when they needed you badly in Helm's Deep? Fate and the will of the Valar are both fickle partners that cannot always be understood."

Legolas stopped in surprise when Aviriel suddenly lay down next to Windfola, resting her head on her mate's back in comfort. Apparently, even a sapling with no Mearh blood but far too much nonsense in their head instead knew when a situation was dire. Then the mare suddenly lay her ears back though and flehmed before lowering her head, nosing Windfola's good leg.

"They know," he added, not only for Éowyn who looked very thoughtful now but for himself too, as a reminder that 3,000 years of a lifespan and more didn't make you immune to stupid prejudice. "Many things, they know better than us." He scooped up some of the clear fluid that was not sweat off the spot Aviriel was showing him and smelled it briefly before wiping his hand on the grass with a grimace. "It's from the boar. It almost got him. It has rabies. And you're not wearing armor. If it had bitten you, you could have died."

This time, there was no stopping her. In spite of her injury, Éowyn somehow managed to push herself upright and crawl over to them, her face a grimace of pain. Lifting Windfola's head to rest it on her good leg, she bent down to lean her forehead against his and blow into his nostrils, letting him know, she was alright. "Thank you, my friend. I should long know better than to doubt you. You be good for me and hang on now, alright? Help will come soon." From her new position, something seemed to catch her eye that Legolas only noticed when she pointed out the characteristic white blossoms on a very small patch of grass a few feet away, proving once more how much she had learned in the many years of learning about the healing powers of everything that was growing. "Can you get this, please?" With new-found energy, she untied the knot of the green scarf she was wearing around her neck and handed it to him. "Make the Athelas wet and soak the fabric. Wrap it loosely around the injury, no pressure. It will slow the infection."

The makeshift bandage at least seemed to numb a little bit of the pain, too. When Legolas put his hand back on the horse's sturdy body, its breathing had considerably slowed down. "I guess, sometimes all it takes is a little change of perspective for us to get back on the right path."

Éowyn regarded him with a lopsided grin. "Well, I sure hope you don't ever need to end up in our dungeon again for that."

He'd run into that with both eyes open, so Legolas took the little dig with an exasperated sigh. "Now I know where my son gets his wit from."

"No, I'm pretty sure you have your wife and yourself to thank for that." For another little while, they didn't speak, but this time, there was a little bit of hope in their waiting. "If the Princess manages to sing the tendons back together, he might have a chance," Éowyn finally judged, with the sober compassion that made her such a great breeder. "As long as he can be mostly pain free, he'll hang in and then, I will not let him go either. He's always been stubborn as a mule. But I don't think, the two of us will ever go on a ride again."

"Probably not," Legolas agreed softly. For much labor, there was just too much destroyed in that leg. "But there's many other things for a horse to enjoy in life. For decades, he has taken you through many fears. Retiring a little early will not be a shame. Besides ..." He searched his memory for a moment, in confusion, because if it served him right, this was unusual. The King of Rohan and his family usually never left out a chance to add to the pride of the country. "He's never sired a foal, did he? Maybe it's time he has his own little herd."

Éowyn scrunched her nose a little in doubt that was not even hers. "Éomer always discouraged it. He said, he didn't believe, Windfola's moody temper should be passed on."

"Well, how many times does he have to save your life to prove your brother wrong?"

The Lady promptly blushed and then smiled, lowering her head briefly towards him. "These parts will miss your wisdom sorely when your people will be gone one day, milord."

"We have a long way ahead of us before that day, milady." Men, at least, did; for Legolas, it often felt like he could wake up anytime now with the urge to build a boat immediately, to carry his family and him away from too much grief, from too many beings he had to say goodbye to, more of them every year. But today, he thought, at least one of these creatures might be with him for a while longer. He caressed Windfola's head once more, a twinge of relief stirring in his soul when he heard the sound of quick hoof beats in the distance. "All of us."

Windfola snorted in approval and nosed Éowyn's dress, looking for a treat.

*******************************************************************************

@whumptober2021 | @whumptober-archive

#whumptober2021 #no.1 #barbed wire #the lord of the rings #fic #fanfiction #stormys fanfics #lord of the rings #and all tolkien lore #dysfunctional elves ftw #eowyn #legolas #it is official october in europe yet shut up

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mk-wizard · 5 years ago

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Transformers Identified Factions

Note that the following is mostly fanlore (including mine) and not official in any way possible. I take no credit for anything and this is all good clean fun.

Quintessons – The oldest identified faction of which all other factions can be traced back to in recorded history. The defining trait of all Quintessons is the green insignia, green optics, clear voices that sound organic and how a vast majority of them have the alien type frame although some of them have had doll or data type frames. No Quintesson bears the wrecker or beast frames though. Not much is known about their culture beyond the fact that code has a huge influence on their society and they are governed by a Grand Judge who is both a political and spiritual ruler. They originate from the planet Quintessa which itself is a strange and they have their own language though they also speak Cybertronian fluently enough. As far as everyone knows, Quintessons are sadistic, evil and their government is not above shady dealings or abusing power to the point where the very people they rule are victims. No one including other Transformers dares to have dealings with them for this reason.

Autobot – Their ancestors were once Quintessons, but one day, the twin prophet sisters Prima and Trinity began a new era for Transformers. Prima was given the Autobot matrix making her the first Autobot leader and Trinity was given the Trion program of wisdom. The defining trait of an Autobot are the red weeping face insignia, blue optics, voices which have an echo tone and how the majority of them have the data body type. They were guided to the planet that would become Cybertron and Autobots have prospered for generations. Tradition states that Autobots would be ruled first by a Prime who comes into power through a hierarchy similar to how Earth royalty to (from the parent to the child), and second by a Trion who comes into power after being trained from very young by the previous one and finally having the Trion program installed into them when they are deemed as ready. Overall, Autobots are a kind and well-meaning race, but they are not without their flaws. They can be a little too proud of tradition and most if not all are very set in their ways and resistant to change even when meant for the better. This has caused two tragic events of which a large group wanted change and even got hostile over it. The first was with the Autbots who would later become GoBots who proposed several notions and opinions that got labeled as heresy. While each side tells a different story on how this social battle went on, what is fact is that the heretic Autbots eventually left Cybertron with most of (what was at the time) the young generation following which had a huge impact on Cybertron for years to come. This resulted in GoBots and Autobots remaining cold and unfriendly to each other to this day. The second case is the more current one being their war with the Decepticons who have also challenge the Autobot way except they merely deem the Prime line as weak and the Trion program as unneeded as knowledge should be for everyone. This makes it clear that while Autobots allow freedom and are a culture based on kindness, they can be rigid towards the idea of change and feel easily threatened by power balances. In fact, it is actually deemed as sin in their code to spark bond with another being who is not an Autobot. As of now, the war between Autobots and Decepticons is cold as Autobots have retaken and rebuild Cybertron and all Decepticons have been banished. To this day they make no contact with each other unless it is for trade reasons.

Decepticon – They were once Autobots, but they converted and renamed themselves. The defining trait of all Decepticons are the purple insignia, red optics, mechanical voices, the ability to fly in robot form and how their culture is centered around combat. They are hostile and believe in survival of the fittest. They reject the Prime lineage deeming it as weak due to the history of irresponsible Primes which lead to several bad outcomes such as the GoBot incident in history and class division where Decepticons were once lower class Autobots who were impoverished and starving. They also deem the presence of a Trion as outdated as knowledge should be for everyone not just one individual. They too are ruled by a single leader who by tradition is always named Megatron if a mech or Megara if a femme and the title of leader is passed on from parent to child. However, if a Megatron or Megara passes on and has no heirs or heiresses, leadership is passed on to the second in command. Despite their aggression, Decepticon society is not without redeeming qualities such as how they are not concerned with social class, they believe is alt mode autonomy which means you can choose any alt mode you want regardless of your job, they believe the way one practices code is their own business and they even allow bots to practice Atheism if they wish, and most notably, Decepticons are open to allowing other to live among them civilly without the requirement of identifying as Decepticons themselves. In fact, it is not uncommon for many Decepticons to identify as rogues and for a few Autobots and even GoBots to fight or live among Decepticons. The only requirement is that they obey the leader, respect the law and cause no trouble. The Decepticon way is an attempt to better society for Transformers by abandoning old traditions that are actually hurting it such as deeming interfactional marriage as sin, having the holy texts only available to clergy, class division and at times, the Prime ruling system. However, it has exchanged one hierarchy for another, poverty is still a huge problem and other personal freedoms have been compromised causing social disarray at times. After the great war, the Decepticons failed to take control of Cybertron and went on to find refuge on their own planet known as Megalas and it is currently in disarray as it is still finding its footing.

GoBot – Like Decepticons, their ancestor were once Autobots though their journey towards making their own faction was a gradual process. The definding traits of all GoBots are organic looking eyes that come in various colours save for blue, a blue insignia of different variations in order to designate their job, the ability to fly is robot mode and alt mode if it too is that of a living being, and their frame type only comes in doll type. While most of the history between GoBots and Autobots is shrouded in mystery with no one truly being sure of who was the victim and who was the villain, this much is fact. During the reign of Vector Prime, a group of Autobots began to question some of the traditions and practices that seemed outdated and rather unjust after seeing how life on other planets was like. Most notably how it did not make sense to deem interfactional marriage as a sin, that the one and only connection to Primus is through energon and how an Autobot cannot choose whichever alt mode they want even if it has no impact on their job. Things got more heated when this group began to question the way the clergy was set up so that they had access to the holy texts when knowledge of Primus should be for everyone especially the prayers. They also began to question if the Prime system was truly efficient and that perhaps such a large planet ought to incorporate democratic elements such as voting and that perhaps there should even be more than just two leaders. This group got labeled as heretics and they in turn rebelled for many years until they left and went on to build their own faction on the planet known as GoBototron taking most of the younger generation with them though it is not known if this was part of some scheme or the younger generation left of their own accord. Currently, Gobots are an entirely democratic society ruled by a president, vice president and twenty senators and they delve scientific research, scientific exploration and fine art. They consider the bond Transformers have with Primus as spiritual rather than physical so they have long since given up energon including in their veins for a blue electrocharged substance they call lifeblood which mimics organic blood. They need only to fuel themselves with sunlight, water and a healthy diet of minerals. They have based much of their technological development on plant life and they have even melded the two by perfecting plant based plastic which is made everyone and even makes up their bodies. In fact, the only metal you will ever find on GoBototron is in your plant or on their techno-organic plants. GoBots themselves are made entirely out of plastic alloys. The most obvious one being plasmetal which hence its name imitates metal, but is much more lightweight, has none of the toxic properties and it is biodegradable. The biggest drawback in their society is that they are not warriors and due to abandoning metal and much of the warrior related traditions, the only trained defenses they have are their military and even with their advances technology in barriers and medicine, they are no match for other Transformer factions. In fact, any GoBot who isn’t part of the military doesn’t have armor as part of their wardrobe program. To this day, GoBots and Autbots keep their distance from each other and most of them are unfriendly and cold towards each other.

Other Factions? – The existence of other Transformer factions is one that has been highly debated across all communities. While most of them are skeptical, archeologists have confirmed that at one time, there may have been others in the past at least as some artifacts with unidentified insignias have been found though even then, it was debated that these insignias only designated roles or social standing. It is also possible that like with the Autobots, other Transformers who were once Quintessons went on to make their own factions or that there were and may still be factions that have no ties to the Quintessons. The most radical theory of all is that during the generations long worth of war between Autobots and Decepticons is that some bots from both sides would sneak away and their descendants went on to find their own factions. Of course, all of this is merely theory.

#transformers #gobots #autobots #insignia #faction #decepticons #junkion #maximal #predacon #culture #fandom #transformers fandom #fanfiction #transformers fanfiction

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dystopiandramaqueen · 5 years ago

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Bruce Miller should step down

June 2020.

America is changing.

Ridding herself of outdated things.

Shedding her old, restrictive skin and creating a new, better identity.

Bruce Miller- as showrunner for The Handmaid’s Tale: is one of the outdated vestiges of White Supremacy that needs to go.

Keep reading to find out WHY.

In 2020, America is tearing down statues of slave owners that were DEFENDED in 2017. When NAZIS Marched on Charlottesville in 2017 - white people talked about HISTORY. About HERITAGE.

It was bullshit in 2017. But it’s 2020. Lies don’t work anymore. We see white supremacy clearly. We call it out. We remove it.

When NAZIS Marched on Charlottesville in 2017, white people defended the confederate flag. Please note it below- in the hands of white supremacists- right next to the Swastika. It’s a symbol of white supremacy. Flown by men who would die, would kill their own brothers to maintain slavery. To maintain their white right to own and hurt black people.

But it’s 2020.

Even NASCAR knows that certain images are harmful now.

NASCAR has banned the confederate flag.

We’re awake. America is changing.

In 2020, the TV show COPS has been pulled from the air. Because it’s White Supremacy Porn.

I want to take this moment to check back in.

We wrote to Bruce, we tweeted Bruce and the Handmaid’s Tale Writers in 2017- and they did not listen. They did not hear us.

We’re going to try again. Because it’s 2020. America is changing.

I am a white woman. I am 36, I have two kids. I am June’s demographic.

Margaret Atwood’s iconic “The Handmaid’s Tale” and S1 of the show- which adapted her book for TV- was perfection.

But Season 2 and Season 3, written by Show Runner Bruce Miller ( a white male)- are almost unwatchable because of the race issue.

It’s not just me who feels this way.

Type “Handmaid’s Tale Race” in google: its all NEGATIVE articles. 100% bad reviews.

https://www.vulture.com/2017/06/the-handmaids-tale-greatest-failing-is-how-it-handles-race.html

https://www.theguardian.com/tv-and-radio/2017/jul/31/the-handmaids-tales-race-problem

https://www.nylon.com/handmaids-tale-race-problem

https://theweek.com/articles/773904/handmaids-tales-worsening-race-problem

https://www.mic.com/p/after-three-seasons-the-handmaids-tale-remains-brazenly-unaware-of-racism-18658839

Pro tip: If the whole internet agrees on something...there might be a reason

The Handmaid’s tale is a show about a White American woman becoming a slave.

FULL STOP.

A show about slavery in America.

Season 3 put the following images on television:

A Black woman bullied to death by gang of white women.

A Black woman shot by a white cop.

A Black woman’s bloody body dragged to a happy song and our white hero smiling.

A beloved Black character (Frances) lynched by our white hero. Because of our white hero’s choices.

I am a white woman. I was so disturbed by these images that I felt physically ill.

I can’t imagine watching lynching on TV in 2020 as a black woman.

Our white hero seems unrepentant. She’d probably do it all again. This is her character development season. She “becomes a badass” by killing black women.

Season 3 does not center our free black characters: Moira or Luke.

Season 3 DOES center the white slave owners.

Imagine if any slave movie ever centered the struggles and conversations and tears of the plantation owners. How the white women WEEP so beautifully! How they SUFFER!

When confronted by interviewers, podcasts, Bruce deflected. Saying he did nothing wrong.

He sees no problem with the content he produced.

Bruce Miller says he is color blind.

Bruce Miller’s comments on “Eyes on Gilead” podcast from 8/4/19:

https://www.sbs.com.au/guide/podcastcollection/eyes-gilead (source)

Interviewer: OfMatthew: Since we’re talking about her, you’d be aware, you’ve got quite a backlash this year about this season’s lack of focus on characters of color and in particular OfMatthew, casting an African American woman in that role. Can we speak to that, has that surprised you? Do you cop it or, what’s your response?

BM: She wasn’t written as a character of color, she was just written as a handmaid...I don’t think she was where she was or met her fate because of her race. I may be not seeing something but I don’t think that’s why she lived or died.

BM: I’m no expert on race or it’s portrayal on television.

Bruce admits he is blind. He doesn’t see racism in America.

He doesn’t see the problem with the content he produced.

In 2017 we asked him to consider diversifying his writer’s room.

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

Bruce stole the job (showrunner for THT) from a woman.

https://www.nytimes.com/2017/06/18/arts/television/the-handmaids-tale-finale-showrunner-interview.html (source)

When Hulu hired Bruce Miller as the showrunner for a television adaptation of Margaret Atwood’s classic dystopian novel “The Handmaid’s Tale,” he didn’t have to start from scratch. Ilene Chaiken, now the showrunner of the Fox series “Empire,” first developed the project for Showtime, Mr. Miller said, and she “deserves a lot of credit for incredible endurance and tenacity, for keeping it alive.” Ms. Chaiken’s pilot script, although scrapped, gave him a starting point as he grappled with how to tell the story.

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

All of this together:

I don’t want your white supremacy, misogyny porn show pulled from the air. I love Atwood’s source material. We need a story of rebellion in 2020. I love your actors and writers. But I want YOU to step aside.

The CEO of Reddit stepped down, and said he should be replaced by a person of color. THAT is visionary leadership in this moment. THAT is what reparations looks like in 2020.

https://www.theverge.com/2020/6/5/21281744/reddit-co-founder-alexis-ohanian-resigns-board

If Bruce Miller stays- white supremacy wins because a white man will make money- twisting a woman’s book (Margaret Atwood), adapted for TV by a woman (Ilene Chaiken) into never ending seasons of TORTURE of black bodies. I am fucking tired of it.

The revolution in 2020- requires that he step down.

Action Steps:

-Step 1 is admit there is a problem. Everyone sees it but you. Wake the fuck up.

-Hire more people of color, at all levels.

-Then give your job (writing a show about female american slaves) to a woman. You could give the job back to Ilene Chaiken. Empire is one of the most entertaining shows I’ve ever seen. Cookie Lyon is what a rebellious woman looks like. Not June Osborne, slayer of Black Allies. Not in 2020.

-I know you won’t step down. Your ego is TOO BIG. Please stop making white supremacist images. Whether you mean to or not, you are hurting black bodies on film. Please stop producing this content. It is harmful. Maybe hang some white women.

-Educate yourself. You look like an asshole. Unless you want to go down in history with dipshits like Trump.

Thank you for coming to my Ted Talk!

If you agree- please share.

#thehandmaid's tale nick x june nick blaine june osborne black lives matter tht

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somethingjustsouthofbrilliance · 5 years ago

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Too Weak to Fly (chapter 4)

Back to Chapter 1

@swanheart69 @cosmic-malarky

Chapter 4

Aziraphale is a dreamer. Always has been.

When the uncaringly cold and soullessly barren landscapes of blinding white threatened to overwhelm his senses, he dreamed of another Heaven, the one from long ago. With endless cerulean skies, clean and pure, as yet untouched by any notion of storms. With gentle, caressing rays of the sun that streaked down to them from the flawless firmament to bathe them all in its comforting warmth. With fields of verdurous grass, soft as the down feathers and interspersed with brilliant splashes of color – flowers, Her first experimental creations that didn’t even have a name yet.

When the archangels mocked and taunted him, their cold, harsh voices and abrasive words leaving deep weeping gouges on his cowering essence, he thought of a different voice, a bit raspy, a bit sibilant, but brilliantly, achingly warm, good-naturedly sarcastic and, above all, kind. So, so very kind.

When he wanted to escape the disdainful judgment of Gabriel’s stare, the crass, empty blankness of Sandalphon’s, the dark suspicion of Uriel’s, or the frigid indifference of Michael’s, he dreamed of the eyes the color of honeyed amber, sparkling with mischief and mirth. Lively and vibrant. Warm.

It helped. Helped him stay above it all those millennia. Helped him cling firmly to the tiny flotsam of hope and love in the sea of murderous apathy and dark despair.

It wasn’t helping him now.

Still he tries.

He thinks of the quaint old cottage in South Downs that he and Crowley looked at a couple weeks ago. A cozy little brick house half-buried in the untended greenery and huddled on the edge of a brilliant blue sea that created a stark contrast against the blinding white of the nearby Seven Sisters cliffs.

They were going to move in at the end of the month. Close up the bookshop, leave behind the Mayfair apartment and settle all of their combined belongings within the welcoming walls of their new joint home. There was a garage for the Bentley, a living room with an old-fashioned brick-laid fireplace and wood-trimmed windows that provided them with a perfect view of the sea where it breaks upon the chalky white cliffs. A small but well-equipped kitchen that could easily fit a nice little table for two. Outside there was a decent-size, if badly neglected, garden, and Crowley was going to get it back in proper shape, add his plants to the ones already there and set up a small greenhouse for those of his plants that were too delicate to withstand the brutal, biting cold of English winters. And there was an extra bedroom that Aziraphale was going to convert into a library with rows of bookcases running along the entire length of the walls to converge at the far end of the room where the hauntingly familiar eagle-shaped lectern from Crowley’s apartment would stand, spreading its wings in the eternal offer of protection (as Crowley himself had protected him and the books a century ago in the ruins of a bombed church).

It was going to be beautiful. It was going to be perfect. And it was going to be theirs. They were going to be happy there.

And Aziraphale tries to picture it now. The warm darkness of the summer night outside the open window, the soft splashing of the waves against the shore. The living room bathed in the amber glow of the fireplace. A pair of wine glasses on a coffee table, still half full, the burgundy red liquid made all the darker by the surrounding shadows. And the two of them, lounging on the couch in the living room; the old couch, the one from Aziraphale’s bookshop, with its tartan pattern (outdated, according to Crowley; stylish, according to Aziraphale himself) and its well-worn but enticingly soft cushions. Crowley, draped over the entire length of it, all loose-limbed and impossibly relaxed, with his head resting in Aziraphale’s lap, where the angel is tucked comfortably against the arm of the couch. And Aziraphale carding his fingers through the soft fiery locks as the demon slowly drifts off to sleep….

The sound of a breath hitching in pain breaks upon the forced idyll of his thoughts, and he freezes, cursing his corporation’s all-too-human need to shift to keep one’s extremities from falling asleep. The perfect vision dissipates, morphing with cruel inexorability into the grim reality of the moment: the cramped little bedroom of the Jasmine Cottage, illuminated by the gentle light of a table lamp; the blood-stained mattress underneath him, the old-fashioned metal bed frame digging painfully into his back where he sits wedged uncomfortably against the headboard; and Crowley, rigid and trembling in his lap, the luxurious strands of auburn red hair now matted and sweat-soaked underneath his fingers.

It didn’t work. What he was hoping for. It didn’t work. Anathema, bless her soul, did her best with what was available to her. She managed to get the bullet out and stop the bleeding. She even managed to mend some of the damage to Crowley’s corporation, to reattach some of the broken strands of his energy pattern.

But it wasn’t enough, it was never going to be enough. The damage was too great and they had waited too long. And no matter how hard Anathema tried, she couldn’t repair all of it. Not even with Aziraphale’s guidance. All she was doing was draining her own energy and causing Crowley more pain. And after hours upon hours of that torment, Aziraphale finally couldn’t take it anymore – the sight of Anathema’s exhaustion-wrought features and shaking hands and the poorly muffled sounds of Crowley’s growing distress. And so he reached out and gently pulled her hands away from where they hovered unsteadily over the open wound in the demon’s back. And he begged her to go rest.

“You’re exhausted,” he had told her, desperately trying to keep his voice steady. “You both are. Why don’t you sleep a bit, and we can try again in a few hours.”

They both knew it was a lie, and the look she gave him was filled with so much guilt and sorrow that it nearly broke Aziraphale’s heart. Because it was never her fault, never her burden to carry. The failure was his and his alone – from dragging his feet outside the bookshop long enough for a hunter to take a shot at them to letting Crowley talk him into waiting for Adam to put up his shield. And he could now add upsetting his human friend to the ever-growing list of his failings.

But Anathema was a smart, intuitive witch, and she understood what he was trying so very hard not to say. That he couldn’t stand watching the love of his life in so much pain anymore. That he had accepted defeat. That he wanted to spend however little time they had left alone with Crowley, just the two of them. So she nodded to him shakily and walked out, letting them be. And only the knowledge that he had to keep it together for Crowley’s sake prevented him from breaking down the moment the bedroom door closed behind her….

“I’m sorry, dear.” He turns his attention back to Crowley, traces the sharp cheekbone with the pad of his thumb, unable to mask the way it trembles against the waxen skin. “I’m so sorry.” The words feel useless on his tongue, an empty offer of contrition for causing his beloved even more unnecessary discomfort. It’s all he seems capable of lately. That and sitting by, watching helplessly as the love of his life slowly, inexorably slips away.

“S’alright, angel…” Dull yellow eyes blink sluggishly up at him, thin lips twitching in a poor facsimile of a reassuring smile. “Can’t expect you to stay still for so long.”

And that was precisely the problem, wasn’t it. Because he could stay still. Could remain in the same position for days absorbed in a good book without any of his limbs stiffening up on him. But now, without his powers, no matter how hard he tries he can’t quite overcome the urge to ease some of the growing discomfort in his back and legs. And it’s only been hours. A few measly hours of sitting by and listening to Crowley’s labored, wheezing breaths, and praying, praying they don’t stop.

It’s bad enough that he is of no help to Crowley whatsoever without his powers, but he can’t even control his body long enough to provide him comfort without hurting him in the process. Useless. Entirely useless. Not even good enough as a blasted pillow!

He doesn’t realize he’s spoken out loud until he hears a faint huff of fond annoyance followed by a breathy but insistent, “Ssstop fretting, angel. You make a p…perfect pillow…. Couldn’t asssk for a better one.”

These words – Crowley’s stubborn attempt to cheer him up, despite the pain and the blood loss, despite the fear of what is yet to come – they make something crack deep inside Aziraphale’s chest, the dam holding back the ever-growing swell of emotions threatening to burst open and flood everything in its path.

He looks down at the demon, his throat growing impossibly, dangerously tight at the undisguised concern in the pain-clouded gaze that meets his.

“Crowley, I’m so–”

“Tell me ‘bout… Edinburgh.”

“…What?” he stammers out, confusion momentarily slipping past the near-suffocating veil of sorrow and self-blame.

“Edinburgh…,” the demon repeats, urgent, fevered yellow staring intently up at him from the haggard, ashen face. “Your firssst temptation. How did…how did it go? You never ssss... said. T-tell me, angel.”

Aziraphale stares mutely at him for a heartbeat longer, brow furrowed in puzzlement, and then it hits him, the reason behind that wild-eyed urgency, that seemingly ill-timed curiosity about a four thousand year old inconsequential event. Distraction. That silly old serpent, who knew him like nobody else, who could probably read the swelling turmoil of his emotions clear as day on his face, was trying to pull his attention away from his own internal mess to keep him from getting lost in it altogether.

“Crowley…” The realization brings with it a fresh swell of tears, the demon’s name – a broken, reverent whisper on his lips.

“J’ssst talk to me, angel,” Crowley grumbles in feigned displeasure, uncomfortable even now to be on the receiving end of the angel’s doting, revering looks. “M’bored j’sssst lying here.”

Aziraphale moves his hand away from Crowley’s face, reaching for the demon’s hand instead. Grips it, fervently, desperately, clinging to it like a drowning man to a lonely piece of debris floating in the middle of an endless ocean. Anchors his gaze on the salutary distant shore of Crowley’s eyes. “Will you…,” he falters, his throat suddenly too thick to get the words out, burning in much the same way his eyes are, the stinging pressure of tears fighting to break free. He swallows them down, tries again. “Promise to stay awake if I do?” “Don’t leave me,” he means, “don’t die.”

Crowley understands him, of course he does, and the thin long fingers flutter slightly in the angel’s grasp as Crowley attempts to squeeze back. “Sss’long assss I can,” he vows, a wan, knowing smile pulling at the corners of his lips.

“Alright.” He forces himself to smile back, the effort ruined by their unsteady, pitiful wobble, and he begins to talk.

He talks and talks and talks. Long after the Edinburgh story is over. Switching from topic to topic. Rambling about places he’d been to, people he’d met, human-made wonders he’d seen. He talks about his books, the treasured personal library he had amassed over the centuries. He recites passages from his favorite oeuvres, exalting their strengths and highlighting their flaws. He talks until his throat grows drier than the desert sand, his voice desiccated into a raspy whisper.

Still he keeps going, mercilessly scraping out the words from his abused throat, because Crowley’s listening, he’s listening. Because he can still see a sliver of clouded amber peeking out from beneath the half-lowered, paper-thin eyelids; can still hear the infrequent, labored breaths that pass between the gray, blood-spattered lips. Because Crowley is still here, still clinging on. Whether to the sound of his voice or to the feel of his hand grasping his own, Aziraphale doesn’t know, but he is loath to abandon either.

Until Crowley speaks.

“Angel.”

His voice is barely louder than the rustle of a summer breeze in the treetops, but it’s enough to startle Aziraphale into silence. The angel waits, breath bated and heart quivering with sudden, grim apprehension, as he watches his beloved struggle to pant out more words.

“Remember those cliffsss in Italy? Onesss you t…took me to after Petroniusss?” Pale eyelids rise with effort, bleary slitted gaze settling on Aziraphale.

Aziraphale nods, not quite trusting himself to speak.

“We went flying there… at night. I…” The demon’s gaze turns distant, clouded further by a faraway memory. “I enjoyed it… flying with you… under th’ssstarssss….”

There’s a sharp stinging lump stuck in Aziraphale’s throat. It hurts to swallow.

“There are cliffs by our cottage, dear. Remember?” His voice trembles and cracks over the words, desperation and tears leaking through the breaks. “We can go flying again. You and me. Any time we want.”

Crowley blinks, slow and sluggish, a faint ripple of a smile skittering across his lips. “I’d like that…,” he breathes out, his eyelids drooping lower, losing their struggle to stay open.

“Crowley!” Aziraphale panics. Abandons his grip on Crowley’s hand in favor of cupping his face as he pleads with the demon to look at him. “Come on, darling, don’t do this!” he begs, tears sliding down his cheeks to drip onto the pallid face below him. “Look!” He nods blindly toward the window where the first rays of the new day have chased away the star-studded darkness of the night. “It’s dawn. It’s already dawn, Crowley. Only two days left. You just need to hold on for two more days and…. Please, Crowley, please!”

The demon’s eyelids flutter, straining feebly with the near-insurmountable effort to rise before falling closed once more. “M’ssssorry angel…,” he murmurs – faint, rueful exhale.

Crowley’s chest doesn’t rise anymore.

_____

TBC I promise

#my fics #good omens fics #good omens fanfiction #crowley/aziraphale #sjsob good omens fics

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