#just as long as its not Knights of woeful truth

[shouldprobablybereading]

[dante-vergil64]

Sasuhina month: Day 2 - Vampire AU

She had never been a girl who was particularly easy to frighten.

Despite the countless strange happenings that came to pass all throughout her life, that single emotion was not in a habit of grasping her senses as effortlessly as it normally would another’s 

It was deceptive, its malevolent nature demanded it mercilessly present itself within long intervals of sobriety before it was ready to take possession of her body with the timing impeccable to destroy her.

Her mother’s death was perhaps the first time she had become aware of it, the phantom layer freezing her skin that paralyzed her digits and limbs from making a single move, the frenetic beating of her frantic heart that echoed resoundingly through her head as it degraded all other sounds into haunting white noise, the hazy lightheadedness that blurred her surroundings with foggy mist, the painful constriction of her struggling lungs preventing her from drawing breath.

It was akin to dying with no injury marring her body, helplessness and despair unlike anything that could be properly articulated spreading suffocatingly along her veins as easily as her blood did. 

Indeed, it had managed to surge deep beneath her skin imprinting the terrifying essence of its existence into the very depths of her psyche.

It was only natural then, that not many further occurrences even began to elicit an inkling of that sentiment from her. 

The stern light that constantly dominated her father’s eyes as it concealed his perpetual sorrow, the deafening silence separating her from her cousin’s glacial hatred, and the flickering glimpses of loneliness that would dim her little sister’s gaze from time to time might have as well been her only exceptions.

She acknowledged with unhidden honesty, that only they could command the apparition of a fraction of the terror she had experienced that day.

It was more amusing than it sounded, truly. The world they lived in was a dauntingly enormous place, plagued with as many dangers, tragedies, and horrors as it was graced with joys, wonder and beauty. Sanity duly dictated an appropriate response and yet that fear simply refrained itself from manifesting.

For a woman who was blessed with the supernatural gift to harness the forces of nature and impose her will onto the environment, it was most inconvenient. 

Witches, sorcerers, shamans, mages, whatever term society had fancied to label them with, did not change the intrinsic nature of their life. 

And it was in fact ‘them’ she referred to as she was not alone in that unlikely endeavor. The reality that so many human beings unwillingly ignored was that paranormal creatures populated most of their created communities on all sectors across the globe in very great numbers, easily blending in and carrying on with their lives with them being none the wiser.

She had had the fortune of being conceived within an old and powerful family of practitioners that were bestowed with the uncanny ability to summon magic, a gift granted to her people by grace of their close connection to mother nature. 

That wonderful favor had permitted them to secure a stable and safe stronghold within society, creating connections and planting their surname on the minds of young and old as their status and wealth continued growing steadily along with time. 

It was an undeniable blessing she would be eternally grateful for, and a curse that nearly brought her own demise.

Witches were but one of the many species occupying that vast portion of land they proudly called their home, other abnormal entities wandering seamlessly through their cities and towns in their own masks and disguises with their own purposes and objectives, some even inclined to inflict violence upon those they considered lesser.

Ghouls, demons, specters, phantoms, beasts, lycanthropes, there was a myriad of beings her kind had long learned to be wary of through painful and tragic experience.

The words her grandmother used to share in passing, an old poem from her youth, often rang whisperingly like a mantra through her mind as her world had slowly began to shift with the foreboding arrival of her impending destiny “beware the shadows in the night, beware the darkness in the light. In times of long and dreadful fright, beware my child, beware my child. Do not stare into its eyes, windows holding blissful lies. Turn away into the bright, beware my child, beware my child.”

An old saying that had been passed around through word of mouth in times far back, when the undead would walk the earth and feed upon their prey with no restraint.

According to her grandmother, the woeful words had been first muttered long ago on a time unremembered, one somber rainy day following the tragic death of a young girl at the merciless hands of a vampire. That terrible event had filled countless hearts with aching grief and dreadful sorrow, culminating in a grand funeral that was widely held on the town square of what was now known as Sunagakure. 

Amidst the echoing droplets splattering harshly against the grass, the figure of a woman dressed in black had stood in heartbreaking desolation before the pure white casket gently holding the child, the porcelain face resting opposite to her, utterly unblemished and beautiful, belonging to her one precious daughter, love of her life.

A silky black hat had seated above golden tresses obscuring her mourning visage as heavy tears slid softly, agonizingly along her skin, her fragile form trembling in affliction facing her nightmares finally coming to life. Her lips started moving once, moving twice, a song of melancholy flowing grievingly at last “Beware the shadows in the night, beware the darkness in the light. In times of long and dreadful fright, beware my child, beware mi child. Do not stare into its eyes, windows holding blissful lies. Turn away into the bright, beware my child, beware my child.”

It was a wish thrown to the wind, a song of apology and regret. One that was told among the witches to keep their eyes forever watchful, forever sound.

And yet, she had never been a girl who was particularly easy to frighten, having long learned to unintentionally disregard those solemn whispered words of warning.

It had not, in all honesty, been an attitude developed from rebellion or confinement as one would usually be inclined to believe, but the abrupt commencement of a strange and complicated tale that fiercely challenged those traditional conceptions.

Indeed, her life had unexpectedly been thrusted into a vortex of the unknown, a sordid journey of death and blood, of tears and laughter, of love and hatred. 

And he, he had been the catalyst of it all. The boy with the golden locks and sky blue eyes, whose smile had managed to shine brighter than the very stars and whose gentle kindness had irrevocably stolen her heart from the very first moment of their meeting. The vampire-hybrid Naruto Uzumaki. The man tasked with the protection of the human girl Sakura Haruno, her very own best friend.

It had all seemed so surreal then, his rough voice weary as he informed them of an ancient prophecy foretold, the dismal grips of a fate that had unfairly enclosed around the young maiden of the verdant eyes and rose-colored tresses.

He had spoken with conviction, his gentle gaze and expressive features brimming with tender concern and ardent resolve as he shaped a chronicle of what their lives would soon become, and of the impending danger that lurked away in the approaching darkness ready to sink its starving fangs in their pale necks without hesitation, without mercy. 

The rosette for her part, had naturally reacted with confusion and distrust of the boy.

Despite his tone and solemn bearing, the unexpected warning of an incoming invasion and impending danger arriving at their door had been in fact rather difficult to believe even for her at the time. The incident that transpired the following week, however, was more than enough corroboration that the vampire’s words were nothing but the truth.

A bloody confrontation with a cult of vampire zealots had violently seized them thoroughly unprepared, and the safe, ordinary world they had inhabited thus far, harshly crumbled to a complete collapse. 

It had been a night like any night at some pub near university when an outing to relieve stress had abruptly turned into a gory bloodbath with the arrival of the homicidal creatures, tables breaking and corpses falling as no soul was spared from their malevolent carnage. In the unsuspecting chaos they had managed to successfully kidnap sakura leaving her valiant vampiric knight ruthlessly impaled to a wall to be slowly desecrated.   

She could quite vividly recall the damp feeling permeating her stomach where a broken billiard pole had been viciously thrusted piercing though her intestines and right kidney, the consuming fatigue and drowning light-headedness pleading for eternal rest, gradually forcing her eyelids to close and her heart to stop its beating.

When she had finally come to, it had been several hours after. The first thing her sight had registered were tenebrous statues standing in a rustic victorian living room, blazing fire burning steadily on the chimney as it filled the space with its dim golden light.

Naruto had somehow managed to save her by feeding her a portion of his own blood, the scene of massacre playing starkly on the news as they observed with grim determination, unwilling to abandon the emerald-eyed girl to the undesirable outsiders.

It had been rather foolish at the time, to fight,  just the two of them facing an entire dozen of bloodthirsty monsters with neither a plan nor the luxury of time to properly design one.

In the very depths of her mind, she had thoroughly anticipated for that crippling fear to finally make its appearance and viciously strangle her anxious heart as the worry for her treasured friend grew exponentially, and yet it had not come.

It had been a life-changing ordeal for all of them, most of all the human girl who had been previously unaware of the menacing creatures aiming strictly for her life. 

That was how it had all begun, the three of them facing unimaginable dangers trying to protect each other and their town from the sinister forces that sought to bring domination upon them, encountering both trustful allies and threatening foes as their path had slowly continued to unfold.

Their once small faction had soon unintentionally began to grow. With each trial they faced and every enemy they battled, extraordinary members that were willing to trade their lives to protect the innocent from the forces of darkness easily fell into their ranks.

The loyal werewolf Kiba Inuzuka, the seductive witch Ino Yamanaka, the lethal hunter Kakashi Hatake, the genius vampire Shikamaru Nara, and the silent warlock Shino Aburame. They and many others, brave men and women who seamlessly managed to grow into something more…a sort of makeshift family…fragile…precious.

She supposed it had lied on them, the real reason her grandmother’s bittersweet words gently shrouded in melancholy were never able to fully reach her. The wonderful people she had encountered in that epic tale of hers had been the same kinds of creatures witches like her had long been warned never to befriend, never to approach.

The panoramic view of the colorful world around her had steadily crystalized into a dazzling image of immunity that even she forgot was synthetic, comfortably wrapping her with a blanket of invincibility that made her believe things would always go their way.

She had been naive.

The silky mantles of darkness had effectively hidden forces far beyond their blithe comprehension; terrible, ominous entities who wielded the power to casually grind their blissful reality into tiny fragments of perpetual horror and expose just how entirely and utterly vulnerable and insignificant they truly were.

It began with a name, an echoing whisper in the voices of the dead, a chant of terror that had long been sparingly divulged through the countless creatures of the night.

An obscure legend, a faceless phantom, a tale of nightmare too ludicrous to believe that had soon faded into the misty backgrounds of their minds, a severe mistake that almost costed them their lives.

Because that fear she was so impervious to, the chilling petrification of her very being, it had a name. One that had first revealed itself in rivers of flowing scarlet.

She would eternally remember that transcendental winter night, the flickering lights of the ceiling lamps dangling brokenly in the center of the spacious room, the shattered glass scattered violently across the maple wooden floor, the sturdy furniture harshly displayed in disregarding disarray, the pungent smell of iron in the glacial air, damp stains of crimson lining grotesquely the concrete walls. 

Her eyes watered, oxygen struggling to enter her trembling body as her lungs traitorously ceased to function and her stomach twisted painfully from the revolting nausea. 

There were bodies loitering motionlessly dispersed across the wide bloodstained room in a macabre simulation of a graveyard that nearly paralyzed her senses.

Short silky locks of golden hair stained red as a disfigured mesh of limbs and flesh rested fractured against the tarnished, fragmented wall.

A muscular brunette boy hovered viciously impaled to the brick formations of an auburn chimney with a black steel bar protruding insultingly from his chest.

An amputated arm gripped the the throat of another in a mocking gesture as his viscera spilled disgustingly from a brutal gash in his midsection.

The pale body of the fair witch rested sordidly petrified on a shallow crimson puddle spreading fluidly through the floor with no apparent injury gracing her creamy skin, yet her eyes remained wide open, teal irises somberly absent of life.

Her lavender gaze stared in unbridled horror, comprehension stumblingly escaping her processing mind and her heart beating frenziedly in painful contractions as she futilely tried to keep from hyperventilating.

Absurd. Ludicrous. The scene before her eyes could simply not be occurring under any circumstances, it was not possible. The desperate urge to cry and release her torment almost consumed her in its entirety as her fragile attention moved from body to body in a limbo of cognition; unwilling, thoroughly refusing to reconcile the images imposed onto her sight.

Only the damp periodic sound of liquid striking softly against solid ground managed to penetrate her separating bubble of distress. A haunting drip, drip, drip cut through the agonizing silence within the room with an ease that was almost ridiculing in intent, her terrified lilac eyes lifting hesitantly to capture pristine alabaster skin sharply illuminated by the abundant light of the moon.

 Amidst the center of the gory chaos, indifferent to her rapidly deteriorating mental condition and the revolting carnage painting the floors in sickening red, a pair of orbs glowing vermillion clashed contrastingly against the thick, heavy curtains of shadows casted almost mocking in its silence by the ominous night sky, latent power and excruciating pressure emanating like waves of poisonous radiation seeping burningly through her skin as if attempting to erode her body at a cellular level.

They stared in unperturbed disinterest as the dark viscous fluid descended slowly down the tips of long, slender fingers along glinting sticky red-coated skin, gradually accumulating atop bony knuckles before breaking into drops and continuing their fall.

The terse silence remained for another infinitesimal instant before the demonic scarlet gaze ascended and turned in her direction with a motion so slow it was almost agonizing, her breath leaving her lungs anew with a gasp full of dread as her eyes met with those of the devil.

Unnatural features that could have been carved out of marble by the hands of a master sculptor bathed soundly in the ocean of shadows not penetrated by the dazzling moonlight exposing his bloodied hand.

Midnight hair stretched in length down flawlessly ivory complexion messily embracing it like a dark uneven blanket, straight silky strands framing perfectly symmetrical structures of bone, and  a long thin concave nose coated in bright alabaster skin seating above a sharp slender jaw that seamlessly constructed an intimidating masculine visage.

It was a sick irony, that such ethereal beauty belonged to a creature as despicable as he.

A startled gasp coming from her side managed to break her spellbound trance filling her with stark awareness of just how dangerous the present situation was and reminding her of the unprotected presence of her currently unharmed best friend.

The evil crimson gaze followed the shallow airy sound and she could have sworn that for a breath’s moment her heart had completely ceased to function.

Before the vampire could so much as move a single digit, she hastily lifted her arms proceeding to chant as many of her most lethal spells as she could think of, her mind conjuring up a list of dozens upon dozens of hexes, curses, and incantations she had learned throughout her many years as an accomplished sorceress.

His nerves were heated to combustion as the walls lining the blood vessels running through his brain crumbled to ashen dust, allowing a massive internal bleeding to occur inside his cranium that increased the internal pressure to a point that should have left him effectively braindead.

The trachea inside his neck was violently crushed to fragmentation disabling his ability to properly breath as the alveoli sacs on his lungs seared aflame.

The density of his blood became so high it almost solidified, provoking his heart to immediately burst from the massive force applied to its contractions.

His liver and kidneys were severed and liquified as his internal organs were flattened and sent through his major arteries blocking the limited blood flow that had been previously allowed.

With complete desperation and urgency filling her muscles she unleashed her full devastating power against the demon that had dared to injure her friends.

She killed him. Once, twice, three times. She killed him so many times that by the time her ears had registered the horrified gasps of her dear friend as she observed the unconstrained violence of her magic she she had already lost count.

His body was obliterated and demolished in every single way she could imagine, lifting all the restrictions she had once imposed on her gift.

As his figure was ignited in bright consuming flames that illuminated the entire room, she swiftly turned to the petrified girl at her side before harshly ordering her to leave.

Tears had now freely started sliding down her soft cheeks as exhaustion began to seep through her softening limbs, leaving her short of breath.

Abruptly, a curse chillingly died on the tips of her lips as her jaw was involuntarily stopped mid-chant by an unseen, untouchable force, her mind filling with growing panic as she witnessed the vampire’s tissues and flesh healing and regenerating almost instantaneously. 

Try as she might, commanding a single movement from her body became an impossible feat as her control over it was completely relinquished to the being before her. Not even her eyes managed to escape his authority as she was forced to immutably observe his calm otherworldly stride now that he had fully recuperated, his naked body seemingly not able to draw an inkling of shame from him.

“Enough. Your childish attempts at retaliation have stopped being entertaining. I have no more time to spare on your little antics.” His voice was caressingly soft as it held a distinctively rich depth that seemed rather seductive in its harmony when he spoke, a thick British accent lacing his leisure address of her. 

With no further word her way, his gaze nonchalantly slid to the figure of the woman by her side.

“Now, you must be who I am looking for, if appearances are to be believed. Come, it’s time we have ourselves a little chat” he lifted his hand free of imperfections as he motioned for her to follow.

In spite of the terrified expression morphing her features, the rosette advanced as if compelled, helpless to deny the will of her supernatural assailant before placing her soft palm above his.

His gaze turned to her one last time before her eyelids started feeling heavy, darkness slowly consuming her vision as the world gradually lost focus, the softly glowing red lights whispering. 

trying to convey a message….

telling her…

telling her to sleep.

That was how the man who would soon become their worst enemy, the man dubbed by the supernatural world as the Tyrant king of all vampires, the immortal Sasuke Uchiha first arrived into their lives.

A monster so powerful and ruthless his name alone made the high council of vampires and the great order of witches, among other supernatural organizations, shudder and cower in terror.

At the time, she had completely disregarded all words of his infamous reputation, neither warnings nor lectures managing to extinguish the sheer contempt and disgust she held for the creature that had so viciously wounded her cherished family.

In that very moment, she had allowed herself to freely hate him. An emotion that, like fear, was not one she was prone to indulge in. From the very depths of her heart, she abhorred the way he had so easily managed to wake helplessness from within her, as if the strength she had cultivated through painful struggle and tribulation was but a complete mockery.

Seeing the broken bodies and the blood of her loved ones heinously spilled on the floors of their very own home had funneled uncontrollable panic into her heart, flaring the memories of her mother’s death like an open wound that was adamantly unwilling to heal. 

And so, despite her gentle and nurturing nature, she despised him.

In an ironic twist of misfortune or fate, the encounters with the prince of darkness did not cease there, with the one following their first meeting coming much too early for her liking. It was inevitable, after all, the coming mission to retrieve the captive maiden.

Fortunately, to her great surprise and relief, none of her friends had perished in the previous altercation, deep wounds and extensive damage being healed through the regenerative effects of vampiric blood.

With the whole team fully recuperated and with a new plan of engagement devised, they hastily journeyed to the far ends of the remote city of kusagakure, determined to succeed with the rescue operation.

She had used a location spell to determine the vampire’s whereabouts as they organized and prepared for the upcoming battle, his hideout discovered near the east coast away from the city on an old and grand Japanese mansion seating atop a grassy hill. 

With the arrival of dawn and the bright sunlight grazing their skin, they had surrounded the structure and taken over tactical positions according to shikamaru’s strategy, their communication and synergy significantly more attuned than it had usually been. 

She had been so sure of their victory back then. Blissfully ignorant of their dancing to his demonic tune. 

Her muscles turned rigid as her palms faced the man they’d been pursuing, his lone figure calmly seated on a wide leather chair and her eyes wide in panic as the neural commands over her body were stolen in the exact same manner as the previous time.

Ahead of her, the sturdy forms of Kiba and Naruto holding a pair of manmade machine guns involuntarily stilled as the phantasmagorical spell took possession of their muscles simultaneously.

Her heart beat frantically as disbelief rapidly coursed through her delicate features, the man’s sheer control of his mental manipulation unlike anything they had previously encountered. 

Shikamaru had planned several contingencies in case any of them were intercepted before they could carry out their plan, yet they could have never prepared for the entire assault team to be captured as hostages.

Once again, their lives were at his mercy. And that, the knowledge that she was powerless to save any of her friends, was worse than any wound or injury received through her long years fighting beside them.

The vampire remained immutably seated on his luxurious abode before them, his pale slender hand holding an old, red tome open and his serene eyes scanning leisurely through the pages  as if their violent ambush was as common as the passing of days.

It was unnerving and entirely surreal, even for individuals as highly experienced with the darker corners of the supernatural world such as themselves.

His deep dispassionate voice reclaimed their attention as he addressed them in perfect Japanese “Took you longer than I expected”, The red tome closing with a snap as a pair of bottomless obsidian orbs traveled to the hybrid leader.

“where is she!?” The blond snarled as his eyes slitted red, his body trembling in an effort to fight the unbending compulsion.

“Is that the way you address all your captors? Well, not that it matters to me anyway. Since you are insistent on skipping pleasantries, we’ll get right down to business.” He said all this hardly moving from his initial position. 

“However, I have no desire to clean any blood of yours off my walls, your pet here will have to go back and await with the others” his eyes gleamed vermillion anew and she felt her breath still momentarily.

“Do tell your allies to keep away from the premises. Should they try anything, I will not hesitate to kill the hostages, before hunting every single one of you down and ripping your heads off your bodies. Good bye now.” 

His words seeped her puppet body with dread as her heart lurched in worry for the teams surrounding the property, the vampire’s threat too dangerous to ignore.

She tried ordering her limbs to move yet it proved an impossible task. Her eyes focused on the scarlet gaze as it landed on her other companion, the werewolf’s form following his silent command as he was physically unable to refuse.

The loud shout of the blond vampire made her eyes turn in surprise.

“I said where is she, you Bastard!!?” He said as if he were a caged animal, incapable of breaking free of his binds.

The man simply observed the outburst not in the least intimidated, the red glow in his eyes dimming to a pitch black before leaning forward and calmly serving himself from a bottle of scotch into a crystal glass that stood on a ceramic table near his knees.

She narrowed her eyes in disdain as she realized the man was enjoying the emotional and mental torture he was subjecting the other into, as if the intense worry for a loved one amounted to nothing more than a twisted game to him.

Her indignation managed to momentarily outweigh her fear, but as she struggled to open her mouth and address the creature seamlessly seating ahead, his voice resounded around the room monotonously “Come girl, you have visitors”

Both her’s and Naruto’s eyes widened as the rosette’s figure entered the room through a different door located behind the vampire beside a minibar to their left.

Her steps were slow, mechanical, her figure apparently unharmed wearing a clean set of clothes that resembled her usual attire, yet the way she moved was too controlled, thoroughly unnatural. The human girl was also under his spell.

“Sakura!” Naruto exclaimed, relief flooding his voice as his eyes returned to their usual oceanic shade. Hinata felt her eyes water slightly as they rested gently on her best friend, words unable to describe how glad she was that the jade-eyed girl was safe and sound.

“You’ll have your tearful reunions some other time.” Their captor interrupted as he finally stood, his pale hand nursing the alcoholic drink before taking a long sip “This girl is now my property, and she is to serve my purposes”

The words managed to froze her to her core before righteous anger consumed her senses. it was her companion, however, the one who spoke 

“What the hell did you just say!!!?” He exclaimed in primal rage as frustration rapidly accumulated at his complete lack of mobility, his mind was thrashing wildly yet his body not moving an inch.

“As you heard, the girl is now my property. A pawn I aim to use for my own benefit. You would do well accept it quickly, lest you wish for her to see your rotting corpse decaying on my land.” His words were ice as he stepped up to the captive hybrid, his scarlet gaze absolute in its dominion. “The only reason I am allowing you all to keep your lives is because she pleaded to me before accepting her own role. You should be grateful” 

Her breathing stopped as her eyes and ears worriedly absorbed the conversation, the image of the one she loved most being viciously slaughtered flashing instantly across her mind, summoning the now familiar terror she had come to associate with the murderous monster in front of them.

Her mind screamed to her frozen tissues to move in an attempt to temper down the blond, yet her body remained unresponsive, a watery mumble being released from her lips instead “Please”

The hybrid’s trembling halted before a heavy defeated sigh abandoned his lungs as his eyes narrowed conflicted, the demon’s gaze landing on her form briefly before he stepped back and turned to walk and past the petrified sakura.

“Fortunately for you, she is of no use to me at the current time. Therefore, I intend to leave her under your care while I attend to more pressing matters.” He drawled in fluent English, his earlier accent coming naturally as he stood facing a wide balcony.

As if per work of an incantation, their bodies abruptly recovered their ability to move, their legs stumbling slightly to regain their balance.

Free of her captivity, sakura rushed to the arms of her guardian embracing him tightly as she trembled in distress, the fatigue of all events since her capture finally taking their toll on her. Naruto for his part, circled her in his strong arms in an effort to comfort her.

Regaining her senses, almost as if out of sheer instinct, Hinata hastily lifted her arms anew facing the unprotected back of the vampire before opening her mouth ready to release a paralysis curse his way, the strategies and tactics they’d planned with Shikamaru and Kakashi still fresh on her mind.

 A gelid whisper reaching her right ear from her back managed to  freeze her instantly, her entire body filling with dread at the unmistakable voice of their antagonist “Quite the reflexes you’ve got there, love. Though I would advise you not to underestimate me. See, I’m rather not fond of childish tantrums”

She hadn’t seen him move at all. The space his form had previously been occupying facing the open balcony was now empty, her vision insufficient to detect even the slightest hint of motion. 

The silent threat had been relayed ‘i can kill you whenever I please. Do not mistake your position’

She bit her lip until it drew blood as she tried to calm herself, her mind reminding her that the priority was to rescue Sakura. If they accomplished that single objective, the failure to assassinate the man behind her would be bearable.

The other pair had turned in alarm when the vampire’s words resonated from the witch’s position, Naruto preparing to charge forward in an attempt to separate the him from her. Sakura noticing this, grabbed him tightly by the arm knowing fully well any reckless action would result in all their deaths. 

“I have no further desire to keep wasting my breath speaking to you people. I’m returning the girl on the condition that you, hybrid, bring this little amulet to me” the man said as he took a small picture out of his breast pocket before throwing it to Naruto who caught it in mid-air.

The blond gazed at the picture before turning to the enigmatic vampire, a deep frown marring his features as confusion inundated his senses “A stone? What do you want this thing for anyway? And why do I have to follow your ridiculous conditions!! I have the place surrounded and this room is warded to keep you locked. I’m going to take my friends and get out of here, and you are gonna let me, if you know what’s good for you!!”

“No, Naruto!” Sakura spoke surprising her two companions as she directed a frustrated frown at the impassive vampire still standing behind the witch “it’s too risky, not even you are able to take this monster head on. It’s okay, I won’t ask you to follow his orders so just take Hinata and go. I’ll be fine, I promise” she said as she offered the blond a small tired smile.

Hinata was about to object and make her disagreement public when she felt the vampire's form brush against her side as he returned to his initial position seating calmly near the middle of the room, his glass empty on his hand.

“Like hell I’m going to let you stay here. We came to rescue you, we’re not leaving without you, you hear?” The blond said, his gaze turning angrily to the man who seemed mildly amused witnessing their torment before glancing once more at the image on his hand. He grit his teeth in frustration before speaking aloud “Where do I find this?”

The corner of the vampire’s lips lifted in satisfaction momentarily before leisurely serving himself another glass of scotch “You are part of the association, are you not, hybrid? Your superiors stored this particular object on the Madrid headquarters, took me quite some time to locate it. You are to steal it and bring it to me. The witch will remain here as a collateral in the meantime” he uncaringly said as he once more stunned his uninvited guests.

Hinata’s eyes widened in surprise at the man’s words, not at all expecting for the events to transpire that way. She bit her lip while gripping her fists tightly in frustration, knowing full well they were powerless against the vampire’s demands. 

The other man in the room did not seem to think so, however. He crossed the room towards her while holding the hand of the human girl before stopping with his back facing them in a protective gesture “I’m not gonna leave her here with you!! I’ll bring your damn stone, so leave them out of it” he said angrily as he glared daggers at their impassive foe.

Hinata observed as the vampire’s gaze centered uncaringly on the speaker before turning to her in facetious expectancy, reminding her of just how precarious their current situation really was. 

She gripped the blond’s arm comfortingly before stepping forward as she gifted him a reassuring smile “Naruto, it’s okay. He won’t do anything to me. Don’t forget what we came here for”

“Hinata!” Sakura exclaimed as she embraced the other girl, her lithe form trembling with frustration at her own powerlessness and her eyes watering slightly. 

“It’s going to be okay, Sakura” she said returning the hug as a genuine smile took over her features “I’m glad I was able to do something to protect you. Go home, get some rest. I’ll be waiting so, please don’t worry”

Naruto grit his teeth helpless, his gaze traveling to the source of their troubles in resentment. There was nothing he could do, and he hated himself for it. His weakness.

“If you touch one hair on her head, I promise I’ll come back and kill you myself. No matter how long it takes me, I’ll find a way!” He growled taking the hand of the rosette before facing the beautiful witch, his blue eyes burning with remorse and guilt as he silently asked for her forgiveness “Take care, alright? I’ll be back as soon as I can. I promise”

She gulped forcefully before steeling her expression, all the while ignoring the desire to embrace him one more time before his departure.

“If you are done with your pitiful attempts at comforting your friend, it is time to take your leave. Off you go now” the man said before standing and directing his attention to Hinata “little witch, come. I’ll show you to your temporary quarters”

Offering the vampire one last growl in warning, Naruto swiftly draped the rosette over his muscular arms as his form vanished in a wild blur that left gusts of wind flowing in its wake.

Inside the silent luxurious room, only she and that man remained. The light of dawn traversed gently across the horizon past the window facing the ocean as it illuminated the pristine floors and walls in a warm, vibrant orange. 

His form, every bit the intimidating figure she had come to know in such a short amount of time stood expectantly, his sharp gaze staring as his rumpled leather jacket and black denim trousers belied his nefarious true nature in a deceiving mask of simplicity 

Her ivory eyes faced the specter anew, strength coursing through her delicate arms as the knowledge of her friend’s safety tore through the fear and anxiety she had been experiencing just moments prior with unexpected ease. Now, not even death held that power over her.

“Welcome, witch of the Hyuuga. My name is Sasuke Uchiha, the original vampire, and you are hereby deemed my prisoner”

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

forgive my procrastinating ass for the delay, I'm so sorry guys.

I'm not really satisfied with this either but I wanted to contribute still. wanted to try my hand at writing a more villain-like sasuke, anyway hope you guys enjoy.

[riestr]

❝ You're up late. Come to bed already. See? You've got me fussing over you now. ❞ Arms loosely wrapped around Claude from behind, chin settling atop his head as he studied whatever Claude was writing below. Schemes, no doubt. Yet the hour was late, and the bed cold without Claude. ❝ You can afford to take a break. ❞ Sylvain could not help but yawn, ❝ C'mon, darling, it's dark out now, and I wanna go to bed, but I also want you there. ❞

              burdens of a leader mandate absolute focus on the war effort,     conjuring strategy upon strategy,     a scheme for each strategy,     a scheme for each strategy,     another strategy atop a strategy,     A SCHEME FOR A SCHEME   !!     complex web of a leader intermingled with responsibilities of a tactician much too frequently for his liking    ;    though that veritable truth shall never deter him from the path to his dreams     /     somehow,     each step forward lulled him to believing that long road will soon have its distance cut short,     short ’till that once elusive paradise of serenity was within arm’s grasp     ——     but alas,     reality masked each step closer,     forging a faux reality in which endless cycle prevails,     akin to those paintings that present an infinitely looping world.     never ending,     a perpetual struggle,     that is what he must accept.     /     no,     no,     THIS STRATEGY’S ALL WRONG   !

              with each passing thought,     previous fallacies     //     once obscured by darkness    &    bog of mind     //     are illuminated with each subsequent plan.     each calculations’ error becomes apparent,     very foundation of his plan falls     (   risks far higher than he’s willing to attempt,     allies’ precious lives still human,     nary tools of war to carve dream’s form.     what is his dream if not to share with the people,     who strive to aid him in this perilous journey   ?   ).      it frustrates him.     ire itself snakes lithe digits underneath the edges of impervious mask,     its gentle force enough to paint canvas of his face with itself     —     pair of furrowed brows,     accompanied by grit teeth,     CREASED FOREHEAD,     an impassioned conflagration that sparked in those verdant orbs that once held nature’s divine peace.     it is the guilty catalyst that urges mind to remain ignorant of time,     as if each passing minute did not further invoke cruel deity     (   speak its name    :    time.   )     that muses of a dreadful future should his plan prove lackluster.     it’s frustrating,     it’s frustrating,     IT’S FRU     —————     huh   ?

              evoked is a gasp from his lips,     jolting slightly in his seat as gems of his eyes dart quickly to identify pair of strong limbs around him.     perhaps being too lost in his work is something that may now guilt him a smidge,     realization dawning that these arms belong to his beloved,     albeit simply viewing them shouldn’t have been what evinced that    ;    no,     mere way they wrapped around him should serve as sufficient indicator   !     their touch is indelible,     warmth they offered unique    &    a treasure that many dreamed of     (   oh,     how fantastical were his hugs   ),     proven reality by subsequent quietude that quelled earlier vexations,     dying ember that allows for relaxed grin to curve corners of his lips,     curvature remaining as such in his arms.

              sylvain was the only one he could recall,     in all his years of living,     to make him feel this sense of security.     their love was a meticulously crafted puzzle that could not be solved by only one pair of hands,     but necessitate the use of two pairs,     a divine love forged by none other than they.     it was devotion.     it was trust.     it was communication.     it was love at every angle,     it was sweet as it was painful,     it was theirs    &    theirs alone to share with each other.     claude wouldn’t have it any other way,    &    he finds solace in that.

              ❛     oh,     sorry.     ❜     comes gentle but firm voice,     brushing against the lowest tonality as lids shut to bask in rarity of this moment.     sylvain’s delicate acts of affection come in abundance,     time’s eyes may attest to that,     though any memory of being asked to retire to bed eludes him.     particularly from sylvain    ;    could this be the first of many occurrences   ?     even he doesn’t know.     dwelling on such a topic is something he’d rather not do at current,     for his thoughts couldn’t stop returning to sylvain.     he was the sun that shone brilliantly in the woeful skies of his heart when seed of doubt,     rooted so deeply at the base of his person,     began its conquest of land.     even when his sun would hide    &    beyond the horizon,     he never truly stopped shining    ;    the world continued moving ‘round    &    ‘round,     a silent promise of his renewal.     even when he is not at his side,     he knows their love to be genuine,     sincere,     tantalizing.     ❛     guess i just lost track of time     …     ❜     even now,     as he speaks of time so frivolously,     he recalls the past.     those earlier days of past that paved way to beauteous future of their present.

              at friend’s return from year long     (   really five   )     slumber,     small influx of those legendary allies begun making their appearance,     one by one,     to dispose of barbarous thieves,     would dare rob the poor of their possessions,     notwithstanding innocents wanted naught more than peace during war time.     claude’s presence had been initially graved with only the original class of the golden deer     (   in some sense,     a reunion of leicester alliance folks   ),     an anticipated event that had been preceded by their promise from five years ago to meet at certain area    ;    spot where millennium festival was to be held,     monastery that once housed them as determined students,     flowers of the future,     prepared to face against the many challenges life had to offer in pursuit of their dreams.     t’was all innocuous,     a reunion that rekindled forged bonds that allow not for barriers to hinder any progress     ———     platonic,     camaraderie,     until conflicting feelings arose at the sight of him.     the man who’s become his light.

              orange locks were undeniably his,     distinct hairstyle that forsake once bedhead - like look,     opting for more refined appearance     —     curvature of face slightly different with growth,     a kiss from maturity that granted him to bloom,     compounded with charming smile that struck envy into nature’s gifts     (   for even they could never replicate the jubilation or desire that sparked within claude   ),     yet what stood the test of time are those caramel hues,     subdued    &    withholding greatest mystery that every part of him burned to solve.     though he restrained himself.     he must.     love is an incurable disease that can initiate the downfall of one,     it has the potential to be blessing or curse,     it can be an intoxicating reality that could stray one from designated path towards the future.     no matter how many smiles they may grace one another with    ;    how many drinks shared accompanied by laughs    &    extensive conversations that moon,     stars,    &    sun witnessed at their ignorance of time’s march    ;    how many battles fought at each other’s side,     back - to - back,     resolute hearts connecting to escape impending peril,     love would never plant its kiss of death on him   !

              &    yet he is the fool who erroneously thought so.     but what is man but a pawn on a mission to listen to knowledge’s teachings    &    rectify those mistaken beliefs whilst conjuring divergent ideals that may fix the status quo   ?     claude is only man,    &    he does not resign himself to love   ;    rather,     love’s embrace has sparked a newfound joy in him that is naught but an electrical fire that has created a new song,     a song of unity,     a song that unites knight    &    leader     ———     he loves it.     he loves sylvain.     were anyone to assert that loving him is a poison he must immediately renounce,     then damned be temptation,     for his lips would not resist    &    drink from the poison that has given life    &    dreams newer meaning to take on.     he hopes for those hands that aided him in solving love’s puzzle shall,     likewise,     aid him in solving the greater puzzle that will light the road to the paradise of his dreams.     a world with a new dawn.     a world where peace resonate in the hearts of all.     A WORLD WITHOUT BARRIERS.     this is the future he envisions    ;    at his side,     sylvain     ——     his beloved that his heart beats for.     love is a virtue,     as much as it is a puzzle.     he is thankful to have found it.

              ❛     sorry,     mi amor.     i didn’t mean to make you worry too much,     no más estaba ocupado.     ❜     melodious tone is deeply entangled with his voice    &    for a moment,     he thinks it’s his soul way of doing away with previous ire    &    facilitating the light - hearted moments that never failed to make claude crave more,     more.     head tilts back,     deep breath taken,     before lungs pushes a quivering breath past his lips    &    against sylvain’s chin.     lids rise to see him,    &    was all it took.     voice,     touch,     care.     ❛     c’mon,     you got my mind off of this.     maybe that’s a good thing   !     right now,     ❜     he stands upright from his seat,     turns to tilt head up    &    marvel at those chocolate hues that captivate him     /     the stars may shine brightly above us,     my love,     but none will ever shine brighter than my love for you.     /     takes step forward    &    leans in,     pressing brief kiss against his lips.     fleeting,     but similar to the last ones    &    future kisses to come    :    full of love.     ❛     i’ve only got you on my mind now.     so let’s go rest,     yeah   ?     i think my next strategy is finding the quickest way into your arms.     ❜

              as he moved onward,     he knows he’s never alone.     as long as he’s by his side,     he knows that darkness will never triumph over the light of their love.       /       @amournful

[pass-the-bechdel]

Dollhouse full series review

How many episodes pass the Bechdel test?

96.15% (twenty-five of twenty-six).

What is the average percentage of female characters with names and lines for the full series?

45.89%

How many episodes have a cast that is at least 40% female?

Twenty.

How many episodes have a cast that is at least 50% female?

Twelve.

How many episodes have a cast that is less than 20% female?

Zero.

Positive Content Status:

Very poor - this is exactly why we don’t just rely on passing the Bechdel and having a large number of female characters in the cast as ‘guarantees’ that we’re watching feminist content. If all those female characters exist to be punished, objectified, and abused by the story’s creator as an expression of his misogynistic rage, that is not a good thing (average rating of 2.76).

Which season had the best representation statistics overall?

They’re about the same, really. The one Bechdel fail was in the first season, but season two had less female character presence overall, but it was also more balanced insofar as it scored more episodes with 40% or more on the cast. Both scored equally badly on content quality, though my feeling is that perhaps season one’s sins were the worse of the two. On the other hand, season one had more guest female characters AND it used its supporting female cast more prominently, whereas season two was more male-heavy not just in numbers but in screen time and narrative attention. At the end of the day, I’m not sure it matters which you consider to be worse.

Which season had the worst representation statistics overall?

See above. I cannot recommend this show for feminist content.

Overall Series Quality:

For a first-time viewer, there’s probably still solid potential for enjoyment, and at least some of the twists should be genuinely enjoyable. The majority of the cast is very excellent, and the idea of the show is compelling. However, the quality of the series as it turned out is negligible, full of flash and little substance, the bad apples in the cast spoil the batch while the good grapple with bad writing and the woeful underuse of their skills, and the whole thing remains far better as a thought than it is in execution. And then there’s the misogynistic rage thing. That’s a problem that really messes with the overall product, to put it lightly.

MORE INFO (and potential spoilers) under the cut:

For the record: I believe, sincerely and completely, that Joss Whedon hates women. Not that he doesn’t know how to relate to them or he misses ‘the old days’ or any other such placid disdain; I think he deeply and violently hates women, and I think the evidence is written all up and down his work - all of his work, but perhaps never more clearly than in this show. He can claim to be a feminist all he wants, he can put women at the forefront of his shows and talk big game about what he believes they’re capable of, but so long as the women in his stories continue to be mistreated at every turn, beaten, raped, and constantly belittled and devalued within the text, I will not be convinced that the man doesn’t resent the Hell out of women for existing - and particularly, for existing with potential for sexuality. The misogyny of the Whedonverse is rampant, unchecked, often participated in by his ‘heroes’ as much as his villains, and treated as largely incidental, rarely acknowledged and even then, gleefully delivered as ‘just the way things are’. Characters might shake their heads about how that’s unfortunate (and Whedon pats himself on the back for making such an insightful feminist statement), but the verbal denouncement doesn’t detract from the indulgent inclusion of that misogyny, the platform provided for it to roam uninhibited, and be showcased and vicariously enjoyed. For someone who claims to be a feminist, Whedon sure does seem to be fetishistically obsessed with making women suffer, and when I compare the content of his work to that of the other creators whose shows have appeared on this blog, the result is most unflattering. 

As easy as it would be to while away this post explicating the details of Whedon’s reprehensible worldview, however, I shall refrain; for one, it would be boring as Hell, it’s not a complicated reality and the truth really is in the pudding for all to see, you don’t need me for that, and for two: I already promised to at last talk about the characters and their arcs (such as they are), since that is one subject I often neglected in the posts on this show, and arguably the only subject upon which the show could hang any virtues. Naturally, we will begin at the beginning, with the much-maligned lead character: Echo. 

Eliza Dushku is not a terrible actor. But her range is pretty limited, she plays variations on the same archetype almost exclusively, and that’s a terrible fit for a show where the central caveat is supposed to be that she can take on any personality and be a complete and whole different person week by week. No one should ever expect to be able to float that idea with a lead who is so very obviously not up to the task, and while I don’t think she’s responsible for the failure of the show (all of its other flaws would have soundly sunk it even if Dushku was a crown jewel of talent), it certainly does not help that she’s easily the blandest and least compelling player in the whole sorry mess. It’s a cringe every time she utters some silly line about how powerful and badass she is, because there’s nothing convincing about it, and if the creative team really believed (and believed their audience would believe) that Echo is THAT great, they wouldn’t feel the need to have her showily declare it. When season two hits and Echo’s ‘character development’ fast-tracks to full sentience, she becomes even less dynamic: all of the things which could have provided legitimate engagement with the character’s struggle are skipped over, her process of self-actualisation (anyone who read my Farscape reviews knows my love for hard self-actualisation narratives), her navigation of her role as a developing entity in a world hostile to such things (touched on occasionally in season one, thrown to the wind in season two), anything to do with her cognitive evolution is scrapped in favour of ‘she just remembers it all now’, and there’s no arc to it. I invoked the concept of the Mary Sue in one episode post, and that is exactly the problem we end up with: a ‘perfect’ character who can do everything and anything and be ~the best~ at it, who is beloved and desired by all who meet her, except for her (mustache-twirling cliche villain) enemies, who fear her awesome powers. There is no personality in Echo, no conflict, no meaning. Wild as it may sound, you could actually remove her from the show completely and easily adapt the other characters (the ones who have personality, conflict, and meaning) to fill the space, and not only would it work, but the show would be infinitely the better for it. That’s the absolute opposite of what you want from a lead character.

The other BIG mistake in the casting for this show is Tahmoh Penikett as Paul Ballard, who plays his part with all the verve and charisma of a piece of wood with eyes drawn on (ever watch Ed, Edd, and Eddy? Plank has more dynamic personality than our boy Ballard). I’m not sure how much of it is Penikett’s fault - it has been many years since I watched Battlestar Galactica, and while I don’t remember being particular impressed by him, I don’t remember being frustrated by his inability to walk in a straight line without making it look weird, either - but whether he’s handicapped by his own acting non-prowess or not, he’s certainly fighting a losing battle with an unfocused mess of a character, and if the writing couldn’t decide what Ballard’s deal was to start with, I’m not shocked that Penikett had a hard time conveying it. Is Ballard a morally righteous hero (on a show with no moral centre for him to relate to)? Is he flawed and secretly-dark, and if he is, who recognises that, is it deliberate? Is he losing control, or is that just supposed to be ‘normal person’ behaviour? Again, who notices, does he know? How much of his interiority is a white-knight cliche, and how much is supposed to be genuine, and is any of it supposed to be subversive? I honestly can’t tell, one episode from the next. In season one, he’s garbage at his job, and some characters mention it, but then Ballard himself appears to be under the impression that he’s fighting the good fight and the tone of the show seems to agree with him rather than acknowledging his self-delusion. In season two, he joins the Dollhouse at the same time as openly declaring himself to be still against it, the plot conveniently pretends he never raped Mellie so that we can uphold the idea that he IS righteous, after all, and has no dark impulses, other characters at the Dollhouse put up with him being an obvious liability for no discernible reason, and then eventually he gets rendered brain-dead, reconstructed as a doll version of himself, and then dies a few episodes later anyway. Big whoop. It feels an awful lot like they had no long-term plan for what to do with the character, so they just focused on giving him a romance with Echo and then threw some contrived death stuff on top of that for flavour. Speaking of the romance thing: eek. Again, in season one it seemed they couldn’t decide whether or not his mounting obsession with his damsel-in-distress vision of Caroline was creepy as Hell (pro tip: it absolutely was), but then in season two it all became very simple: Ballard wants Echo, but doesn’t really believe she’s a real person (for some reason this is not a deal-breaker to her), and they dance around each other for a bit but never get together and somehow we’re supposed to interpret this as the development of a wonderful love story with a bittersweet tragic end when he dies, twice but also not really because then she downloads him into her brain anyway so they live happily ever after, sort of. It’s a fucking mess, y’all, and they don’t earn it, and the utter soup that is Ballard’s personality and motivation goes un-examined. The fact that season two tips heavily in favour of Echo/Ballard scenes is something very significantly to its detriment, because it’s the worst and most shakily-developed non-relationship of the series. Ok, that, and whatever the fuck Topher/Bennett was supposed to be.

Speaking of Topher...actually, I don’t have much to say about him. Breaking pattern with the rest of the characters, Topher shows no real sign of a personal story in season one, so it’s season two which attempts to give him some function as an individual outside of being the comic-relief tech guy. It’s not particularly successful, since the attempted character development revolves around 1) moral compunctions (which, as noted ad nauseum, this show left itself incapable of engaging with in any meaningful way back when it pretended sexual slavery was a morally grey issue), and 2) throwing a love interest at him: zero actual relationship-building ensues and it’s awkward and chemistry free and then she dies (so glad Bennett could exist to tick off a bunch of Whedon’s favourite suffering-woman tropes and then die for shock value, yay). At the end of the day, Topher was just a handful of affectations, fun to watch, but hardly amounting to more of a ‘whole person’ than the paper-thin personalities of the sex-fantasy cliches he imprinted into the dolls. 

If Topher is the character who suffers most from a lack of development in season one, Boyd is the hardest hit in season two, easily. As Echo’s handler in season one, Boyd was pleasant, mild-mannered, protective, and he had an ethos which governed his choices (imagine such a thing!). His former career as a cop was referenced variously, and it seemed clear that we should expect one day to learn how he came to leave the force and wind up as a bodyguard working for a secret organisation. Season two? Forget about it. Forget about it because of the idiotic ‘twist’ that turned Boyd into Rossum’s cuckoo founder and thereby unraveled his entire personality as a sham in one fell swoop, obviously, but forget about his character having even the appearance of development in the meantime, also. Removing Boyd from his position as Echo’s handler was a grave error, as it downgraded his importance and effectively stifled the natural bond he had developed with his charge which represented a nice, uncomplicated character dynamic (one far more welcome than that clusterfuck replacement which was Ballard as Echo’s handler, euch). Additionally, this led to Boyd being largely backgrounded for the entirety of season two, given no meaningful stories to engage with, and certainly not expanded upon or explored as a character. As noted, any such expansion would have been irrelevant anyway once the dumbass ‘big reveal’ happened, but that’s all the more reason to bemoan the loss of Boyd’s character, which essentially occurred a full season before he actually donned his suicide vest and exploded in the Rossum building. If you have to dump a character just to service your twist, don’t. Dump the twist instead. Like pretty much every other actor on this show, Harry Lennix deserved better.

And then there’s DeWitt...I largely covered the DeWitt issue back in the episode posts, really; she starts out an intriguing character (and I credit Olivia Williams with much of this, she created dynamism out of an oft-lacking script, in every case), but season two really did a number on her when it came to leaping wildly about different plot ideas that jerked DeWitt’s characterisation from one extreme to another with very little connective tissue to sell the change. If Ballard was the character whom the narrative couldn’t decide how to handle in season one, DeWitt takes up that odious mantle in season two; is she losing her grasp? Is she playing the game? Is she an evil, pragmatic genius? Is she foolish and deluded by an idealism that plainly has no basis in reality? Is she an alcoholic who spontaneously gets her shit together after a couple of other characters tell her off? Damn, that was easy. As with Ballard, the problem is not just that the story seems to change tone and purpose for DeWitt’s character from one episode to the next; it also robs her of the opportunity to be defined through consistent interaction with others - she has no one to bounce off in a manner which would create a baseline for her behaviour and how it is outwardly perceived (and thus, how the audience is intended to interpret it). 

I’m gonna talk about Sierra and Victor together, because frankly, that’s both the way the show packages them, and there’s not much to say outside of it. For the millionth time ever on this blog, I will complain that all shows ever would be improved by being ensembles; in this case, Sierra and Victor both would have benefited from a framework which allowed either one of them to take greater precedence more often, instead of having their own narratives distilled down to a single Personal Episode each in season two. I do enjoy both, and their relationship has legitimate chemistry and charm while also following a sensible plot concept through - the idea that strong emotional connections and bonds can transcend the mind wipe. Unfortunately, the show has little functional purpose for either character outside of their relationship, to the extent that it even sidelines them almost entirely in the climax of the series (pre-flashforward). Victor/Anthony is given the least plot purpose in the show proper, which is just a criminal misuse of Enver Gjokaj - Anthony is a soldier and that’s essentially his entire personality right there, and the only thing that gives them an excuse to make him do Manly Fighter Stuff in the latter stages of season two. Sierra/Priya gets more to do, but the bad news is, it’s all about being raped, and that’s her whole story - horrible possessive misogynists abusing her so that she can embody Whedon’s favourite Broken Bird trope, with the added misfortune of changing the nature of her relationship with Victor to make it a little bit about him ‘rescuing’ her with the love of a good man. Both of these actors are so good, and their characters had such potential, I can’t believe the show fucked around and wasted them like it did. 

Ok, one more before I go. I know he was never a member of the central cast, but we gotta talk about Laurence Dominic, because he was deceptively essential to the show, important to what made it work for the brief time when it could be said to work, and he was altogether the best character on the show insofar as he was the most cohesive, consistent, and logical player in the piece. I said as much when he made his welcome return in ‘The Attic’ (the best episode of season two...coincidence?), and as I noted then, it may be that Dominic’s early exit from the show was to his benefit in that he avoided being jostled across season two having all semblance of coherence torn to pieces along the way. I’m fairly certain the writer’s had no idea how valuable Dominic was to the story when they axed him (not least because they clearly had no idea how important it is to create some kind of moral framework to support a story that is inherently morally dubious), but consider the most obvious changes to the show format and the other character’s stories once Dominic was out of the picture: Boyd takes over as Head of Security, to his detriment as a character, and to the detriment of his relationship with Echo, leaving her wasting time with that dolt Ballard instead and putting audiences everywhere to sleep. And DeWitt? DeWitt loses her sounding board, the right-hand man who - for most of the first season - anchored her character by giving her someone to talk and plot and, at times, disagree with, creating that behavioural baseline that she lacked when she was being dragged all over season two. Dominic’s role was a structural pillar on the show, he held the roof up so that the rest of the characters could interact and interrelate - with each other, and with him - he had distinct relationship dynamics with pretty much all of them - and he was exactly the kind of character that you want around being a stable, unobtrusive presence. They could even have kept the idea of him being an NSA spy, just keep him working undercover, the audience knows the truth but the other characters don’t, it creates tension! Sure, it’d probably mean letting Ivy be sent to the attic under false charges, and that wouldn’t help this show’s abysmal abuse-of-women record, but considering the show did nothing of consequence with Ivy in the end anyway and she just existed to be belittled by Topher while he sent her to fetch him snacks...yeah, anyway. I could talk a lot about why Dominic was the best character on this stinking show, but it’s ultimately beside the point: the point is that nothing in this show really worked, and that had a lot to do with major conceptual issues (moral grounding is not optional! Misogyny is not tasty plot flavouring! Joss Whedon is an abomination!), and keeping Dominic around long-term would no more save the show than if Eliza Dushku possessed a modicum of acting range. It’s frustrating because there are so many good pieces there, excellent actors, intriguing character set-ups, fantastic plot possibilities, and heady existential implications. It’s just that some moron decided the best thing to do with that would be to play nasty sexual wish-fulfillment games and leave the rest to rot. I’m pretty sure the version of this show I enjoyed once was largely the version I made in my head, because the reality is a wasteful disaster. And misogynistic as Hell, too. We, the viewers, deserved better.

[the-tales-of-horror]

Something happened 63 years ago that's haunted me my entire life. I’ve never told anyone about it—until now.

Original Link By Sergeant_Darwin

It’s official: I’m an old man.

For the last couple years, I’ve comforted myself by saying I’m in my “early 70s,” but math is simple and unforgiving. Today is my 75th birthday, and God, the years do fly.

I’m not here for your well wishes; this is hardly a milestone I’m excited about. I’m glad to still be here, of course, but I find I have less and less to live for with every passing year. My bones ache, my kids live far away, and the other side of my bed has been empty for just over eight months now. In fact, once I cast my vote against that goddamned Trump this November, I may have nothing to live for at all.

So spare me your “happy birthdays” and your congratulations, if you please. I’m here because I have a story for you, and it’s one I’ve never told before. I used to think I kept it inside because it was silly, or maybe because nobody would believe it. I’ve found, though, that the older you grow, the more exhausting it becomes to lie to yourself. If I’m being perfectly honest, I’ve never told anybody this story because it scares me, almost to death.

But death seems friendlier than it used to, so listen close.

The year was 1950; the setting a small town in Maine. I was a boy of nine, rather small for my age, with only one friend in the world to speak of—and his family, seemingly on a whim, decided to move 2,000 miles away. It was shaping up to be the worst summer of my life.

My pop wasn’t around and my mom was a chore-whore—boy, was I proud of myself when I came up with that one—so I wasn’t apt to hang around the house. With some hesitation, I decided the public library was the place to be that summer. The library’s collection of books, particularly children’s books, was meager to say the least. But within the walls of that miserly structure, I would find no undone chores, no nagging mother (God rest her soul), and perhaps most importantly, no other children with whom I would be expected to associate. I was the only kid with a low enough social status to spend his precious days of freedom sulking amid the bookshelves, and that was just fine with me.

The first half of my summer was even more dreadful than I had imagined it would be. I would sleep in until 10, do my chores, and then ride my bike to the library (and by bike, I mean rusty log of shit attached to a pair of wheels). Once there, I would split my time between unintentionally annoying the elderly patrons and deliberately doing so. One pleasant lady actually interrupted my incessant tongue-clicking to hiss a “shut the fuck up!” at me—the first time I ever heard a grownup use The F Word. Big fuckin’ deal, I know, but in those days it was unheard of.

The dreary days turned to woeful weeks. I had actually begun praying for school to start again—until I discovered the basement. I could have sworn I’d roamed every inch of that library, but one day, in the far corner behind the foreign language collection I stumbled across a small wooden door I had never seen before. That was where it all began.

The door was windowless and made from oak that looked far older than the wall in which it rested. It had a knob of black metal that quite literally looked ancient—I wouldn’t have been surprised to learn it was crafted in the 17th century. Engraved on the knob was what appeared to be a single footprint. I had the sense that whatever lay beyond this door was forbidden to me, and therefore probably the most interesting thing I would encounter all summer. I quickly glanced around to make sure nobody was watching me, then turned the heavy knob, slipped behind the door, and shut it.

There was nothing; only darkness. I took a couple of steps and then stopped, unnerved by the totality of the shadow which surrounded me. I waved my hands in front of me in an attempt to find a wall or a shelf or anything to hold on to. What I actually found was far more subtle—a small string, dangling from above—but far more useful. I grabbed it firmly and pulled it down.

Back in the day, lots of lightbulbs were operated with strings, and this was one of them. My surroundings were instantly illuminated. I was standing on a small, dusty platform that looked as though it hadn’t seen life in quite some time. To my left was a crickety-ass spiral staircase, made of wood and appearing ready to collapse at any second. The bulb was the only source of light in the room, and it was feeble, so when I peered over the railing to see what lay below, the bottom of the staircase dissolved into the darkness.

I was beginning to feel scared. This place—wherever I was—seemed to have no business in a town library. It was as though I were in a completely different building. But no nine-year-old likes to let a mystery go unsolved. Looking back, I wish I could tell my prepubescent self to turn around, go back, do anything else besides descending that staircase. “You’ll be spared a lot of sleepless nights,” I’d say. But, of course, I didn’t know that then—and I may not have listened even if I had. So instead of turning back, I took a deep breath, gripped the railing, and glared resolutely forward as I began my descent.

The wood on the railing was dry and covered with splinters. I immediately let go, holding my hands out for balance as I carefully traversed the staircase. It was (or at least seemed) very long, and with only the dim glow from the string-bulb far above me, my heart pounded mercilessly in the darkness. Even kids can sense when something isn’t right, I think—they just don’t always give a shit.

By the time my feet reached the cement floor at the bottom, the light from the bulb above was very nearly a memory. But there was a new light source, and God, I’ll never forget it. Directly in front of me was a door, massive, and a deep shade of red. The light was coming from behind the door, and it shone out in thin lines from all four sides—a sinister, dimly glowing rectangle. For the second time, I took a deep breath and went through a door I shouldn’t have.

In contrast to the dank room I entered from, the room behind the door was blinding. When my eyes adjusted, what I saw nearly took my breath away.

It was a library. The most perfect library imaginable.

I gaped in wonder as I stepped, almost reverently, further into the room. It was beautiful. It was smaller than the library above, much smaller, but it seemed to be almost tailor-made for me. The shelves were packed with brightly colored titles, both armchairs in the middle of the room were exquisitely comfortable, and the smell—my God, the smell—was simply unbelievable. Sort of a mixture of citrus and pine. I simply can’t do it justice with words, so I’ll suffice it to say that I’ve never smelled anything better. Not in my 75 years.

What was this room? Why had I never heard of it before? Why was nobody else here? Those were the questions I should have been asking. But I was intoxicated. As I gazed around at all the books and basked in the smell of paradise, I could only form one thought: I will never be bored again.

In truth, boredom only hid from me for three years. It was on my 12th birthday, 63 years ago to this day, that everything changed.

Before that day, I visited my basement sanctuary as often as I could—usually several times a week. I never saw another soul down there, yet strangely remained free of suspicion. I never removed a book from that room, but instead would pick up a particular volume wherever I had stopped reading during my previous visit. I sat, always in the same deep purple armchair, and always leaving its twin barren and directly across from myself. That armchair was mine, the other was—well, I suppose I couldn’t have articulated it then much better than I can now. But it wasn’t mine, that’s for damn sure.

On my twelfth birthday, I arrived later than usual. My mom had invited a couple classmates and some cousins over to our house to celebrate, a gesture which I found more tedious than touching—really, I just wanted to spend my birthday sitting and reading and smelling paradise. Eventually, our guests went home, and I made it to the library about fifteen minutes before closing time. That didn’t matter; the workers never checked down there before they locked up. I was free to stay as late as I wished. This particular night, I was devouring the final chapters of an epic adventure; knights, swords, dragons, and the like. I didn’t smell it until I read the final words and closed the book.

The once exquisite aroma of that room had turned sour. I sat for a moment, unsettled. Objectively, I could recognize that the smell was actually the same as it had been before—that mixture of citrus and pine. I just perceived it differently, and I didn’t like it anymore. It was the nasal version of an optical illusion; you know, the one that looks like a young woman glancing backward, but all of a sudden you see that it’s really an old woman facing toward you? You can’t unsee that, and I couldn’t unsmell this. The spell was broken.

The odor also seemed, for the first time, to be coming from somewhere specific. With a fair amount of trepidation, I stalked around the room, sniffing the air like a crazed canine until I came to a shelf near the back. The shelf was perfectly normal, with the exception of one title—a large, leatherbound cover of solid faded maroon, with one striking black footprint at the top of the spine. This was the source of the smell. I opened the front cover, and saw one sentence scrawled neatly in blood-red ink atop the first page:

Rest your sorrows down, friend, and leave them where they lie.

I stared at this sentence, mesmerized, as I began to retreat to my chair. I turned a page. Blank. The smell became stronger. Another page, blank, and the smell grew stronger still. I stopped for a moment, suppressed a gag, and continued walking. Then, as I neared the armchairs, I turned one final page—and there, in the same sinister print, was the last thing I expected to see: my own name. I dropped the book. I began to sprint toward the door, but as I shifted my gaze forward, my heart leapt to my throat and I stopped in my tracks.

The empty chair wasn’t empty anymore.

An aged man in a suit sat before me, one leg crossed over the other, contemplating me with piercing gray eyes and a light smirk. This was all too much. I fell to my knees and expelled the contents of my stomach onto the carpet. I wiped my mouth, staring at my vomit, when I heard the man let out a chuckle.

I stared at him disbelievingly. “Who are you?” I asked, panic in my voice.

The man leapt to his feet, grabbed me gently by the shoulders, and helped me to my chair. He sat, once again, in his own. “I fear we got off to a bad start,” he said, glancing at the pile of sick on the carpet. “The smell . . . it does take some getting used to.”

“Who are you?” I repeated.

“Tonight, you will know hardship like you’ve never before known,” he said. “I come as a friend, offering you refuge from it, and from all other storms which lie ahead.”

I wanted nothing more than to leave at that moment, but I remained seated. I asked him what he was talking about.

“Your mother is dead, my boy. By her own hand, in her kitchen. The scene is gruesome, I must admit,” he said in sorrowful tones, but was there a playful glint in his eye? “Surely you wish to avoid this path. I can show you a safer one.”

My blood ran cold at the horrors this man spoke of, but I did not believe him. “What do you want with me?” I demanded, trying to sound braver than I felt. He laughed, an old, raspy yelp that seemed to shake him to his bones.

“Nothing but your friendship, dear boy,” he said. Then, sensing I found his answer inadequate, he expounded. “I want you to come on a journey with me. My work is noble and you will make a fine apprentice. And maybe, when I’m done”—he sighed tiredly, running his bony fingers through his thin white hair—“maybe then, my work can be yours.”

I stood up, shuffling toward the door but never breaking his gaze. “You’re crazy,” I told him. “My mom isn’t dead. She’s not.”

“See for yourself, if you must,” he said, gesturing toward the door. I threw him a contemptuous glare and bolted for the exit. As my hand closed around the knob, he said my name softly. In spite of myself, I turned around.

“Your road won’t be easy, friend. If it ever becomes too much for you, and I mean ever,” he said, pausing to sweep his hand over the room, “you know where to find me.”

I slammed the door behind me and took the decrepit stairs two at a time. I exited the library, clambered onto my bike, and high-tailed it home. The front door was wide open. I dismounted, leaving my bike in a heap on the ground, and approached the house cautiously. The old man was lying—he must have been. Still, tears began to sting my eyes. Heart pounding, I stepped inside and called for my mother. I heard no answer, so I turned into the kitchen.

To this day, I don’t know why she did it.

I’ve lived in that small town in Maine my entire life, although I’ve kept mostly clear of the public library. Once, in my late 20s, I summoned the courage to step inside. Life was good at that time, and my fear had begun to morph into idle curiosity. Where the door to my basement sanctuary once stood was only a blank wall. I asked the librarian what had become of that basement, though in my heart I knew the answer. There was no basement, she said. There had never been a basement. In fact, if she had her facts correctly, city zoning ordinances prohibited a basement in the area.

I’ve been haunted by that sickly-sweet smell, that poisonous blend of citrus and pine, ever since that long ago birthday. When I saw my mother in the kitchen that day, collapsed in a pool of her own blood, I smelled it. When a man claiming to be my father knocked on my college apartment door, begged me for money and beat me to within an inch of my life when I refused, I smelled it. When my wife miscarried our second child, I smelled it, and again when she miscarried our fourth. When our oldest son got behind the wheel of the family Buick completely shitfaced and got his girlfriend killed, I smelled it.

I began to smell it periodically as my wife became sick. She died late last year, and now, I’m alone for the first time in more than half a century. Now, I smell it every day, and it feels like an invitation.

A few months ago, I went back to the library and the small oak door with the ancient handle was there—right where it used to be. My evening walk has brought me past that library every day since, but I haven’t gone inside. Maybe tonight I will. I’m frightened to die, yes, but lately I’m even more frightened to keep living. The old man was right—my road hasn’t been easy, and I doubt it will get any easier.

Rest your sorrows down, friend, and leave them where they lie.

He promised relief. A refuge, he said. Was he right about that too? There’s only one way to find out. After all, I still know where to find him.

[theseaeaglelives]

Round 1

THE SEA EAGLE

MAKING RUGBY LEAGUE GREAT AGAIN!!!

9 March 2018

Newcastle Knights 19

def.

Manly Sea Eagles 18

So where has the Sea Eagle been for the past year, Rumours abound that the Sea Eagle has been incarcerated in Rikers Island. Others suggest that he has been caring for a child born out of wedlock to a 33-year-old junior staffer. The truth however is far less salacious.

Accurately predicting that Season 2017 would be a borefest and non-event (as is the case every time FWCLR Storm win a premiership) the Sea Eagle has spent the past 12 months drafting a screen play for a new super hero movie. Without giving too much away the movie, entitled the Adventures of Sea Eagle Man, follows the exploits of Sea Eagle Man, a half man-half bird creature, as he fights for justice for the oppressed and the right for political incorrectness.

During the course of the movie Sea Eagle Man confronts his arch rival and nemesis The Bubbler. The despised Bubbler has been on a crime spree, paralysing sporting administrators across the country with his dreaded weapon, The Urinator. Can the Bubbler be stopped? Will Sea Eagle Man triumph? Stay tuned only time will tell.

Unfortunately, production of this highly anticipated super-hero blockbuster has been suspended due to ongoing issues with US based Production company METOO Productions. A spokesman for METOO has issued a brief statement denying all allegations made against the company and members of senior management, at the same time ensuring that production of  Sea Eagle Man was still a priority.

Anyway, enough of this gibberish and on to the game, the first instalment of Slapfest 2018. The game itself although eagerly anticipated was nothing to write home about. It was a very average game played by two equally average, but evenly matched sides. In fact, having to sit through this dribble at times made the Sea Eagle wish that he had stayed in retirement.

The Knights opened the scoring after 3 minutes when recruit Kaylin Ponga slipped past some very poor goal line defence from Curtis Sironen to score. Goal line defence is paramount in the modern game and this is an area that the Son of the Buttocks must improve in.

Manly hit back shortly after when Horhay Torfua, returning from a long injury lay off powered his way over to score, again this time following some poor goal line defence from the Knights. It is great to see young Horhay back in action and if he can stay fit and improve his dodgy handling under the high ball he will be an asset to Manly this year.

A try a piece to both the Knights and Manly saw the game still locked up at 12 all at the break.

The second half was even worse than the first, with both sides, especially Manly making plenty of basic handling errors. Notwithstanding, Manly opened the scoring in the second half through rising centre Brian Kelly. Kelly, not wanted by the Titans had a fine game and was one of Manly’s best in this game. Hopefully he can continue to improve throughout the year and the Sea Eagle is looking forward to his combination with Dylan Walker (when he returns from injury).

Just when Manly looked to have the ascendancy another error, this time by million-dollar man Cherry Baby halted Manly’s momentum and shortly after the Knights made their way down field to score and hit the lead.

Leading, 18-16 with 10 minutes the go the Knights made the cardinal mistake of forgoing the easy 2 points when awarded a penalty well within kicking distance, instead pushing on for an unlikely try. Average teams such as the Knights (and Manly) can ill-afford to make such poor errors of judgement and after failing to score a try the Knights shortly after gave Manly a penalty of their own, which Cherry Baby duly converted to ensure a stalemate after 80 minutes and off to extra time.

Golden Shower is a blight on the game, as both teams sole purpose was to manoeuvre for a field goal, which eventually the Knights, through new high-profile recruit Mitchy Pearce iced. Thus, the Knights secure the all-important 2 points and claim bragging rights to win the first instalment of the Slapfest Cup for 2018.

This loss continues the horror starts to a season for Manly in recent times. In fact, the Sea Eagle cannot recall the last time that Manly actually won a season opener!!

The loss also highlights the deficiencies of this current Manly side. Without a recognised 5/8 Manly were somewhat rudderless and there was too much thrust upon Cherry Baby. DCE is a fine player, and very few possess a CV like his (premiership winner, QLD origin, Clive Churchill medal, master negotiator etc), but it has been shown that he needs an adequate foil to produce his best. Without Blake Green, Manly do not currently have this and unless they can find someone to fill this void quickly it will be a long season indeed for the Manly faithful.

Next week, its back to Lottoland (formerly known as Fortress Brookvale) to take on the Eels. This will be no easy assignment and Manly will be no good things to break their duck in season 2018. The Eels will be outsiders in this one having been towlled by Penrith in the heat in Rd 1. Remember the controversy with Manly and illegal player betting usually centres around the Eels being outsiders at Brookvale. You have been warned.

OFF SEASON CONTROVERSY

It was, without doubt, the lamest off season in memory for controversy. Until Mathew Lodge and the possible emergence of Todd “The Bubbler” Carney, in the week leading up to the first round, it was an off season that offered none of the usual things the fans have come to expect. No assaults, no players found aimlessly drunk in innocent bystanders back yards, no sexual acts on unsuspecting canines, and no urination in public. Woeful.

True it was that the Director of Controversy had allegedly been sent on consignment first to Oxfam and then to the National Party to deal with the Barnaby Joyce fiasco, leaving the NRL aimless and directionless, much like the Manly halves pairing. But that is a poor excuse. The players have to take ownership of this and step up to the mark.

What it does show, is that the Director of Controversy role is nothing short of irreplaceable. Work should start now for a succession plan. The great man cannot go on forever.

ME TOO

We all know about Me Too.

If you are white, middle aged, and rich or in a position of power, your days are numbered. Witness the gender equality being displayed on Fox Sports and the Footy show. And aren’t the programs better as a result! Who needs to hear about the actual game, from people that played it the highest level? This is now largely irrelevant. What we need is a good hard lecturing from women’s rights activists as to how bad males all are, and rugby league players in particular.

If men stop watching the game and these shows, and we all end up watching Soccer, so be it. That is a small price to pay. Gender equality irrespective of whether it is based on merit ability or experience MUST PREVAIL for the good of,??? well that is not currently clear, but it seems to be the thing to do so let’s roll with it.

Or, do we dare to question the current Emperor’s New Clothes state of affairs, and Moneyball it like in the book written by Michael Lewis.

It’s about time it came to this. It’s the wake-up call rugby league needs. The question is simple enough. Do women really like league anyway? If not, why not direct your attentions full boar to the true believers. If you pick up an extra 20% of women supporters along the way, good and well. If not, it really doesn’t matter. Women as a rule don’t bet, they don’t talk aimlessly about the game, don’t bother to draft mindless gibberish about the game and they aren’t as motivated as men in watching it with almost religious fervor. It’s called playing to your strengths.

Fitting, as the Roy and HG program rightly pointed out, that in Rd 1, on International Women’s day, the Broncos debuted Mathew Lodge.

Also, on a Me-Too note is Todd Carney, and his desire to be readmitted back to the NRL. Todd has every right to claim Me Too. In his case, it is the simplest of statements. I want to play rugby league too!

Todd has of course been bubbling along in the background, and sort of slipped under the radar when he announced he has signed with the Cowboys.  His signing, naturally, is subject to NRL sign off. Given they let a person like Russel Packer play NRL and now captain the Tigers, despite having served time for bashing some young person senseless in a rampage apparently in the CBD, and given Mathew Lodge seems to raise no issues with bringing the game into disrepute, one must wonder what could possibly be the problem with Todd Carney.

After all who did he hurt other than himself, when in the infamous Bubbling incident, he urinated in his own mouth and then allowed it to be sent public by video. The NRL needs Todd and Todd needs the NRL. The Sea Eagle says bring back Todd now!!!. It is basic human right to be able to urinate in one’s mouth in public toilet and display that on video to the world.

It may not to be everyone’s liking that is for sure, but Rugby League is not a nice pleasant game played by innocents. And the fans know it. That is its inherent appeal, a self-evident truth that at the moment seems to be lost in the white noise.

YOU’RE FIRED

NRL is a performance-based business. Over the course of the season winning is king and mediocrity (despite effort) will not be accepted. With this in mind, each week the Sea Eagle will identify someone (or something) that must get the axe, get a boning or in other words be fired!

Its likely that there will be numerous candidates each week, so competition will be fierce. It also goes without saying that the default each week (especially when Manly lose) will be Coach Barrett.

As expected, this week there could be many candidates for this most despised of accolades. Plenty of shockers across the board so the Sea Eagle has decided to spare Barrett this week. Cherry Baby was poor but he too has been spared.

At the end of the day Manly need a competent 5/8 to take the heat off DCE and let him do (apart from contract negotiations) what he does best.

Poor old Mathew Croker, the young 5/8 pulled in to do the job of now departed Blake Green, showed he is one or two years off being first grade ready. It is not his fault of course. With some reserve grade training, he may well be a very good 5/8 one day. And he does have the Crookwell Croker’s genes pulsing through his veins, which can only be a good thing given the past and current abilities of Jason Croker and Jarrod Croker of the Raiders. It’s just he is not ready for first grade now.

With that said Lachlan Croker – YOU’RE FIRED

THE SEA EAGLE