#like of COURSE the tiny intricacies of the metaphor are important

[richkidcityfriends]

people's absolute inability to understand the purpose of metaphor will i think be the thing that kills me

[saint-severian]

Dune - Chapter 1

Worldbuilding presents a challenge for fiction-writers whose worlds go beyond the familiar. The problem is this: how to flesh out a fictional universe with realistically deep and realized background and details without constantly dumping information on the reader as if in a textbook. Although it would be hard to say that Herbert totally avoids this kind of long-form description, he does gracefully justify it. We, the readers, learn in the first chapter about the political intricacies of the universe of Dune because those intricacies are directly relevant to our protagonist right from the outset. Paul Atreides, our guy, is an elite. His parents are elites, and everyone he interacts with in the introductory is an elite in their respective field. His existence is centered, with no ambiguity to him or us, around his future career as a political elite. But he is not a politician, and though, as we will see, his father has to take on a role comparable to a politician, this is quietly a distasteful necessity, an offense to what Paul would call his “sense of rightness”. More on that later. 

The Atreides family are not elected politicians. They are aristocrats, who, as we learn in the second paragraph of the text, have lived in “Castle Caladan”, which takes its name from the planet itself, for twenty-six generations. Paul’s ancestors have ruled over an entire planet for more than five centuries. He’s old money. And despite the fact that we learn later that his House is not great by the standards of the galactic Imperium to which it belongs, his father, Leto Atreides, is a widely popular man among the other elites. In this one fact much of the plot is derived. First, we realize that Paul is not the hero of a rags-to-riches story. He is not an underdog, not a challenger in the grand scheme of things. Just the opposite- he is a fifteen-year-old boy who is placed and prepped to become an extremely powerful man. As we will learn, it is more than his external environment that puts him in this position. The second implication of the high status or popularity of his family is that, as Herbert says, “a popular man arouses the jealousy of the powerful”. The jealousy of the powerful for Paul’s family will put in effect events that determine Paul’s fate and the fate of the human race. 

Under the (assumed) pretext of the Duke Leto Atreides’ rising popularity and competence, he is assigned a new charge. The ‘Padishah’ Emperor (a word meaning “lord of kings”) has chosen Duke Leto, his feudal vassal, to govern a poor, provincial planet in his name. The planet, called Arrakis, is known for two things: it is extremely harsh for human life, being a world entirely of desert, and it is the sole source of a precious resource that is required across the Imperium for everything from space travel to life-extension. This important substance, “mélange”, is usually called simply “spice”, and much of Dune will revolve around it. Already the obvious real-world parallel must be observed: the precious resource required universally in the gigantic economy which is found in a poor desert country - it’s a metaphor for oil, of course, and Arrakis, the desert planet, is a stand-in for the Middle East, and its primitive and Islamic-influenced inhabitants, the Fremen, represent the wilder elements of the Arab world. Not to waste any time - yes, this parallel is legitimate and not at all a secret. But Dune is not an allegory for one particular time and place. It is, like all myth and fiction, applicable to many times and many places. 

Although we do not yet know exactly why, a strange woman who is regarded highly by Paul’s mother Jessica, has come to visit Paul and administer a brief test. The test lasts only seconds, perhaps more than a few minutes, but Paul’s life is in the balance - if he fails the test, he will die. Knowing this, his mother nonetheless consents. Paul is assured that she passed the same test long ago, and just before she leaves the room, Jessica tells her son to “Remember you’re a duke’s son”. We quickly see the relevance of this reminder when the nature of the test is revealed. The old woman tells Paul that she is testing him for humanity as he is threatened with a weapon that kills only animals, a “gom jabbar”. Paul is disgusted that she would suggest he - the son of a duke, as his mother just reminded him - would be subhuman. I’ve always loved her response to his outrage: “Let us say that I suggest you may be human”. 

Upon my first reading, I interpreted the fact that the tiny, needle-like gom jabbar was poisoned with a substance that was lethal only to the subhuman. This is not the case - it’s not the blade itself that is lethal only to animals, but instead the weapon would only be used on an animal, because only an animal would fail the test and receive the punishment of the poisoned blade. And what is the test? Simple: delayed gratification. Put your hand in a box and don’t pull it out, even while the box gives you excruciating pain. If you fail the test and pull out your hand, you will be stabbed and poisoned and immediately die. Control your urges and pass/live, or give in to your instincts and fail/die. Already we’re on a great track: Herbert has, in the first chapter of his book asserted that not all humans are human, that some are just animals, and that the real dividing line between these two is self-control. This judgement does not bode so well for the innately uninhibited members of the sapient population. Herbert declares, through the mouth of the representative of the Bene Gesserit sisterhood, that those who are incapable of restraint are subhuman. Let’s take a look at this fascinatingly fascist matriarchy of manipulators. 

Old Gaius Helen Mohaim, the old crone in question, tells us after Paul passes his test with flying colors that her sisterhood is a surviving descendant of a series of “schools” that were founded a very long time ago, after an event that left humanity without the use of “thinking machines”, and thus with a lot of responsibility on our hands to make up for the absence of what had become the crutch of computers. Here is another key concept of the Dune universe - the idea that computers (and many other things) are crutches that allow human beings not to think or act for themselves, but instead to rely upon external systems and tools that do their work for them, and as a result leave them vulnerable for “other men with machines” to make slaves out of them. 

Although there is another, apparently all-male school that focuses on “pure mathematics” (an autistic and male pursuit), the Bene Gesserits’ focus is politics, as Paul surmises on “remarkably few clues”. He had to guess that the Sisterhood’s business was politics, despite the fact that he is a political elite, his mother is a member of the Sisterhood, and she had been training him in their ways. The strategy of the BG is covert manipulation of political elites (this should conjure up a list of real-world parallels) ... by, for example, assignment of a sister to become the consort of a duke and the mother of his child, for example. They are an all-female sect that engages in a feminine form of politics, a passive form of politics based around manipulation and deceit. The fact that they are a purely feminine organization in their essence and substance justifies their desire for a masculine version of their power, hopefully a masculine element they can control like anyone else. This masculine version of the Bene Gesserit is called the Kwisatz Haderach, the “one who can be in many places at once”. While the Bene Gesserit can access the “feminine avenues” of their ancestry via blood memory, they can only access their feminine ancestors. The males, and by extension the male perspective, is forever closed to them. But not to the Kwisatz Haderach. The real biological link to these concepts are that, while women have an XX chromosome, and are thus entirely female, men have XY, and are really only half ‘pure male’. Males have something females don’t, but not the other way around. Although males have the capacity to be passive, and thus to take on the aspect of the Bene Gesserit, whose existence is passive despite its great importance and power, they are also endowed with the active element, forbidden to the feminine. This pure male essence is not only unknowable to the female/BG, it is terrifying to them. 

In this several myths are invoked. First there is the Dionysian image of the male leader surrounded by female sycophants in the Kwisatz Haderach as the male apotheosis of the Bene Gesserit coven. Second there are the various themes of the Great Goddess of the feminine, and the conquering aspect of the masculine, embodied in the myth of Apollo among many others. Notably missing from the story so far is a snake motif- an element central to the Apollo myth and to Great Goddess figures everywhere. But there will be, so look out for it. 

However, many are called but few are chosen to become the Kwisatz Haderach. And, although Paul has passed the first test, those who try to fulfill this role and fail are not forgiven. 

[fairydrarry]

to [ @dr-aco ] ; hello suha and happy birthday my queen i love you so much!!! ur so old jeez im so proud of u! you’re like the best person ever?? and we don’t talk as much anymore but i want you to know that you are like the best non-blood-related sibling i’ve ever had :’) i hope you have the best day today <33

summary: everyone knew draco was conceited: he loved himself, and he was proud of how well he took care of himself. but everyone also knew that draco’s world didn’t completely center around himself - it also centered around harry.

Draco tossed his head back and laughed enthusiastically, his eyes crinkling at the edges as he messed with his blond strands. He had been midway through telling the story to the other eighth years in the common room of how he had been pranked by Dean and Seamus the day before - it was a brilliant prank, involving a well-timed distraction by Ron and a bucket of some green, slimy substance - when Harry walked into the room. Draco immediately reddened, leaning back in his chair as he avoided the brunet’s eyes.

“Hey, Draco.” Draco glanced up at Harry, his eyes immediately returning to their gaze at his restless fingers right after. “You seen ‘Mione anywhere? I asked Ron, he didn’t know.” Harry carded his fingers through his hair, tilting his head to the side in utter confusion.

Draco took his lip in between his teeth, trying to avoid any eye contact with Harry whatsoever. It was harder to talk to Harry, since every gesture the boy performed seemed to appear sexual - even something as innocent as running his fingers through his hair. “Um, n-no, haven’t seen her, sorry, mate.” Draco stammered, slowly lowering the wooden chair he sat in on the ground, which clattered cacophonously despite his attempts to gracefully set the chair down. Everyone in the vicinity flinched at the noise. Draco felt shamefully embarrassed at having been so clumsy in front of Harry.

“Alright, thanks anyway. See you tonight at the party?” Harry smiled politely and almost forcibly, tapping his fingers against the door frame he now leaned casually upon. Draco didn’t understand how Harry never reacted to anything embarrassing. As if he didn’t take note of every mess-up Draco made to reflect on and laugh about later. The blond paled at the thought, managing out a “Definitely” in response to Harry’s question. Harry nodded happily, exiting the room, and Draco exhaled a sigh of relief; he had never felt more stupid in front of Harry. Of course, the others in the room felt his pain of embarrassing himself in front of his crush, and a few consoled him and patted his shoulder. Draco welcomed the comfort and murmured a “thank you” in return, but he was lost in the intricacies of his mind.

Draco knew he had fallen down the metaphorical ladder in society after the war; he and his family had been on the losing side of the battle. He refused to call it the “wrong” side, because he detested being wrong. But he knew he had to work that much harder to earn back his place in the wizarding world. He was aware of the fact that he had essentially nothing left after the war, and had to build his way back to the top. It was a challenge he had gleefully accepted. Taking the challenge meant getting in with the right people - and the right people were the ones on the winning side, of course, which meant that Draco would have to infiltrate the Golden Boy’s little circle of friends. And he did. But he didn’t expect it to be so… rewarding.

Entering the circle, of course, was a tedious process, but Draco had yearned for the success of being in with the Boy Who Lived Twice. It was also a painfully sluggish process, composed of months and months of sucking up to the Patil sisters, then up to Dean and Seamus, and even impressing Lavender and Luna by winning over most of the Weasleys. He still carried a tiny grudge against Ron - it was usually small insults, thrown at each other only to relieve some stress and never laced with anger - but Molly adored Draco, and treated him as if his light hair were the same shade of her children’s; every year, Draco got his own knitted Weasley sweater. Hermione gained respect for Draco after he did everything to purchase a first-edition copy of Great Witches In All Ages (he had handwritten and Spellotaped in Hermione a detachable page about herself in the very front, as she was a great witch too), and anyone Hermione respected was respected by Harry as well. Which led to his place in the circle - he was Harry’s #1 (to be fair, Harry had two other #1’s, consisting of Ron and Hermione, but Draco felt honored nonetheless). He felt like he had a second family when he spent time with his friends.

Yet he still couldn’t speak a coherent sentence around Harry.

Harry, his best friend, outweighing both Blaise and Pansy, who had practically learned to walk with Draco. Harry, who never seemed to notice Draco’s mess-ups, no matter how large they were. Harry, who was seventeen years old and sported the same messy hair that he had when he was eleven. Harry, who probably wasn’t even into blokes, much less Draco.

Draco sighed aloud, blushing at the thought of Harry liking boys. What if he did like boys? Had he ever been with a boy? Kissed one? Draco could imagine Harry after curfew, sneaking around the castle with some random seventh year boy, kissing him just to see what it felt like.

The blond’s cheeks had turned a shade similar to Ron’s hair. His thoughts lately had been spiraling out of control. And they were usually about Harry.

Harry jogged down the stairs and turned the corner, headed for the library. He looked over to Madame Pence, who disregarded his entrance by continuing to examine a large book. Harry scanned the entire room for bushy hair. Spotting a glimpse of fluffy auburn behind a bookcase, Harry briskly strolled towards his best friend.

“Hermione!” Harry loud-whispered, effectively grabbing Hermione’s attention. She looked up from her spot on the floor, leaning against a bookshelf full of dusty, cracked volumes. Smiling, Hermione pushed her curls back and closed the book in her lap.

“How can I help you, Harry?” She asked sweetly. Harry always got the feelings that if he had a sister, Hermione would be the embodiment of how she would act. They commonly fought, but in the end, they always made up. Not just because Ron and Hermione had become closer than ever and were practically married, but because Harry cared a lot about Hermione.

The boy sighed deeply, sinking down to the carpeted floor and crawling next to ‘Mione, leaning against her shoulder. “I’m having boy troubles.” Harry mumbled, using a Muggle-world cliché to make Hermione laugh. It was a successful attempt; Hermione stifled a giggle, patting Harry on the head absentmindedly.

“Draco?” Hermione felt Harry nod against her side. “Oh, Harry. You know how he is - he’s just a shy boy.” Hermione lied straight through her teeth to the boy leaning on her shoulder. Draco was outgoing, stubborn, and proud, but it was a different story whenever Harry was around. Harry’s presence reduced Draco to a fumbling, illiterate mess. And Harry had no idea about the non-magical spell he put the taller boy under.

“I know, but it’s like…” Harry put his face in his hands, trying to find the words to express his thoughts. “He seems… uncomfortable around me, almost,” He raised his head to gauge Hermione’s reaction, “Like he’d rather me not be around.”

Hermione gave the dark-haired wizard a great frown. “That is most definitely not true, Harry James Potter.” Harry was unaware of what he did wrong, but snapped his attention to Hermione and had enough grace to look shameful. “To him, you’re his very best friend. You’re more important than everyone else.” The witch twisted Draco’s true feelings towards Harry into a more friend-like way; she didn’t want to spill Draco’s secret if he wasn’t ready. “He’d do anything for you, it seems to me.” Hermione adapted a faraway look in her eyes as she lowered her gaze to the floor. “He cares about you deeply. He’s just… shy.” Hermione finished her soliloquy, lamely reiterating her point at the end. Harry looked dumbfounded, as if he didn’t know what to do with all of this information.

His mouth opened and closed, similar to a fish. Hermione, contented with their talk, patted Harry’s nest of a hair and opened her book, resuming her reading.

Draco was pacing the floor, completely stressing about what to wear, and the party was meant to start in an hour.

The get-together was being held in the Gryffindor Common Room, as opposed to the Eighth Year one, meaning that Draco’s outfit absolutely couldn’t be red, gold, or orange; He didn’t want to clash with the most likely red and gold banners and furniture that would decorate the party place. Luna went around the school handing out invitations to everyone, and the little card stock square read that the invitees were to wear casual attire - those two words knocked out 75% of Draco’s closet. All the blond really owned were fancy robes. He supposed that wearing slacks and a button-up would be okay, but he knew he wouldn’t look casual. Fuck it, he thought, abruptly crossing his private room to the walk-in closet. I’ve got to own something that isn’t formal.

After a minor meltdown and two worried knocks from Pansy, who roomed in the chambers adjacent to his, Draco had decided on a long-sleeved light grey turtleneck and black “joggers.” Hermione, with her all-knowing self, had swooped over in Draco’s time of need and dropped them off. “Harry couldn’t fit these when I bought them for him, and neither could Ron.” They shared a glance at the name. Ron could have never fit any pair of pants that couldn’t fit Harry. That boy was built like a red-leaved Italian cypress. “They’re casual enough for the party.”

“Thanks, Hermione.” Draco softly smiled at his bushy-haired friend as she slipped out of his room, shutting the door quietly. He sighed, flopping on his bed.

At least he didn’t have to worry about what to wear to the party anymore. But he still had to worry about Harry.

Harry was still laying down, relaxing without a care in the world, even though the party was meant to start in ten minutes.

That is, until Hermione bursted open the door and made him get ready in less than seven.

Draco fiddled with his fingers, a habit he only performed when he was nervous. He was standing outside the Gryffindor common room, waiting for his friends to show up. Standing alone next to a portrait of the Fat Lady made Draco feel even more helpless. Even if his friends were inside, he couldn’t get in - he didn’t have the password.

The Fat Lady shot him a nasty glance, making the blond cringe inwardly. Draco came to the conclusion that the lady of the portrait had heard of his being a Death Eater through gossip. It was a very silent, wordless conversation that passed between both of them, mutually agreeing that neither would exchange words to each other unless in a dire emergency.

Tugging on his sleeves, Draco took deep breaths in an attempt to relax. It was working, until he saw Harry climb the last stair of the staircase. He felt his heart immediately begin to race and his cheeks flush as he dragged his gaze to the Fat Lady, who was eying him with distaste.

“Hey, Draco.”

“Hi, Harry.”

Draco kept his eyes on the portrait, determined to not do anything embarrassing. Harry looked onward, walking right up to Draco and stopping right next to him. The blond stopped breathing.

“Gryffindor Gumdrops.” He spoke the password softly to the Fat Lady, who looked upon him with adoration as her frame swung open and revealed the chaos inside.

The two boys held despair and interest in their eyes as they saw students dancing around the common room with glee, tiny fireworks exploding dangerously close to the chandelier that multiple people were swinging off of. The familiar beats of Weird Sisters was blaring through a muggle-style speaker.

“Come on, Draco!” Harry yelled enthusiastically over the music, absentmindedly grabbing the blond’s hand and hopping over the ledge of the portrait hole, rushing into the noise that was this party. Draco reddened immensely at the contact between him and Harry, and stumbled along behind him, almost tripping over the portrait ledge.

Draco sat sandwiched between Parvati and Patil, who were braiding different parts of his hair and talking. The music had noticeably switched to a different genre, playing random Muggle songs that Hermione was in control of choosing. To say the blond was enjoying himself was an understatement: he was having the time of his life, hanging out with all his friends. Earlier in the night, there was a few rounds of “Don’t Wake The Lion,” which Hermione had informed him was an enchanted form of Jenga — though she had to explain that concept to him, too. Draco was too enraptured by the adorable little sleeping lion sitting atop the stacked wooden blocks to prepare himself for the loud roar that occurred after Seamus made the tower topple over. Harry had laughed at Draco’s reaction to the little lion. Draco was still filled with embarrassment at that moment. After that, they had what Dean had explained was a modified American football match with a sized-down football. Harry had scored a ‘touchdown,’ or at least, that’s what Ron yelled when the brunet had climbed on top of a chair and cheered. He had looked so happy with his ruffled clothes and messy hair, the blond wished he had taken a picture of that moment so he could cherish it. There was now a crowd of people standing on the outskirts, watching students dance in the middle of the room what Draco believed was called the “Cha Cha Slide.”

“So then I told him,” Patil continued her story, “‘That’s no ostrich, that’s a hippogriff!’” Draco was too polite to admit that he didn’t know what an ostrich was, but he chuckled at the story anyway. The twins began shaking with laughter as Hermione and Ginny strolled over. Draco waved at the two of them.

“Hey, how’s it goin’, partygoers?” Ginny wore her lopsided smile with twinkling eyes, her hands resting in her pockets. Parvati replied, “Never been better!” while Patil was too occupied with a particular fishtail braid in Draco’s hair to hear the question. Draco was about to reply, an overjoyed smile on his face, when he spotted Harry out of the corner of his eye. His smile dimmed. “It’s, uh, spectacular, Gin.” As Harry met his gaze and smiled, he rose quickly, the twins mumbling about how he had interrupted their hairstyling session. “I have to go immediately, I’m sorry.” He placed his hand on Hermione’s shoulder for a moment. “Thank you for the party.” Draco sincerely told her before rushing out of the Gryffindor common room, bumping into a few students on the way.

“What the hell happened?” Ginny said, shocked at Draco’s speedy exit. “Did I say something wrong?” She frowned, recalling the one sentence she had spoke.

“I don’t know,” The twins said in synchronization. They both looked at each other and giggled. Hermione gestured over her shoulder to Harry, who was watching the blond leave with a confused look, before sharing a knowing look with Ginny.

“I’m going after him.” Hermione spoke determinedly, but Ginny held her back.

“I think Harry’s already got that covered.” The redhead replied, watching Harry excuse himself from the crowd and dart out the portrait hole just before the painting swung closed.

“Draco, wait!” Harry shouted after the blond, who started walking faster after hearing the brunet’s voice. He sprinted after Draco, who stopped abruptly, causing Harry to bump into him and topple over.

Draco turned around with a frightened look on his face, a rosy blush settling across his cheeks as he frantically held out his hands towards the wizard sprawled out on the floor. “Oh, Merlin, I’m sorry, Harry, I didn’t mean to knock you over-“

“It’s fine, Draco. You’re fine.” Harry took Draco’s offered hands and stood up. But then he just stood there. Looking down at Draco’s hands.

The blond became flustered and tried to tug his hands away, but Harry tightened his grip to the point where he wasn’t crushing his hands, yet there was no way he could just slip them out of his hold. “Can you… let go?” He whispered quietly, not meeting Harry’s gaze and instead very focused on their intertwined hands.

“I’m afraid not. This might be the only way I can talk to you without you disappearing on me.” Harry held a note of concern in his eyes for the taller boy, who stood silently. His warm hands shifted in Harry’s. The brunet leaned in and tilted his head, trying to meet Draco’s gaze, but only succeeding in making the blond panic and take a step back. Harry sighed, inching his glasses farther up by scrunching his nose. Man, that was cute, the blond thought silently.

He took a tiny step forward, then spoke. “I’ve seen you excited and bubbly, relaxing with everyone and telling jokes and being the person I know you to be.” He took another step, this one minutely larger than the first. “But when I’m around you, it’s like you lose all function to speak and interact. You’re my best friend, Draco, you know that.” He took a pause and swallowed, the blond glancing up to look at his Adam’s apple before returning his eyes to a spot on the floor. “I want you to be who you are around me. Because I like you, the real you, and not hiding-behind-this-facade you.”

Harry let go of Draco’s hands, which fell limply at his sides. He waited patiently, watching Draco for any sign of movement.

“Are we having a heart-to-heart on the fifth floor of the Gryffindor Tower?” The blond replied, hoping that a joke would convey to Harry that he would do anything for Harry’s happiness. Harry smiled, but it was a slightly disappointed smile. The joke didn’t work. He shifted his gaze to a point beyond Harry’s left shoulder.

“You’re hard to talk to, Harry.” Draco bit his lip, trying to choose his words carefully. “I spent so long trying to be here, with all of your friends who are now my friends, and if I ruin it with you…” The blond took a pause to collect his thoughts. “Then I ruin it all.” He finished softly.

They stood there, quiet and pensive. Draco was scared on the inside, scared to say something that would mess up everything that he had worked hard for, and everything he had wished to work harder for in the future. He took a shaky breath. “I become a mess around you.”

Harry blinked slowly, examining the shy visage of the boy in front of him. “You won’t ruin it with me.” He took Draco’s hand into his and smiled. Draco smiled back.

[studentsofshield]

The Confusing History of Mantis, the Newest MCU Guardian of the Galaxy

By Vincent Faust

This was originally published on April 22, 2017

Guardians of the Galaxy Vol. 2 is just around the corner. Fans of the Marvel Cinematic Universe are rabid to bask in the glory of another James Gunn written and directed classic. Gunn has struck gold with audiences by concocting the perfect superhero film franchise. His Guardians combines the epic scope of cosmic science fiction with the witty script and natural charisma of a talented cast. Throw in some genius nostalgic soundtrack choices and tons of fun Easter eggs, and you get something truly magic.

Unlike certain other superhero directors (cough Bryan Singer cough), James Gunn wears his admiration for the source material on his sleeve. There are stories of him mandating cast members to read specific comics. Whereas other directors have bafflingly tried to ban comics from their sets. What is hilarious is that Gunn has also been rumored to explicitly tell his cast to not read certain comics. Issues and storylines that he thinks did not effectively capture the characterization and core essence of their characters. That’s a true mark of a fan.

Gunn has been able to respectfully alter the histories and personalities of certain characters for his films. Dave Bautista’s Drax in the films is an alien with no concept of sarcasm or metaphor. In the comics Drax the Destroyer is Arthur Douglass, a human selected by a cosmic entity and placed into a new body to serve as a messiah figure to defeat Thanos. It’s still just a tad annoying, but the changes for the film are inoffensive. He’s done similar things to the backstory of Star-Lord. One of the only things to be truly annoyed by in the Guardians films is his representation of the Nova Corps. However, there is still room to remedy that.

One of the new introductions to Guardians 2 is Mantis. In trailers she is shown possibly developing some kind of platonic or romantic connection with Drax. She will be played by the French and Korean actress Pom Klementieff. So who is this character?

Part I: Celestial Madonna

We can thank the imaginations of Steve Englehart and Don Heck for this character. Mantis had her first published appearance in Avengers #112. The character is a half-Vietnamese, half-German woman (so, somewhat close to Klementieff’s ancestry). She is the daughter of Libra of the Zodiac crime organization that often clashes with the Avengers.

From her childhood (abandoned by her father), Mantis has been foretold of a prophecy that she will become the “Celestial Madonna.” This figure is predicted to mate with the eldest Cotati (a plant-like alien race) to give birth to the Celestial Messiah. Which in turn will be the “most important” being in the entire universe. So that’s surely creepy to be told about as a young girl.

She trains as a martial artist but then gets her mind wiped when she reaches adulthood (ouch). I guess because it was written in the 1970s, she then becomes a prostitute at a Vietnamese bar. Which is where she meets and befriends the villain-turned-hero the Swordsman. The two join the Avengers and Mantis bares witness and assists in many battles and adventures.

Mantis becomes romantically interested in the Vision, but he turns her away. In a fateful encounter with time traveler Kang the Conqueror, the Swordsman is killed. This triggers Mantis to realize her love for him. So of course he gets resurrected and the aforementioned Cotati sort of parasitically merges with him. Mantis and the Swordsman get married and leave the Avengers to start their messianic family.

Part II: Inter-Company Drifter

What follows in her history is some nonsensical shenanigans. When writer and creator Steve Englehart departed Marvel comics, he actually tried to take Mantis with him. But you can’t really do that in work-for-hire comics publishing. So it gets fishy.

Mantis pops up in Steve Englehart’s Justice League run (first in Justice League of America Vol 1 #142). Since her name is copyrighted, she is presented as “Willow.” She sticks around awkwardly for a tiny while and then leaves to give birth.

Englehart then carries her over to some stories at Eclipse Comics. Going by Lorelei, she has finally given birth to what one can assume will be the Celestial Messiah. For one more wrinkle in this story, Image Comics later published a story originally planned for Eclipse that continues this thread. Which makes her fourth publisher.

Part III: Return Home

Now back at Marvel in the late 1980s, Englehart slots her into his ongoing stories of the Silver Surfer. Over the course of some confusing stories, she eventually turns green and gets additional powers. Oh, and her son was taken from her by the Cotati. She lives with them for a while. Her body splits into multiple beings representing her fractured psyche. Not much of it makes a ton of sense.

Sadly, her first really consequential story back at Marvel is a massive dud. She plays a crucial role in the universally despised Avengers and Iron Man crossover The Crossing. Mantis has come back as the wife of Kang to seek vengeance on the Avengers, her father, and the Cotati race for manipulating her. In the process, Iron Man Tony Stark is revealed to have been a double agent of Kang’s for years. He dies and is replaced by a time-displaced teenage version of himself.

But then Kurt Busiek retconned most of that mess away with the multiversal Avengers Forever story. The Mantis in The Crossing was revealed to be a phantom imitation of the real article.

Englehart then wrote a sequel years later to the Celestial Madonna Saga called Avengers: Celestial Quest. In the decades between the original and its belated follow up, Englehart’s writing abilities and grasp of Marvel continuity had waned. Not much is said about this book nowadays, or when it was released.

Part IV: Guardian of the Galaxy

Keith Giffen kickstarted a renaissance of cosmic storylines for Marvel in 2006 with the Annihilation crossover event. Space faring characters of all kinds and alien races were jumbled together to face a threat on a scale impossible to imagine for many of the heroes confined to the tiny rock that is planet Earth.

Other writers like Dan Abnett and Andy Lanning took up this cosmic torch and carried it for several years thereafter. Mantis was seen again (still with her green skin tone) as a prisoner of the alien Kree empire. She volunteers to participate in a mission led by Star-Lord in the Annihilation: Conquest event.

In the conclusion of that story, a new team of cosmic heroes is formed and dubs themselves the Guardians of the Galaxy as a tribute to the team who had in the past teamed up with the Avengers (though who originate from the future 31st century). Mantis served as the team’s counselor and communications leader.

After Abnett and Lanning concluded their critically acclaimed cosmic meta story, the reigns of the franchise were handed to Brian Michael Bendis. He quickly wrote out Mantis and a few other minor supporting characters from the Guardians’ adventures. His run has been…divisive to fans of cosmic Marvel.

Part V: Blockbuster Film Star

Now up to date on the intricacies of her history in comics, where does she go next? Into a multimillion dollar Hollywood film, of course! James Gunn is obviously a fan of that Abnett and Lanning era of Guardians history. And maybe not so much of Bendis’. Mantis will be introduced in Guardians of the Galaxy Vol. 2.

Her appearance seems to be taking more inspiration from her early 1970s Avengers tales. However, there is a slight pink hue to her skin that may be an attempt to make her look more alien. Just like Drax, Gunn is likely to alter her dense and confusing backstory to make her an alien. I highly doubt they will hint at her Celestial Madonna role. Which is obscure and could be perceived as sketchy nowadays.

The original Avengers: Celestial Madonna Saga was just recently reprinted in a paperback. Her late 2000s Guardians of the Galaxy appearances can be checked out in the complete collections for Abnett and Lanning’s run. Annihilation: Conquest may be trickier to track down, but is definitely worth it.

I’m going to be seeing this film with my friends here at school before I go back home. Opening night, of course. Cannot wait. Let me know how crazy you think Mantis’ history is and how excited you are to see her on the big screen in the comments below.

[anonthenullifier]

Recollections and Realizations

Summary: On the anniversary of Pietro's death, Wanda mourns while Vision considers the intricacies of grief.

AO3 link : http://archiveofourown.org/works/8535118/chapters/25158144

Note: This is chapter 17 of my short story collection Celestial Bodies but all chapters are written so you can read them without the others. If you want to read the rest, head to the link above! 

Hope you enjoy!!

Wanda hugs her knees to her chest, chin resting in the groove between her legs as she stares out. It should, if her life was written with well placed, meaningful metaphors, be raining, lightning crashing and moanful thunder rattling her bones. But instead she squints her eyes against the rising sun, marking the beginning of yet one more year where she is no longer twelve minutes younger. She’s certain Vision would quickly calculate the exact number of minutes older she is now if she asked, but it’s frivolous because even one is far too long.

A hand falls on her shoulder, fingers scrunching reassuringly into her sweatshirt in time with the press of lips to her scalp. “I have brought you tea.”

“Thanks.” Wanda inches her hips to the side, an invitation he quickly accepts, the swing rocking with the addition of his weight. The tea is the perfect temperature, cool enough to drink right away but still hot enough for caution when taking a sip, the blissful travel of heat running down her spine filling her with comfort. They stare in silence at the variegated dawn streaking across the sky, today of all days he rarely speaks first.  Wanda nods towards the sky, the movement small but enough to attract a sideways glance from Vision. “He was never awake for sunrises,” her mouth quirks up at a memory of Pietro stumbling into the room they’d been squatting in, smelling like cheap alcohol and the bartender’s perfume, “well except for when he’d be sneaking in from a night out.” She’d thrown a pillow at his face with a loving шлюха* and insisted he stay awake long enough to watch the sun peak above the trees.  

Vision reaches down to squeeze her knee, hand remaining on her leg as his fingers toy with the edges of the intentional (she always has to assure him) hole in her leggings. “You are remembering.”

The tone of the statement is odd to her, matter-of-fact but also laced with inquisitive longing, curiosity tempting her eyes to slide to the side, taking in the profile of his face, so breathtaking against the lilac striped sky. “Yeah.”

“Would you,” a pause descends around them, the next words caught in his throat as he stares down at his hand on her leg, his fingers still flicking the frayed fabric, “mind sharing?”  

“Of course, Vizh.” Scarlet crawls from her hand, but he gently grabs her wrist, stopping her from completing the mental link.

“I would prefer if you verbalized it.” A shy smile touches his lips as he pushes her hand away, “I have been reading that talking through grief can be helpful.”

The request isn’t surprising, but the subtext of his request, the thoughts she can feel streaming from his mind even without strengthening their link suggests it’s not just to help her, but also to satisfy a deep yearning of his to understand the process. “It was a morning when he came home late, had spent the night with someone, I,” as she talks the details seem to fade, the vibrancy of the sunrise and the warmth of his smile falling away into the banks of her memory, not nearly as strong as when it popped into her head, “don’t remember who, but we sat on the roof and he held me in his arms, kissed my head.”  She stares down at her tea, rotating the cup and watching as the liquid creates a tiny whirlpool.

“Does this invoke happiness?”

“I-” it’s been a long time since Vision has sounded so innocent, so unfamiliar with a concept and it throws her off. But she’s never shied away from his prying inquisitiveness and so she closes her eyes, studies the rhythm of her pulse and the invisible weight on her body, identifies the disbelief and amusement, the indulgent, overwhelming love that filled her in that moment and the comfort she drew from the touch of his hand to her own. “Sort of. It’s a happy memory but,” tears start to collect in her eyelids, seeking to follow the still damp trails on her cheeks from before the sun started to rise, “but I miss him so much.”

Arms encase her immediately, pulling her firmly against his chest, unperturbed by the tears soaking his sweater as she collapses into him. “I am sorry for asking.”

Now she’s angry, not really at Vision, though his need to apologize for things that he did not cause can be annoying, but no, right now she doesn’t care about his words. She's angry at life in general, at how unfair it is that Pietro is gone, has been for years and yet she’s still here, happy, healthy, in love, something he never experienced. And she’s angry at the sky for being clear and at the sun for beating down, furious that all she ever requests is that it rains today and not once has it happened, that the only downpour is from her eyes and there is no relief in the taste of salt on her mouth. “Why can’t it rain, Vision, why?”  

His fingers brush through her hair, palms moving to cup the back of her head, guiding her face forward to bring the tips of their noses in contact. The soft, yet determined, unwavering commitment in his eyes steals the air from her lungs. “I believe I can help with that.”

“You’re,” a hiccup severs her words, diaphragm unable to cope with the amount of work her sobs require, “not Thor.”  

“No,” she can only see his eyes but it is enough to understand he is smiling, a sad, hopeful smile if the scrunch of his lower eyelids are any indication, “but I procured a quinjet for us several weeks ago, anticipating that you might wish to visit Pietro.”

She finds her mouth attempting to smile along with his suggestion but it loses out to the sorrowful shake of her head, “But I’m leaving on a mission tonight. Steve has rules, you know.”

The grin in his eyes only increases, the playful half-rotation of his irises means he’s somehow already fifty steps ahead of her own thoughts. “I also sought permission from Captain Rogers for you to travel despite your mission tonight. And,” his hands follow the arc of her head until they rest on her cheeks, thumbs wicking away her tears, “according to the forecast it is raining in Lithuania until four this afternoon, that is not terribly out of the way if we leave now.”

Wanda drops the tea, wrapping it in a cloud of red as she grips his face, crushing her lips to his own with a strangled, thankful, “I love you so much.”

The landing is rocky, Vision’s demeanor is as calm and relaxed as ever, minus the tighter than usual grip he has on the flight controls and the worry frantically running around his mind flailing its arms. Wanda, however, finds her mind serene, a rightness finally in the fury of the clouds outside, the rain whipping past the windows and the threat of thunder in the distance. The furious thrumming against the metal roof brings a smile to her face, one that she flashes towards Vision and he cautiously mirrors.

As soon as the tell-tale bump of the ship touching down jolts their bodies to the side, Wanda unbuckles her harness, stretching her limbs as she stands and impatiently waits for Vision to finish his post-flight system diagnostics.  Once he stands she grabs his hand and pulls him towards the lowering ramp. “Wanda…” the rest of the words aren’t necessary, his gaze directing her towards the waterproof jackets hanging up at their stations but she pulls his body closer so she can rest her chin on his chest and smile up at him.

“It’s important to feel it.”

The confused bend of his head to the side and part of his lips prepares her for some sort of retort but then he shrugs. “If you insist.”

They stand hand-in-hand at the top of the ramp studying the flow of water, not quite a downpour but far angrier than a drizzle. It’s perfect, down to the splatters against the budding trees and the earthy scent of the mud. Wanda breathes it all in, filling her lungs and holding it until stars flash in her periphery. Then she releases her breath, allowing her sorrow to rise up and twist with the howling, saturated wind.  

Bracing her hand against Vision’s chest, she lifts her right foot, a swirl of scarlet untying the laces of her boots, stripping away the wool socks, toes wiggling appreciatively at their freedom, and then she moves on to the other foot, tossing the boots back into the ship. Three steps down the ramp and her body stops, arm stretched fully backwards, hand still caged in by Vision’s fingers and his unmoving body. “Are you joining me or staying on the ship?”  

Vision stares disapprovingly at the rain, fingers fidgeting in her grip, and then takes two tentative steps forward until he’s even with her. “Is it necessary to be barefoot?”

Briefly she wonders if she's told him the story, because the gentle plea of his voice is so reminiscent of her own, but it's such a small memory, just a flash in her mind and a buzz of excitement, the feeling of chipped paint as she clutches the windowsill, of a wonder budding in her mind at the way the eddies and whirls erode the snowbanks, a nudge to her shoulder and a cocky smile before sneakers smack against her leg and she demands (with a smile tugging relentlessly at her cheeks) Почему я не могу носить обувь?** No, she doubts she’s even thought of that day since meeting Vision, even now she can’t quite place when it happened, whether Pietro still had brown hair or if they were even alone by then.

A muted amusement drags the corners of her mouth up as she realizes how the roles are reversed and it feels strange, but she does her best to channel Pietro, lifting onto her toes just enough so she can playfully nudge Vision with her shoulder. “The first rain each spring,” Wanda explains, “we always embraced. No coats, no shoes, the streets would be filled with people. Winter was so damn long, we were happy to see it leave.”  

Vision weighs her words, the rhythmic tap of his fingers kneading his thoughts into a question. “You did not wish to continue the tradition?”

“It never felt right, without him.”

Vision nods in understanding. “So, how, precisely, do we embrace the rain?”

“Come on.” Wanda pulls him down the ramp, guiding him until they’re in the center of the opening, an ideal spot with no leaves or branches obstructing the flow of the rain.

He sways next to her, transferring his weight to the left and then the right. “This is an odd feeling.” A quick glance down confirms he’s shifted out of his loafers, the sight of his bare toes and the experimental rise and fall of his vibranium heel against the soaked soil is surreal and oddly adorable. “The soil is almost oversaturated,” the wave of his bright toes in the black soil is almost as mesmerizing as the barely contained awe in his voice, “it will start pooling soon.”

“Good,” she moves around him until she’s facing him, voice distracting him from studying the water forming around his feet, “we need puddles. Now,” it’s hard not to laugh when he begins blinking rapidly at the barrage of water attacking his eyes, a joyously ridiculous fight occurring in the muscles of his face to remain stoic in the face of discomfort, but when she finally laughs, the tight line of his mouth breaks, concern washing away at her delight. “Okay, now let’s just,” she reaches out and lifts his right arm up, encouraging him to hold it out to the side before she moves to the left, repeating the motion. “There, so close your eyes,” a millisecond pause and then he complies, “good. Tilt your head up.” This time there is a much longer pause as he considers the request, heels shifting in the soil before he let’s his shoulders drop and lifts his face to the sky, gasping at the onslaught against his cheeks.

Wanda stares at him, the rivulets racing down his forehead, parting over the Mindstone and following the textured lines of his cheek and the curve of his lips, dripping off his chin to soak into his increasingly darker gray sweater. It’s enthralling, so much so that she finds she briefly forgets to mourn, to be angry, but Pietro, always the hothead, was never angry in the rain, even after the mortar, even after each time they were shooed out of their latest makeshift home, or when he was thrown in a holding cell overnight for stealing food, or when they fought and screamed about whether to sign up for Strucker’s experiments. No, the rain brought him joy. So she closes her eyes, plants her feet firmly in the soil and relishes the way the ground sinks beneath her, the soil pushing up through her toes and the grass tickling her ankles. Slowly she spreads her arms out, reaching until the tips of her fingers brush against Vision’s hand, and tilts her face up, cheeks stinging from the angry, satisfying patter of rain.

Sokovia is not the same, a fact Wanda finds more difficult to cope with each year. There have been efforts to rebuild, stone structures rising from the leveled ground in small pockets of civilizations, but for the most part people moved, dispersed to new towns, most sought asylum in Slovakia and the Czech Republic, but some returned. The streets that have been repaved are far nicer than they were before the attack, but the money and aid only went for areas with sizeable populations, and as they wander deeper into what would have been her childhood home, the pavement gives way to dirt speckled with patches of grass pushing up through the melting snowbanks.  It is the first time she’s entered the city since it and Pietro fell.  

“Down there,” Wanda, now wearing her spare uniform as her dress is still hanging from the ceiling of the quinjet to dry, points her quarter-eaten pirozhki to the left, “would have been an alleyway. Pietro and I used to sleep there on warm nights, it’s,” for some reason she finds herself blushing at the next memory, uncertain if it’s something she should share or not.

“Yes?”

“It’s where I had my first kiss,” the pirozhki falls to her side as she realizes the way her comment sounded, “not with Pietro,” she shudders, “I think his name was Ales, we were fifteen.”

Vision stands at her side, peering in interest at the non-existent alleyway though the tilt of his head implies he’s attempting to recreate the scene. “So a happy memory?”

It was in the middle of the day when it happened, Pietro was supposed to be out finding food for them, and Wanda remembers the giddiness of sneaking away to kiss a boy. “Embarrassing more so than happy.” In addition to being hot-headed and cocky, Pietro, was also fairly protective, though looking back it shouldn’t have been a shocking revelation given the way he’d cling to her hand and pull her behind him at any threat even before their parents died. “Pietro somehow knew I was plotting and followed us.  Ended up punching the poor guy, broke his nose. You know, I never saw him again.”

They stare at the flat, empty earth for a few more seconds before continuing on, feet falling in sync as she leads him towards the edge of the forest. “Pietro did,” Vision mulls over his words, fingers lifting into the air with a wave, plucking the syllables from his thoughts, “not approve of Ales?”

“Oh,” Wanda brings a hand to her full mouth as she laughs, taking a moment to swallow the delicious mixture of seasoned meat and potatoes before finishing, “Pietro didn’t approve of anyone.”

A fretful, serious frown descends on Vision lips, eyes following suit with elongated, thoughtful twists of the gears in his irises. “Would he have approved of me?”

Only after she sees the crestfallen slouch of his shoulders does she realize her exaggerated “Ha! Not at all!” might not have been the best response to the question. “Vizh.” Wanda takes three hurried steps ahead of him, stopping her body directly in his path, bringing her free hand up to his chest to hinder his sad progression. “Pietro didn’t think anyone was good enough, but,” hand still firmly on his chest, Wanda leans in, face angled up just enough that she can catch the still perturbed glint in his eyes, “he would have come around eventually.”  

“That is only a supposition, there is no way to accurately reach that conclusion.”  

“No,” she admits with a shrug and a smile, “but I rarely lost an argument with him, so long as I fought passionately enough. And for you,” her hand travels to the back of his neck, tugging his face lower, kissing him gently, “I would have fought valiantly.”

The sun is setting by the time they arrive at the small stone half-buried at the base of a gnarled cottonwood. Wanda squeezes Vision’s hand one more time before she drops it. “Did I ever tell you why I chose this one?”

“No.”

After Sokovia fell the team had inquired, politely and timidly, where she wished for Pietro to be buried. Thor had kindly offered a traditional Asgardian burial which would have involved building a pyre on a raft and lighting it on fire in the middle of a lake. Pietro, no doubt, would have loved such a flashy ceremony, but Wanda insisted on something simple, something meaningful. What, looking back, should have been a big, flashing, neon sign of her future was the fact that it was Vision who trudged with her for an entire day, up and down the mountains, exchanging maybe ten words in honor of her wish for silence, never questioning her when she would shake her head and say they had to keep looking. Eventually they came upon this tree, alone in a small valley with an even smaller stream licking at its roots.  When she had stopped and turned to Vision, still so new that he insisted on being in uniform, cape waving majestically regardless of if there was wind, all she had to do was nod and he quietly did all of the work burying the urn and laying the stone.  

“Pietro loved snow,” the tree stands just as it did the day they buried him, diamond-shaped leaves a brilliant green in amongst the white fluff surrounding the seeds, “in the summer, when the seeds fell he always said it reminded him of snow.  They are very rare here so I didn't think we'd find one.”

Vision nods and steps aside, always insisting on keeping a respectful distance, standing silent and watchful as she approaches the stone. Wanda smiles as she crouches down, sliding somewhat gracefully onto her knees as she places the flowers they collected earlier in the day with a meek “Hi.” There are words she should probably say, usually she informs him about her life, about the team, about Vision, but today she kneels in silence, a soft scarlet glow surrounding her as her powers search in desperation for the flighty, erratically paced sprint of his mind. But, as with every year, there is nothing but the achingly still embrace of nothingness and the tears fall unhindered down her cheek as she whispers, “I hate being older than you."

On the flight back Vision sets the autopilot and wraps his arms around Wanda, cradling her in his lap and pressing reassuring, sorrowful kisses to her temple as she cries.

That night the compound is silent, though Vision finds his thoughts deafening as he stands in the middle of the common room staring at the wall near the kitchen, cataloguing each word, each action, each memory Wanda shared with him. Every year he strives to understand grief a bit more, has found it a curious and beguiling process. Technically he has lost someone, though he’s fairly certain the unfortunate provision of destroying Ultron is nowhere near equivalent to what his teammates have experienced. Ultron was not a wingman, not a friend, not a partner, not a brother nor a twin, and definitely not a lover. Which means grief is yet one more area where he grasps desperately at humanity.

Today was the first time Wanda truly brought him into her grief, beyond allowing him to hold her and trail his fingers through her hair. Today she shared her memories, shared the process by which even the most innocuous stimuli can invoke remembrance. The pathway of her thoughts illuminated for him the utility of grief-based recollection. Which implies memories are a cornerstone of grief, a powerful vessel both for coping and for pain. Wanda has often facetiously challenged his assertions about memory, quick to tell him he is being far too detached when he discusses the fallible process of recalling information. But it is scientific fact, stimuli that are perceived and encoded rarely, if ever, remain the same, morphing and twisting with each recall and retelling. Vast amounts of compelling research has explicitly shown that most memories are false in some way, but, Wanda always rolls her eyes with a heart-stoppingly beautiful smirk on her lips, accuracy is not the most important aspect, at least to her. No, where he focuses on details, she strives to recall the emotions, claiming that no amount of inaccuracies can diminish the ripples of joy or sadness or fear or sorrow or nervousness that disturb the pool of remembrance when the pebble of recollection skips across the surface.

Vision blinks his eyes three times, the haze of detached analysis clearing as the room around him comes into crystal clear focus.  “Friday?”

“Yes, Vision?”

“Would you please turn on the lights?”

“Of course.”

The flicker of the industrial bulbs sparking to life bathe the room around him in an eery mixture of shadows and brilliant white.  Once the bulbs reach their full luminescence he moves until he is standing in the dining area, lips set in determined concentration as he prepares for the mental exercise he wishes to attempt given he has ample downtime, having been benched from the current mission (someone always has to watch the compound anytime it is not a cataclysmic, world-ending event).

He begins with a straightforward example.  

Astutely he surveys the leftover decorations from his birthday party, everyone far too intoxicated (or otherwise occupied, in his and Wanda’s instance) to clean up the mess the night before and now conveniently absent on a mission. Carefully he hovers to the table, finger running along the edge of a streamer and he closes his eyes as he visualizes the memory.  

Sam is standing on the table, party hat askew and voice loud, as he leads the others in yet another round of Happy Birthday. Steve, much like himself in similar situations, mouths along with the lyrics, sharing a commiserating stare of someone else who can’t enjoy the revelry of alcohol, while Natasha and Rhodes link arms and harmonize. Wanda, there is a jolt of adrenaline passing through his neurons simply at the thought of her name, is curled into his side, one arm wrapped around his waist, head on his shoulder, and her other hand raising a cup in celebration. If he focuses just a bit more he can feel the comforting squeeze of her arm, the wispy brush of her hair against his bicep, but mostly he feels joy, a slight bit of embarrassment at the continued attention, but mainly an overwhelming and profound exuberance at her presence.  

Vision is so focused on pinpointing the emotions that he suddenly realizes he does not remember the color of the cups, eyelids parting slightly to discover they are blue, not red like he assumed. “Fascinating.” This slight inaccuracy doesn’t temper the warmth residing in his chest, which suggests, perhaps, that emotions might be more powerful than details. Though this claim requires further experimental proof.

Slowly he moves from the table, wandering into the kitchen, hands acting of their own volition as he grabs the teapot, halting only when he hears the water echoing in the ceramic chamber. It seems his muscles remember Wanda even when his mind is not actively doing so, a morsel of information he shoves away to consider later, turning to return the teapot to the counter. He stops to stare at a splatter of caramel on the backsplash. He had distracted Wanda while she was making the caramel for his cake (well, the team’s cake given he blew out the candles and only tasted some of the frosting because it was on Wanda’s lips). The subtle salty taste of her skin teases his mouth as he recalls bending to trail his lips along her shoulder where her sweatshirt had slid down, his name falling as a surprised and delighted whisper from her lips. The caramel bubbled too high or maybe it was that she flung her hand in surprise, but the satisfied victory at distracting her tugs his mouth into a grin.  

Now that he is allowing his mind the freedom to remember at its whim and discretion, the process begins to overwhelm him, jittery palpitations developing in his chest as he has to determine if he allows the dozens of simultaneous memories playing back to continue or if he clamps it down. But this is for scientific inquiry and so he gives in to every stimulus that provokes his mind.

As his eyes roam around the kitchen he can remember Wanda sitting at the counter pointing a fork at him as she explained the lastest compound gossip. Wanda groaning in exhaustion as she grabbed a water bottle after training. Wanda laughing while stirring the sauce he allowed to boil over. Wanda leaning her back against the counter as she conversed seriously with Natasha. Wanda giggling as they danced around the island, eyes closing in euphoria when he dipped her. Wanda showing him how to prep thyme and the admittance of love that reverberated so deeply in his own mind he was certain the earth shook beneath him. Wanda drunkenly beckoning him towards her, a coquettish smile parting her lips.  

Vision grips the table, eyes blinking rapidly as he stops the flow of images, concerned that if he does not it will render his mind inert with the overflow of information. With a steady rhythm to his breathing serving as a recentering mantra, Vision clears his mind. Once all memories are chased away he cautiously cracks his eyelids. Perhaps he was overzealous in the parameters of the mental exercise, overlooking the importance in setting boundaries, such as only accessing one memory at a time.

With a resolute nod he walks from the kitchen, but makes it as far as the couch before he finds his mind latching onto every little detail in the room. From the middle cushion on the couch where Wanda usually sits cross-legged with her hair cascading down her shoulders, to the book lying on the table that she tossed unceremoniously when he returned from his last mission, to the third window pane from the left where he first had the courage to stammeringly inquire as to their relationship status. Vision has to force his feet to walk a straight line, his muscles yearning to walk an ovoid path as his every thought revolves around her.  

Perhaps a less visited room would be best.

As he moves through the walls (even this action brings to mind the numerous instances he forgot to knock and the countless pillows thrown at his face, her clear annoyance mingling with a vivacious amusement that always seemed to stop his heart), Vision finds himself growing more concerned at his inability to control his mind and at the unmistakable and strong yearning wrapping tighter and tighter around his chest. Finally he reaches a random hallway on the fourth floor, far from the common space and living quarters. He doesn’t believe he and Wanda have ever traversed this hallway together.  

Vision soaks in the peaceful silence of the respite before a sound permeates his auditory receptors, a gentle pitter patter on the window, tiny droplets manifesting on the glass and suddenly he is back in the rain, her fingers intertwined with his own and the impish smile on her face when she jumped into the puddle at his side, soaking him head to foot. The burst of surprise and adoration, the simmering desire at her laugh, the worry at her tears, and the ever-present love that burns within him for this woman overtakes his mind once more.

Vision finds that he misses her immensely.

This is curious, not missing her, per se, but the severity with which he longs for her to return. It is irrational, she has been gone for three hours, at most. But perhaps this yearning, this need is what he has failed to include in the calculations of grief, and, later he is never able to determine if the next action is ideal, he decides to experiment one step further. Wanda will be the first to point out his lack of imagination, in general, but his mind thoroughly enjoys hypotheticals and so he concocts a hypothetical in which Wanda does not return from the mission.

Suddenly the weight of this knowledge pulls on his chest, a heaving, ragged development in his breathing that leads him to lean against the window, the swift increase in cortisol bathing his brain and racing from synapse to synapse, kickstarting his heart into a rapid beating. Because if Wanda does not return it means he will never see her smile again, or hear her laugh, or cause her to roll her eyes, or feel her in his arms, or revel in the breathy, delightful way she says his name when he’s surprised her. The rain behind him is no longer pleasant, but each drop burns like acid in his mind, the memory of her drenched hair and the pink of her skin when she peeled off the wet dress losing all joy as it dissolves with the incessant rain.

It has only been ten hypothetical seconds of his life without Wanda and he can barely cope.

Vision swallows back tears as he leaves the window, phasing two floors down and five rooms over until he is outside their door. If his calculations are up-to-date he has walked through this doorway exactly 6,543 times since knowing Wanda. Which means his mind is racing through thousands of instances where he’s encountered her, brought her tea, knocked sheepishly at her door, phased through, been pushed through it with her lips on his mouth, and each one of those actions will never happen again if she does not return. What is far more harrowing, his knees beginning to give out as he sits on the ground, the cool metal of the wall against his scalp a tenuous tether to reality, is that he is certain there is not a single location in the world that would not bring about some memory of her. And suddenly he understands why Wanda spent weeks under her covers in a dark, quiet room after Sokovia.  

Vision’s fingers are moving before he consciously realizes what he is doing, a sharp, static buzz with each unanswered ring, his breath lying dormant in his chest as he waits.

“Vizh?” The reception is not great, a grainy, flickering image that requires him to adjust his visual processors. He believes he sees Rhodes suiting up behind her. He thinks he can make out through the fuzzy interference the stern and curious raised eyebrow on Natasha’s face as she walks close behind Wanda’s back and makes eye contact with him through the phone. But none of that matters because Wanda’s eyes are concerned and her lips are quirked up just a bit to the right, her hair falling in lazy waves down her shoulders. “You okay?”

Finally his lungs remember that it is normal to breathe and a loud, relieved gust of air storms past his lips as he nods. “Yes, I,” Vision pauses, uncertain if mentioning his hypothetical is conducive to the short communication they can have right now, “wished to follow up, make sure you were mentally prepared for the mission.”

Her eyelids narrow as she studies him with increased suspicion, “Yeah, I’m actually doing pretty well.”

“Good.”

“Vision,” the questioning tone of her voice is cut off at the command from Steve to hang up and wait until after the mission. “I have to go, Vizh. Thanks again for everything today, love you.”

A very deliberately calm, “I love you too,” ends the call, hiding the confused thumping of his heart at whether he is elated at speaking with her or if he is terrified of something happening.  

Slowly Vision stands, phasing through the door, steeling his mind against the certain onslaught of memories as he approaches the picture frames Wanda keeps on the desk. Three are of them, together, one from the Charity Ball, one from the training session where she first defeated him (her smile is radiant as he stares up proudly at her from where he is pinned on the floor), and one they took together at a park on a sunny day off. The other frames contain the tattered and faded images of the ghosts of her past.  Vision carefully lifts the chipped gold frame that holds a singed picture of her family.

All he has experienced today is a hypothetical, a brief affair where he pretended to lose Wanda and he can still feel the cortisol racing through his body, the tears still threatening to fall if he so much as dares let his control slip. Yet Wanda has lived through such a loss far too many times, has grieved and remained resilient. They do not speak of the future often, no more than we should do that or wouldn’t it be fun to go on vacation next year, partially (or perhaps fully, he has never been brave enough to ask) because Wanda does not wish to plan too far in advance in case tragedy happens again. But just because they do not talk about it does not mean he does not cogitate over every potential future they might have late at night, trying on futures much like hats, seeing which one fits and accentuates their relationship, and which ones are patently ridiculous.

Every hypothetical future ends relatively the same, yet even he refuses to go much further than a couple decades out because they have also failed to acknowledge the scientific certainty of his lifespan. There is no certain end for this life, no chance for wrinkled skin or deteriorating health.  Usually it is cause for alarm, for the cessation of his daydreaming, but in this moment, Vision finds himself smiling. If there is one shining conclusion from outliving Wanda it is that he will not leave her, that she can live the duration of her life with him at her side and never mourn his passing, never have to bury herself in blankets for weeks or walk through the world constantly reminded of the pang of his absence. This he resolutely, and possibly foolishly, promises. He will will never force her to grieve him.

Vision stops at the thought, an implication insinuated in his conclusion that surprises him and yet feels so achingly right. Mentally he checks the time, calculating the time zone difference, and, going against every protocol outlined in the two hundred page Avenger manual, leaves the compound.

It is barely dawn when he arrives, the crisp night air enhancing the shimmer of the stars above him, the low hanging gibbous moon allowing just enough light for him find his way. Vision brightens the Mindstone, casting leafy shadows on the stone at his shuffling feet. He has never accompanied Wanda when she speaks to Pietro, always remains the correct distance to hear muffled cadences but no distinct words, yet still be close enough to offer support at the first sob. Which means he has no idea what to do, so he stands awkwardly, fingers folding one at a time into each other until his hands are clasped.

“Um, hello.” The stone remains silent, unsurprisingly. Vision soldiers awkwardly on, hands parting to wave in emphasis of his words. “You are no doubt aware of the existence of the relationship between Wanda and myself,” he thinks, well assumes Wanda has spoken of him. “I,” Vision pauses again, unsure the correct path forward or if he should even continue, the afterlife a notion he has little regard for, yet he knows that there is a rightness in his actions that he cannot quantify or explain. “I love Wanda, profusely.”  

The first statement is out and Vision pauses, waiting in absurd silence for some reaction. “For the first time today I experienced what life might be like without her,” he thinks back to the compound, to the moment he allowed himself time to reflect on the possibilities, to the immediate reaction he felt both bodily and mentally, the way the thought formed a black hole, spiraling as it drained every ounce of warmth from his life. “Though it was for just a moment, the world around me felt barren, lifeless, joyless, an experience I do not wish to replicate.” 

Vision stares at the stone, notes the tangerine streaks of sunlight filling the crevices of the engraving of Pietro’s name, and brings himself to his conclusion. “I wish to marry Wanda, and I did not want to proceed without your approval.”

A quiet, whispering wind brushes against his face, the shadows from the leaves quivering overhead.  Vision sighs once more, for some reason he had expected something more. With a final nod he begins to turn, stopping as faint, gossamer bundles of white float down around him. A quick glance up confirms the seeds from the cottonwood are stirring in the wind and Vision smiles, “It is reminiscent of snow.” He opens his fingers, palms facing the sky as the tiny blobs land on his hand. “I shall take this as approval?” One small tuft of fluff floats in front of him and he accidentally breathes it in, coughing politely to remove it from his throat. “And a threat. I swear that I will not harm her.”  

Vision stands in the breeze for several minutes, wonderment spreading through his mind at the beauty of the summer snowfall around him. Then he returns to the ship, mind focused and clear, prepared to finally plan a future with Wanda.

Translations: 

*slut **Why can’t I wear shoes? 

Vision’s experience/talk at the end partially inspired by his actual proposal: 

Hope you enjoyed! 

[brandrainbow]

New Year, New Tax Law Blog

2017 looks to hold the promise of being an exciting year.

“This is too difficult for a mathematician. It takes a philosopher.”

 – Albert Einstein, on filing tax returns.

Would like to introduce our new tax + entertainment law blog BRANDRAINBOW.

Why BRANDRAINBOW?

Because while we have advanced tax law training, professional life has been about building brands, whether for individuals, companies, professionals, artists, authors or tennis racquets. It does not make sense to leave the brand-building in the dust, why would we?  Every day we see more proof of the value of a brand, the importance of brand management, and the ways lawyers can help. Yes, we just said those three words in a sentence, "lawyers can help." The legal profession is a helping profession. Our mentors and professors taught us and are continuing to teach us that.Trademark lawyers can help. Copyright lawyers can help.  And tax lawyers, who have a background as copyright and trademark lawyers, well we can help a lot.  It turns out international tax law might be the most exciting field in the world.  And if we have a background in copyright and trademark and can see the intricacies in international taxation of intangibles....well more on that later.And why "RAINBOW"? First, rainbows are beautiful.

We see them a lot now and are grateful for the rainbows, hard to believe there is anything so beautiful not made of chocolate. And because beauty comes from sunshine and rain, which is, it would seem, somewhat of a metaphor for life.

And, if we want to get technical about it, which we sometimes will because this is a tax law blog after all, according to Wikipedia, the source for all things, "a  rainbow is a meteorological phenomenon that is caused by reflection, refraction and dispersion of light in water droplets resulting in a spectrum of light appearing in the sky. It takes the form of a multicoloured arc. Rainbows caused by sunlight always appear in the section of sky directly opposite the sun.Rainbows can be full circles; however, the average observer sees only an arc formed by illuminated droplets above the ground,[1] and centred on a line from the sun to the observer's eye."

Spectrum, arc, full circle. Yes,  in our adventures through the Internal Revenue Code, the entertainment business, and all things in between we will see an arc, and a spectrum, we will have reflection, and we will attempt to illuminate so we can begin to see more than the "average observer" may view when looking at multiple volumes of thin paper with tiny little words and numbers and Variety Magazine.  A lot of smart people spend a lot of time trying to make the wheels of the IRC move together.  And a lot of us spend a lot of time learning how beautiful tax law can be. I have had some professors and mentors who have shared their passion for tax law and public service with me and to all of you, you know who you are, I hope in this blog I will show you it rubbed off, and hopefully will inspire future tax lawyers as well.

We will explore foundational aspects of tax law as well as ways in which tax law intersects virtually every area of law and business.

Stay tuned. Looking forward to traveling this journey with you.

Disclaimer: this blog has been prepared for informational purposes only and does not constitute legal advice. The information is not provided in the course of an attorney-client relationship and is not intended to substitute for legal advice from an attorney licensed in your jurisdiction. Furthermore, Cathy Mitchell requests that you do not send confidential information or requests for legal advice via email or posts. We will delete all communications of this nature.

The information contained in this blog is provided only as general information, which may or may not reflect the most current legal developments. This blog occasionally contains links to other web pages and blogs. The inclusion of such links, however, does not constitute referrals or endorsements of the linked entities. Cathy Mitchell specifically disclaims any responsibility for positions taken by users in their individual capacities or for any misunderstanding on the part of users of this website or any linked websites.

The hiring of a lawyer is an important decision that should not be based solely upon advertisements. Before you decide, ask us to send you free, written information about our qualifications and experience.

visit our website www.worldbusinesscounsel.com

send us a tweet @INTLTAXLAWGIRL

[islandofkiwi-blog]

Time’s Mirror Episode 1 - A Web Series by Steven Embers

Prologue

 Someone once told me that remembering your past betrays your present. He didn’t tell me what he meant, but instead advised me to go home and think about it, which I think is a bit like saying “go talk with yourself about whether or not I actually said something profound, while I wait here and take no responsibility for my words.” I did as I was told, though, and I ended up coming to a conclusion that he was talking about how our memory is often an incomplete representation of any given situation.

           Like when the future you remembers the present you he will inevitably forget some of the little intricacies that went into creating that memory preserved in your shared brain. Maybe he’ll forget how cool your hair looked that day, or how you had a bad habit of chewing your nails when you listen to people talk, or (heaven help him) how much that one, trashy, rock chorus influenced you, and in doing so he will unintentionally marginalize the thought of you almost as if he was a stranger observing a story less important than his own.

           When I was done thinking about that, however, I started to wonder if the true meaning behind my irresponsible philosopher’s words was that remembering your past betrays you because during that time you stop living in the present and you become a shadow of the person you were in the past; never changing, never growing.

           But in the end, I resolved that the saying was just fancy wordplay, as most sayings are, and I thought that whatever profundity this particular cadence of words represented was probably not worth the internal distress I was having, so I chose to forget about the matter entirely.

           I never had the chance to ask my mentor what he meant by those words, and he’s gone now so I suppose I will never know, but now I am thinking about my past and his words have resurfaced in my mind like long lost counsel waiting for the appropriate moment to reveal its true nature.

           I think the place that I am in right now is something that I will take with me until I die and I desperately want to not misremember even the smallest detail. Yet I feel so close to my experience right now, too close to write about it, because I would rather continue living it. So I’m reflecting and typing and shivering because it’s really cold, and I’ve finally decided that trying to remember the past is not a sin or any other cautionary stigma I created for myself while pondering that old advice, and I should at least try to record the unbelievable journey I’ve taken.

           I guess I should start with an introduction.

           My name is Bailey Prince. It’s a girl’s name. I was teased for it because I’m a boy and in all the sixteen years of my life I can’t say I’ve ever been comfortable with using my name as a first impression because of an intense reflex of fear of being mocked.

           For the few sadistic people, and sometimes for the innocently curious ones who ask me where my name came from, I tell them it came from my father. My mother only wanted one child and my father had always wanted a daughter whose name he dreamt was Bailey. God let one and a half of their two wishes come true, but everyone knows that having half a wish come true is like finding a magic lamp but figuring out that the genie you summon only speaks Arabic and has to use a dictionary to translate what you’re wishing for.

           I suppose I can remove any wary doubt by saying that this is not a story about bad names; it just happens to be a circumstance of my existence. But if I were to provide any commentary about the topic to any expectant parents who want to name their kid Seafoam Green it’d have to simply be: don’t.

           My name doesn’t really bother me anymore, but I think that’s also a result of this journey, because before all this started I was concerned that maybe my name would be my only gimmick. I thought that maybe I wouldn’t get to be any more interesting than a cross-gendered name, because there’s a limit to how interesting people can be. Like when you introduce yourself to someone, you should be able to summarize all the interesting points of your life in the first fifteen minutes, and when I introduce myself to people we spend the first five minutes discussing my weird name. I thought that maybe if I was born a David or an Andrew I could put my interesting minutes to work by slaying dragons or saving princesses.

           When I was a kid I loved adventure stories: the mighty swords and steeds; the fair maiden turned damsel in distress; the unexpected hero and his crucial battle for justice against evildoers. That’s all I really wanted for myself – well, that and a dog, but I didn’t get the dog either – but I didn’t think that it was something that my tiny town in Colorado, wedged in the shadow of the Rocky Mountains, could provide me.

           And then it was. Not the dog part, I never got that. But one auspicious day, a winter wind swept through town and it brought with it the most mystifying girl and her insanely smart father and together they changed my entire life. This is my story, my memoir, and it will help me remember every pounding heartbeat; every sinking feeling that I was “going to die;” every tear I’ve shed and all the blood I’ve seen; every wonderful, mind-blowing kiss; and, yes, even the boring parts which I’m trying to make not so boring by writing this.

           These are my fifteen interesting minutes, and I feel them ticking towards eternity the longer I spend with her.

           But we’ll get to my mystery girl in a moment, for now I want to go back to the beginning.

           I guess it all starts with…

  Chapter 1

 It was ten minutes until the New Year at Eva Daniels’ house. A couple dozen of my high school classmates were packed haphazardly into the living room while the television played live coverage from Times Square of a scantily clad popstar’s dance routine of radio’s favorite pop song. The singer looked angelic as a flurry of real snow began to fall on the stage, and she played it off as if the weather was planned into the routine. I was sitting towards the back of the room with my friend Mark Daly, but I could still see the screen over the heads in the crowded room since it was fixed at the top of the wall – sometimes forcing my eyes to see the screen to distract myself when something made me feel uncomfortable.

           The night had started okay. It was the third time I’d been invited to Eva’s annual party, but this time had been a little different. While before I had been invited because we were friends going back to elementary school, this year Eva was without a boyfriend, and she made it clear that she wanted me to be her backup kiss at midnight. I had no problem with that, of course, but I also knew that probably nothing could come out of it since we had grown too different over the years so I was basically still there as her old friend.

           Mark had found me early in the night and he clung to me like plastic wrap for the entire party, unmovable even when I’d gotten tired of being smothered and tried any subtle way I could to get him to let me breathe.

           “Yo, Mark,” I said at ten thirty, seeing his girlfriend glancing in our direction for no more than a second. “Jen is staring at you, man. You better get your black ass over there.”

           “Nah, B,” he replied in his lullaby chocolate voice, completely unfazed. “You gotta make ‘em wait for you.”

           “Hey, Mark,” I said at eleven, thinking I finally had the key to my human-shaped handcuffs. “Eva said she might want to kiss me at midnight. You mind if I go see what’s up?

           “Man, B,” he responded, rejecting my metaphorical key. “There’s no way Eva wants to kiss a fool like you. Get outta with that noise.”

           It’s not like I hated Mark; he was one of my best friends since we were kids. But I could sense something was weird about him that night and I would rather talk with him somewhere more private.

           “Mark, I’m gonna go to the bathroom,” I said at eleven thirty, even though I didn’t have to go to the bathroom.

           “All right, B.”

           For a second, I thought I was free, but I made it about three feet away before the sound of his voice stopped me again.

“Hey, can I tell you something?”

           I looked at him.

           “You’re a good friend,” he said, grinning with his teeth.

           I sighed and stepped back towards him. “Okay, what is up with you tonight?”

           “What?” he asked innocently. “I can’t tell a brother he’s a good friend?”

           I considered myself intuitive or observant at least, and I knew Mark well enough to see that something was bothering him. I actually saw it on his face as soon as he came up to me for the first time that night, but I didn’t want to say anything.

           “No, you don’t get to call me a good friend. Not if you’re not going to let me be one. What’s up with you tonight? You haven’t talked to anyone else here.”

           I sat back down on the barstool at the back of the room, and I listened to Sara Baker and Tess Newman talk about prom while I waited for Mark.

           “Same old Bailey,” he said, taking a seat on the stool next to me. “Never could let anything go.”

           I said nothing and let my attention shift towards the live feed from Times Square. They were announcing the popstar’s performance, “right after these words from our sponsors,” meaning “in fifteen minutes.”

           “My brother died two days ago.” Mark finally said flatly. There was no anger or sadness in his voice despite the bad news.

“What the hell,” I whispered, too shocked to say anything meaningful.

Mark told his story like he wasn’t part of it. Like he was trying to be as disconnected as possible from the experience, but I could tell he was hurting.

“He was driving home from work on the interstate and it was kind of icy. The car in front of him went into a skid. Bobby hit the brakes but it wasn’t enough. Bobby runs into the other guy’s bumper and the car behind him was tailgating so his headlights are in Bobby’s trunk a second later. Police were there in ten minutes but he was DOA. Bobby    was the only one dead. They said he would probably have survived the first impact.”

“What the hell,” I repeated.

“I didn’t want to bring you down. Sorry.”

Everything started to fade away. The sounds of the party dimmed and all that was left was the tragic news and the welling pain in my stomach. Bobby was my friend, even though he was seven years older than me he was my friend. Now he was gone. Mark was my friend, and I hurt for him and his family.

“What the hell are you doing here? You should be with your family.”

He shrugged. “Man, you’re my family, too. My dad said that we all needed to spend some time being alive before we can know what it’s like to be dead. Being here is good. Being with you, B…” He stuck out his fist and I bumped mine into his. “It’s good.”

I looked at him. He seemed to be handling it.

“What do you need me to do?”

“You, Bailey?” He shook his head. “Man, you don’t need to do anything. Just listen to this. You remember that time…”

He recounted the story. I looked at the TV a couple times. I watched the faces in New York. I saw people from every corner of the world gathering to see the spectacle. I began to cry. I cried passive tears without trembling, fighting a public breakdown so I wouldn’t ruin the cheerful mood of the party but still letting myself feel pain. He patted me on the shoulder and it was like he became the outsider attending to my tragedy.

“Damn, B. This a’int nothing to cry over.”

“What the hell do you want me to do?” I said with tears stuffing my nose.

“I already told you. You don’t need to do anything. I’m letting you know this is a new me. The only thing I can wrap my mind around these past few days is that the life you have is so tiny. It changes like that.” He snapped his fingers as he said the word. “In a hot second it’s gone for reasons you can’t even control. Man, you don’t need to cry for me or for Bobby. All I need is for you to laugh with me, because I already decided that I’m not gonna waste any more time on stupid shit. I wanna say what I mean, and do what I wanna do.”

On the television, the singer had finished her routine and out of the corner of my eye I saw Eva Daniels approaching us. I rubbed away the tears under my eyes. It looked like Mark was going to make a finishing statement to his grand speech, but Eva interrupted him.

“Hey, boys.” She spoke in a cheerful, girlish tone. “Glad to see you made it.” Technically, it was the first time she had spoken to me at the party, not counting the subtle wink she had given me at the door.    

“Thanks for having us, Eva,” Mark said calmly. “I almost canceled, but I knew all the cool kids would be here and I didn’t want to lose my membership.”

She giggled. “Well I’m glad you’re here. Can I see Bailey for a second?”

Mark raised his eyebrows in a way that I knew meant he was up to something. “Can I just say you are looking damn fine in that dress, Eva. Is it true that you want to kiss my man Bailey here?”

She looked at me again and I looked back at the TV. The one-minute countdown to midnight had appeared in the bottom of the screen and most of the people in the room were gathering to watch.

Eva shrugged and said “I don’t think that’s any of your business, but I would like to speak with him. Privately.”

“Ah.” Mark made a show of nodding as the clock ticked down. “Okay. I understand, but we’re having a discussion right now and it would be terrible if you filled his mind with girly things while I’m trying to impart some of my wisdom.”

           “Excuse me?” Eva said, looking almost panicked. The ten-second countdown had started and everyone in the room began chanting in unison. Ten. Nine.

           “You heard me, woman.” Mark said casually. Eight.

           “Bailey,” Eva addressed me. Seven.

           I started to stand, but Mark put his hand on my shoulder. Six. Five.

           Eva took my hand in hers, it was soft and small and a little sweaty. Four.

           Mark kept his hand on my shoulder as he got out of his chair and walked around to stand in front of me. It went silent for half a heartbeat as I looked from Mark to Eva and then back again. I wasn’t exactly sure what was about to happen. Three. Two.

“I LOVE BAILEY PRINCE!” Mark announced at the top of his lungs. One.

Midnight, the new year, Mark kissed me right on the lips. He grabbed me forcefully on either side of my face and squeezed my cheeks together so that my lips puckered naturally and he pressed his face into mine. His lips were chapped and rough and smaller than I expected and the stubble on his upper lip rubbed against me and felt strange. My eyes were open and I snuck a glance at Eva during the second Mark was kissing me. Her hand was still on mine but her grip loosened and her eyes got real wide so I could see a bit of shock in her sky blue irises. Mark held his face against mine for longer than I expected and I pushed him away when I thought he was about to stick his tongue in my mouth.

Eva didn’t kiss me after that. She sarcastically wished me “good luck,” and walked away quietly. Some of the other people at the party, attracted by Mark’s loud declaration watched the whole thing and the rumor spread over the rest of winter break that Mark and I were about to be the next hot couple in town. Of course that wasn’t true, but it made for a better story.

Meanwhile, I found myself thinking constantly about how Mark had boldly claimed that he was going to be a new person. Even so close to his brother’s death, he was able to laugh and be spontaneous and not care at all what people thought. The kiss represented something more to him. It showed his determination to experience new things and live freely. He shared that motivation with me and transferred something to me that night, some virus that infected my mind and made every part of me aware of how boring my life was. His actions made me want something more: adventure or purpose or love, something I couldn’t place my finger on but that I felt was missing like a giant, gaping hole in my chest.

As winter trudged along and Bobby’s funeral came and went, I felt more and more frustrated that I couldn’t figure out a way to break out of my sense of inadequacy. I was bored, and half a month later I was still struggling with my boredom.

 I opened my locker door on the first day of school of the new year and stared at the worn out bindings of the textbooks I hadn’t seen since last semester. Outside the clouds were grey and there was supposed to be a snowstorm coming, but school continued to be in session despite the predicted bad weather. Returning to my day job made me somehow more frustrated than I had been during the break. Everything was exactly as I left it, though I didn’t know what I expected to find changed.

           I started picking at the paint on the inside of my locker, letting my mind wander absently. I held the door with my other arm and swung my body back and forth with the creaking hinge, the repetitive motion slowly rocking my thoughts away.

           I was beginning to fall asleep on my feet, when I heard a loud slam on the wall behind me that startled me.

           "Well? You gonna give it?” A rough voice echoed off the wall, disturbing peaceful morning. “Or do I have to get The Jock here to shake it out of your backpack for you?"

           I turned to see Dylan Clifford, a five foot ten punk that fancied himself a bad boy, standing over a tiny, Indian kid. The bully acted like the over exaggerated representation of an Italian mob boss from a 70’s mafia film. He had the entourage, the saucy accent, and the perfectly rounded vowels to boot. Lacked the charisma, though. Actually, he might’ve been a choir boy if he hadn’t found his place as the power saw in the assemblage of tools at our school.

           The Indian boy was a new face, but he’d found himself as prey for the biggest delinquents in the school. I was too annoyed with my thoughts to want to get involved at first, but I figured I needed a distraction and decided to intervene on behalf of the kid’s milk money.

           “Hey, Clifford,” I shouted across the hallway and approached the group. Two of his goons tried to stop me in a synchronized move that must have taken months of practice to perfect, but I pushed through them to confront Dylan. He still had his arm against the wall, cornering the boy with the help of his evil sidekick, Rodney “The Jock” Hemsworth.

           “What’s the deal here?” I asked, “This little guy giving you trouble?”

           “Oh, hey Baby.” One time when we were kids I misspoke my name as ‘Baby Prince,’ and it stuck as one of my many, disparaging nicknames.

“I heard you had a fun time on New Year’s Eve. Deal here is this little twerp won’t give me the answers to the math homework we were supposed to do over break. And I know he has it, because he never forgets to turn it in during class.” He made a threatening motion with his fist towards the kid.

           “Wait, hold on.” I moved in between them, “You need answers to freshman math homework? You didn’t fail a grade, did you?”

           “No, Princess, I didn’t. I’m a junior, just like you. I’m just taking sophomore math ‘cause they wouldn’t give me credit for my pretty sixty percent last year. And this kid’s one of those… uh, whadd’ya call ‘em…” He started snapping his fingers like he was trying to summon the word.

           “Accelerated learners,” offered The Jock.

           “Yeah, Rod. That’s it. Accelerated learners.” He took a second to spit a wad of saliva onto the floor. “Some kids are too smart for their own good. They’re bound to get hit by the pecking order at some point or another. I’m doing him a favor.”

           I nodded my head sarcastically. “You have a point there,” I said, agreeably, “but this one is my friend and I’m not going to let you torture answers out of him. So here we go.” I tried to pull the kid from the crowd.

           Dylan swatted my arm away from his victim. “Hold up, Babe. You can’t honestly expect me to believe that. I’ll give you ten bucks right now if you can tell me this kid’s name.”

           He had me. I looked down at the kid then back at Dylan. I knew any hesitation would kill my story, so I responded quickly. “His name is Raj. Can we go now?”

           “Whoa, dude. No way.” He looked over at his goons and whispered at them. “That’s not the kid’s name, is it?”

           “Oh, yeah? So you actually bothered to learn his name? You’ve really changed, Dylan.” I fake applauded and then grabbed the kid’s arm and pulled him away before any of them could protest. “C’mon, let’s get out of here.”

           I shouted at Dylan over my shoulder as we left. “Your problem, Clifford, is that you have no respect for others. You’d be surprised to know that some people have more to offer you than test answers.”

           And by the time I’d finished babbling we’d made it past a corner and disappeared into the crowd while Dylan stared blankly.

           I hadn’t exactly thought about what I was going to do after I saved the kid so we just stood there awkwardly for a second or two without saying anything.

           The boy looked down at the floor, unwilling to make eye contact with me. I wasn’t able to get a good read on him, so I decided to just walk away. “Okay… well, see you,” I said awkwardly.

           I was just starting to turn as I heard his timid voice call out behind me. “My name’s Henry.”

           “Oh.” I turned around, but kept shuffling backwards. “Yeah, sorry about that, I was just trying to get you out of there.” I scratched my head but continued moving down the hallway.

           I knew it.” I heard Dylan’s shout come from across my shoulder and I whirled around. “Give me those answers, Henry, and we won’t have a problem.” He laughed. “You almost made me forget that I really needed to pass this class, Bailey.”

           “Hey, you didn’t call me ‘Princess’ this time.”

           “This is too serious for great nicknames. I need to copy those answers before second period.” Dylan made a lunge at the kid, whose favorite form of self-defense seemed to be The Possum because he went limp.

           I was a step faster than Dylan, and I grabbed the kid’s arm just in time to turn and run. “All right, man. Just run as fast as you can,” I whispered to him.

           I half-dragged Henry behind me, because it seemed like he only knew how to move with the robotic motions of a silicone doll. Luckily, he was only about as heavy as one, too, so I pulled him through the crowded hall and hoped that someone would eventually stop the stampeding group of low-lives. I snuck a glance back over my shoulder and saw Dylan and his posse pushing over anyone and everyone, even the people trying to get out of his way.

           My goal was the library. I figured if I couldn’t lose him in a sea of people it would probably be best to take shelter in an open space with adult supervision. We were still in high school, and judging by how hard he was trying to cheat his way through Sophomore level math he still had to worry about the authority.

           We dashed down the hallway, rounding a corner before arriving at the library. I checked behind us to see if Dylan was still following us and, seeing a sea of people part the middle of the hallway for him to pass, I assumed he was. I pushed Henry through the library doors and ducked in after him. Hopefully, Dylan would just give up, because my heart was already pounding from the unusual amount of exercise so early in the morning.

           The library was an open area with tables in the center of the floor and bookcases lining the walls. At the front of the room were small, study alcoves and a very simple check-out counter leading out to the only door. Some teachers were helping kids with early morning questions in the study alcoves and the school librarian was busy reading a book behind the counter so I decided it was a safe place to stay. I led Henry to one of the center tables and I sat across from him so I could watch the door.

           There was silence for a couple moments, during which Henry just stared at the floor and started wheezing to find his breath and I looked at the door behind him waiting for a crazed Dylan to bust into the room and order my execution. Nothing happened and finally, I couldn’t take the silence and had to break the tension.

           “So how was your Christmas break?” I asked.

           The kid was in worse shape than I was which only made me feel worse. “My family doesn’t celebrate Christmas,” he managed to say through shallow breaths.

           “I meant more along the lines of you doing anything special.” I kept one eye on the door while I actually looked at him for the first time since I’d seen him. He had features like a mouse with a nose that seemed to draw any attention directed towards it.

           “Why are you asking me this?” He sounded upset.

           I shrugged. “I don’t know, really. We’re going to have to wait here awhile though, so I thought I’d try to make conversation.”

           “Why do we have to wait here?” His voice started to sound almost hostile.

           “I mean, isn’t there someone who wants to kill you out there?”

           He looked down, avoiding eye contact. There was more silence before he finally squeaked “Why did you save me?”

           I thought for a moment, and felt like I didn’t know the answer myself. I spoke uncertainly.

           “I don’t know if ‘saved’ is the right word for it, but it looked like you needed help and I really don’t like Dylan.”

           “Oh.” He sat quietly for a second before looking up at me with fairy tale doe eyes. “I thought you might have wanted to be my friend.”

           Just so we’re clear, the sparkling eyes is an effect that only animated characters can accomplish. I took one look at him and decided his was a ridiculous theory, but I knew I couldn’t say that to his face.

           “It wasn’t really part of my plan,” I stated, but I saw his face get very sad which was almost an effect worse than the doe eyes, so I added quickly, “But, you know, I’m never above making new friends,” which elicited a toothy grin.

           Normally, I probably would have melted on the inside when such a childishly innocent creature made that kind of face at me, but somehow all I saw was a mistake of nature smiling at me with unusually large gums and braces restraining a massive overbite.

           I shoved the ugly feeling to the back of my brain and forced a smile back at him.

           “So how’s school, then?” I decided to give him a chance to let his shining personality break through his rough exterior.

           “It’s good. I have straight A’s.”

           “That’s… well that’s good.” I couldn’t think of anything more to say and I was suddenly aware that my chair was really uncomfortable.

           We sat like that for a good minute and I started to think that the mind-numbing silence was worse than getting beaten up by Dylan.

           “So, class is probably starting soon and I don’t want to be late,” I lied. “Why don’t we pick this up some other time?”

           “Okay,” he said, innocently.

           I stood up and started to walk away.

           “Actually,” he stopped me, and I was only two steps out of my seat, too close to pretend I hadn’t heard him. “Can I ask you something?” His voice was shaking.

           “Um.” I gazed longingly at the door, but forced myself to sit down because I knew I would feel bad if I just left. “Sure, what’s on your mind?”

           “Well, it’s about high school.” He kept stopping after every phrase, like he couldn’t get a complete thought to come out.

           “Okay. What about?” I tried to guide him, “Girls? Bad teachers? Did you meet Rocko? Don’t buy whatever he’s selling.”

           “It’s just that…” He paused again and I had to stop myself from rolling my eyes. “Well I moved here during the fall and I’ve been here for a semester already, but I haven’t really been able to make any friends. Everybody just seems to stare right through me and the only time people talk to me is when they have questions about homework.”

           When he finished, I felt bad about my previous thoughts. First impression, oppression, as my mother would say.

           I tried to come up with an answer for him, but it was hard because I knew I would definitely be one of those shameless people asking a freshman for help and I was obviously one of those people who wouldn’t bother to talk to him afterwards.

           “I can relate a little bit,” I lied, trying to give him what he needed to hear. “People like to pick on me because of my name; I have a really girly one. Bailey Prince.” I reached over the table to shake his hand and he giggled a little bit which made me smile.

           My awful concentration on his physical appearance seemed to melt away as I began to see just a lonely kid looking for a friend. I wanted to inspire him somehow, to help him escape from the natural, defensive shell that always seems to hinder the real, human experience.

           “You just have to stop worrying about what people will think about you if you just put yourself out there,” I said. “High school is this time when you’re supposed to figure out who you are. And all your classmates will pretend like they’re so complicated or they have everything under control, but they’re not and they don’t. We’re all the same, us high school students, we’re just looking for love, and direction, and test answers. So don’t be afraid to say what’s on your mind. Because it’s okay to make mistakes. Just, really, don’t buy anything from Rocko; those aren’t the right mistakes you want to make.”

           It was cheese straight out of an afterschool special, but I figured everyone could stand to watch a little more, trashy television. I did feel a little pretentious trying to make generalizations about teenagers when I was clearly not any more mature than my peers, but my ego took a back seat as I tried to advise this kid who just wanted to be noticed by someone.

           I was about to tell him something about talking to girls when I saw the library door open. I nearly fell out of my seat expecting Dylan to show his face when I had just talked myself into a vulnerable position, but I let out a sigh of relief when the second librarian walked in, whistling cheerfully over the top of his coffee mug.

           Henry looked behind him and when he turned back around I gave a lopsided smile to acknowledge how stupid I looked. He giggled again and a warm wave of something I could only call serenity filled my insides. When the moment passed he told me he should probably get to class and I told him I’d see him around. But as I watched him walk away with his uneven gait, I started to realize something.

           I was finally ready to accept what my high school years had to offer. I wanted to take my own advice and learn something about what I wanted to do with myself. Mark had planted the seed in my heart, and the conversation with Henry had watered it, but I was letting it take root.

           I sighed as I realized that I was ready to leave.

TO BE CONTINUED!