#like the possibility that depending on our choices that scene where the gun gets pulled on her in the trailer

[snailvibes]

Me when the rating stuff for double exposure is already showing there’s probably gonna be SO many opportunities for Max angst

[allthefilmsiveseenforfree]

Sometimes a Great Notion

This is one of those old movies my mom requested that we couldn’t even find at our local library. It’s incredibly hard to track down, which says more about how easily lost our film history and culture can be as we move from format to format rather than its quality as a film, but that is another conversation. Basically this 1971 film is the second that Paul Newman directed, and it tells the story of the Stamper family, a family who run an independent logging business in a town where the local logging union has gone on strike. As independents, they take the union’s former contracts and as the film goes on, the consequences of that choice become larger and larger, and depending on your perspective, this is either an indomitable tale of the perseverance of the human spirit or a disheartening look at everything that makes America the end-stage capitalist nightmare it currently is.  

Some thoughts: 

It appears that I’m supposed to think Henry Fonda, as the patriarch of the Stamper clan, is a charming old coot, like an Archie Bunker type, complaining about Commie pinko socialists and calling his estranged son a New York fairy. I’m not really seeing the charm here.

I’m not 100% sure what’s going on with this subplot where Joe B (Richard Jaekel) and his wife apparently attend the Church of God and the Metaphysical Science...so maybe they’re cult members too? That never really gets delved into, which is a head scratcher.

I feel like with this dialogue they’re supposed to be kind of...gruff and jokey with each other, but I really don’t get it. None of it seems funny at all, just aggro. 

I think I'm just really confused about what exactly this movie IS. It’s not a character study because we’re learning so little about these people. It doesn’t seem to be a David vs. Goliath small business taking on The Man story because the whole union vs. Stamper family thing doesn’t seem to be anything the Stampers are that concerned about. Leeland (Michael Sarrazin) coming back after a long absence is certainly a wrinkle, but no one is actually delving into what that means for the family or how they feel about it. Like the purpose of the film seems to just be “these are some people doing their jobs and going about their business for a couple hours.”

Like for real, there are multiple really long segments that just show them doing logging shit. 

And listen, I’m not one of those people that only wants to watch media where I like the characters. There are a lot of bad people and evil characters that I don’t want to emulate and would absolutely hate to be around in real life that I REALLY enjoy watching. Hell, in the last year, my main TV hyperfixations have been Succession and It’s Always Sunny in Philadelphia. So it’s not the fact that the Stampers are sexist, stubborn, union-busting jackasses. I just don’t really care about any of them and I question why I should care about their story because the movie isn’t doing a very good job at convincing me. 

There are some Very Good Dogs! At least that’s something.

This would be a way more interesting movie if Leeland and Viv (Hank’s wife, played with stunning grace by Lee Remick) hook up because Leeland is the only one who talks to her or listens to what she has to say. He sees her in a way no one else in the family sees these women at all. ESPECIALLY because even though Henry is Leeland’s father, Hank had an affair with Leeland’s mother too, which is deeply disturbing because we find out he was 14 and she was 30. Fuck, now there’s statutory rape and unresolved trauma involved. Wouldn’t this be a fantastic thing to actually talk about and delve into? Wouldn’t this whole relationship entanglement and the ripple effects it’s had on this family be really interesting? NOT ACCORDING TO PAUL NEWMAN I GUESS.

As much as I love Paul Newman, I’m really questioning a lot of his directorial choices, too. He can’t control the story or the script so much (this is based on a Ken Kesey novel) but other choices are baffling. The pacing is a mess. Some scenes go on for what seems like forever for no reason, others are brutally short or feel cut off. The transitions between scenes are all these quick cuts that don’t let anything breathe. Leeland and Viv’s deep, intimate conversation ends with her saying Hank��s satisfied and Leland asking “Are you?” and then BOOM next scene where bluegrass kicks in and they’re all riding motorcycles. What should have been a body blow of a moment gets its legs cut out right from underneath, and it’s a damn shame.

“To work and eat and screw and sleep and drink and keep on going, that’s for what. That’s all there is.” - the film’s central thesis, uttered by Henry Stamper in his big Oscar-worthy monologue. Which in a nihilist sort of way I agree with, but there’s a big fat asterisk that gets ignored here: if you’re doing those things and directly, knowingly causing the suffering of others - and you can make choices that AVOID that as much as possible, and you DON’T - well that’s where your philosophy turns to shit, I’m afraid.

And the consequences of that philosophy are laid bare when the Stamper family has one HELL of a bad day. Play stupid games and win stupid prizes. 

I really thought the movie was going to end with Hank sitting alone in his dark, quiet house drinking beer and feeling sorry for himself and maybe reflecting on the enormous cost of his decisions. Instead the movie ends with Hank displaying his father’s severed arm at the top of his boat, flipping the bird to the town he’s turned his back on. And frankly it’s a big “fuck you” to the audience as well, for thinking that the Stamper family could learn or grow or see outside of their own rugged individualism for one second. 

Did I Cry? I probably should have, but any emotional weight the tragedies we watch hold gets completely deflated when no one learns a goddamn thing from them. 

All things considered, this movie is a perfect encapsulation of the toxic attitudes that have yielded every single moral failing of America from its inception. The myth of the American frontiersman, pulling himself up by his bootstraps, owing nothing to no one and simply trying to work hard and provide for his own family - it’s all wrapped up in the same wars (both literal and figurative) we’ve been fighting for centuries. We’re supposed to cheer at the Stampers for sticking to their guns and moving forward to get the job done no matter the cost, and that’s precisely the fucking problem. Costs matter, especially when they’re paid in human lives. And I would be more willing to view this film as a fascinating artifact of attitudes that have gone by the wayside if we weren’t having the same damn argument today. As a result, it ends up just feeling frustrating. 

If you liked this review, please consider reblogging or subscribing to my Patreon! For as low as $1, you can access bonus content and movie reviews, or even request that I review any movie of your choice.

[salty-dracon]

More YTTD Theories Because I Forgot A Bunch

A continuation of this from a couple of days ago.

More theories, spoilers go up to 3-1A, and also include YTTS spoilers. Also I appreciate all of your thoughts on the matter.

In the previous post I said there were a few reasons to be suspicious of Gin. I forgot to mention one important point:

Remember the locker room and the Discussion there, where Hayasaka and Gin got magnetized to the ceiling and almost hung? According to vgperson, you can win the discussion by letting time pass three times after Hayasaka is magnetized. But after the second turn, Gin gets magnetized as well. And one turn after that, the mechanism is shut down by Midori. He makes sure “those two” are still alive via the intercom, and once confirming that they are, says “oh goodie, we can still play some more!“ and fucks off. Basically, you’ll win no matter what, because Midori doesn’t want them to die.

Midori says he observes all of the floors in the painting room, but he doesn’t really give “instructions” once they arrive or anything similar. Depending on what he’s using to monitor the room, he more or less uses his abilities to mess with the participants and the dolls. Think about how he spooks Sara and crew by saying “I’m not a painting!” if you look at the painting of him, or how he lets the crew get their hopes up about the transceiver until he speaks through it. However, he says he observes all of the floors, meaning he knows what goes on in each one. And though he’s not about losing well (he wants to kill people with the gun if he’s in a bad position, after all), he seemed to be concerned enough about Hayasaka and Gin to try and save them.

Considering he didn’t try to save Hayasaka the moment he could, and seems to have some form of disdain for the dolls, I wonder if it’s Gin he was trying to save. That brings up the question of why someone like him would want to save Gin in the first place. Maybe he’s allied with Gin somehow, whether Gin knows it or not. 

-------

(Danganronpa 1 and AI: The Somnium Files spoilers in the next paragraph)

One interesting prediction rule when it comes to murder mystery games is that the culprit is “someone who’s been mentioned several times, but who we’ve never actually met”. They almost pulled that twist in Danganronpa 1 with a certain missing student. They mentioned her by name, making us think she was the mastermind for a while, before revealing the truth. The other big example I can think of is AI: The Somnium Files, wherein the serial killer in question is mentioned by name more than once, but we don’t actually meet him, knowing it’s him, until near the end of the game and after we’ve unlocked most of the other routes.

Extrapolating this to Your Turn to Die, there is one character we haven’t met yet who’s been mentioned more than once- that being Sara’s mother. We see her at the beginning of the game, passed out presumably due to an attack by Sara’s kidnappers. She’s brought up again by Sara’s dad in a flashback before Chapter 2, and then again when Kai leaves a message for Sara on the laptop. The password to that file is her mother’s name. Furthermore, we know her rough appearance, as based on seeing her passed out in Chapter 1. And taking the events of YTTS as canon, we know that Sara, or someone that looks exactly like Sara, is somehow involved in Asunaro’s AI experiments. There’s also one interesting oddity about her. As far as I remember, she’s one of two characters to get a background sprite, but not a foreground sprite. Here I’m referring to “background sprites” as the sprites that appear inside environments without black outlines, and foreground sprites as the sprites with different expressions that usually appear when you talk to a character. Every other character, notably all of the Death Game participants, the Floor Masters, and now the Dummies thanks to Chapter 3, have both foreground sprites and background sprites. Some characters, like Sara’s father and the man that Keiji killed, have only foreground sprites. The only two exceptions, that is, the only two characters whose faces we haven’t seen in perfect detail, are Meister and Sara’s mother.

Furthermore, we don’t know what Sara’s mother’s name is. Granted, we don’t know what her father’s name is either, but her name is apparently important. What if her name was also Sara Chidouin? What if she was somehow also Sara- as in, the Sara we know is a clone of her created using a doll? It’s a mystery why she’d be raising a clone of herself, but people are weird like that, sometimes.

Another related theory people have had is that Sara’s mother is in fact a part of the game- she’s just disguised as someone else. That someone else could be Miley. Though in my opinion Miley looks nothing like the background sprite I’m using for reference, a good wig can change everything. This theory might have become even stronger with the release of Chapter 3. There are a couple of situations in which Midori can say something along the lines of “Miley said you were cute when you got angry” to Sara. Though we could just take it as Miley being an asshole (she’s totally an asshole), I think there’s only one situation in which Sara got mad in front of Miley, that being when Mishima was killed. Maybe this was lost in translation, but it’s a rather sweeping generalization and a somewhat weird thing to say about someone if you aren’t familiar with them. Meaning Miley’s really familiar with Sara. Or Miley was just being an asshole.

After looking up Sara’s mother on the wiki the manga only has a picture of her wearing a mask over her mouth. The plot thickens. 

Regarding the other character, Meister... people have made a couple of interesting observations about him. First, he shows up in collaboration artwork. Second, there is a person who looks very similar (albeit with grey hair) in the room above where the monitors were in Chapter 2. His clothing color scheme is exactly the same. Also it’s a big ass painting. Third, with the release of Chapter 3, there’s the entertaining feature of naming Midori whatever you damn well please, unless he makes some joke about it and tells you to pick another name. Most of his responses to you picking something like “Alice Yabusame” and “Tia Safalin” are either “here’s a fun anecdote about that character and/or what I think of them, but I don’t want that name“ and “that’s mean :( pick another name please“. Elect to name him Meister, and he only says “... Pick another name, please”. Considering his personality can be accurately described as “Kokichi if he were Monokuma”, it’s out of character. He fears Meister, or doesn’t want to be associated with him. So yeah, Meister’s probably important. Maybe he’s even the Meister-mind. (Feel free to boo me for that bad pun.)

-------

Regarding the game’s endings, most people seem to believe there’s two- a logic ending an an emotion ending. I agree with this viewpoint, as “choosing logic“ has been explored a few times throughout the game. With the release of Part 3, the choice of which ending’s which has become a little more clear.

If Alice lives and Reko dies, Q-taro says something along the lines of “The Dummies may be dolls, but they’re human just like us”. Implying that we, the humans, are also supposed to think of dolls as human as there’s no difference appearance or personality wise. Q-taro talks about Doll Reko being almost perfectly human, as a supporting argument, in reference to Alice who was unable to tell the difference between the Doll Reko and the real Reko. Remember also that the only reason we pushed Reko down the Impression Room was our logical conclusion that she was a fake. On the other hand, if we choose not to, Sara comments that despite the logic, she can’t see the Reko standing before her as anything other than real, even though there’s lots of evidence to the contrary. In that ending, the real Reko dies. Furthermore, there’s a little bonus snippet in the “afterlife” scene after Nao’s death, where Reko shows up, but Alice doesn’t appear if she lives.

For this reason I strongly believe that the emotion ending is Alice/Kanna living. Therefore the logic ending is Reko/Sou living. I have yet to test out to see if there’s any changes in dialogue with those two combinations specifically, as most people online seem to be playing Alice/Sou and Reko/Kanna. I’m streaming this game for a couple of friends on Discord, and also all my midterms are over the next couple of weeks, so it’s hard to find the time to play this right now.

I also believe that we’ll soon be facing another path split- maybe at the very beginning of 3-1B- that has to do with logic and emotion. Whatever that consent form is, it scared the other participants- it’s definitely a bad thing. However, Sara now faces the choice between saving Keiji and consenting to Whatever Evil Thing’s Going On, and sacrificing Keiji to avoid it. Logic would be sacrificing Keiji, while emotion would be saving him, in this case. Perhaps that’s not true, as Midori is the kind of person who can and would pull a fast one on Sara for funsies. Perhaps there’s something in his language implying that Keiji’s going to end up dead no matter what. He does seem to want to antagonize Keiji, after all. That, or someone else is going to die instead- probably Q-taro, having just been stabbed by Mai and being in bad shape. Even so, I wonder which will be which- whose death would be considered “logical” and whose is based on “emotion”. 

TL:DR So many mysteries with so many possible answers. I just want to see someone vibe check Midori like he vibe checked us already.

[thebiblesalesman]

A Knowing Grin: Relationships in What You Left Behind, the New Overwatch Short Story

Baptiste & Mauga

Nguyen & Sainclair

Overwatch & Talon

The Middle East Scenario

Baptiste & Mauga

Baptiste and Mauga moved in tandem, with the practiced ease of soldiers used to fighting together. It had been years, but it came back quickly, as natural as breathing.

“I missed you, you know,” Mauga called over the roar of gunfire. He was enjoying every moment of the battle, relishing the adrenaline. Baptiste could feel that same rush in his veins, too. “All those years you were on the run, and we could have been doing this instead. Don’t tell me you didn’t miss it, too.”

Had he? More than he was willing to admit. He’d spent so many years running, and this felt right—not being part of Talon, but having a place where he belonged, with a dependable team at his back. That was what he’d found when he joined the Caribbean Coalition, and later with Mauga and their squad. Taking care of people centered him, made him feel whole.

Baptiste and Mauga are two people who exist on the same wavelength, uniquely capable of reading how each other are feeling. Their friendship does not require niceties because it is fundamentally about sensitivity. Baptiste was seeking a sense of belonging, and Mauga is the life raft he happened to cling to. Mauga is isolated even among killers for various reasons, but quickly discovered he could refuge all of himself in Baptiste- both his friendly, charismatic exterior, and his colder but more genuine thoughts. Baptiste sees straight through him, and that turns out to be something he appreciates.

Baptiste, along with Sombra and Mercy, is an orphan of war. Throughout his life he has sought a place to take shelter and find meaning in dependable people around him. You can actually compare him to Ashe, who retains her blood relatives and appears blissfully unaffected by the Crisis, but who did not receive the satisfaction of a well-connected family and ultimately invented her own. But unlike Ashe, Baptiste did not have a wealth of opportunities. Overwatch—an organization he dreamed about as a child—never even came to his home country of Haiti. In that organization’s absence, the islands of the Caribbean formed their own Coalition, and he took root there.

He proved an elite medic and prime special ops material. But all things end, the Crisis included, and his service. Baptiste was faced with the threat of no longer belonging, and sought an organization that could make use of his skills. Talon was “a well-paying mercenary group that took on security missions that were sanctioned by official organizations or corporations”. Once inducted, he made fast friends with another recruit, Mauga. Specifically, Mauga “pulled Baptiste into his orbit”, fulfilling that fundamental need in Baptiste to have someone to serve and care for.

“Watch your back,” he shouted instead, taking down a mercenary who’d been about to shoot Mauga.

“That’s your job!” Mauga laughed. His gun tore a path through the guards swarming the top of the staircase, and they ducked for cover. He was in his element, wild and unleashed. He’d been like this on their missions, a hurricane of a man.

With you at my back, we can do anything, he’d told Baptiste once. You’re the best medic in Talon. You keep me alive, and I’ll protect you. No one stands a chance.

Baptiste and the others in their Talon unit—Doubleday, Mazzei, and Pacanowsky —operated as troopers, the same as many other ex-military agents from around the world. Mauga took the role of Heavy Assault, described as follows in the Venice Memorandum: “Believed to be the products of extensive genetic engineering, these elite troopers employ an extremely powerful exoskeleton and stimulants to increase their combat effectiveness.” While violence is a path Mauga chose, it is worth keeping in mind that his brutality is further fueled by engineering, or drugs, or both.

For a time, Baptiste was content with Talon, even as his missions grew increasingly questionable. Four years ago, two years after Talon’s newest leadership figure was jailed by Overwatch, Baptiste realized that his “security missions” were perpetuating the cycle of suffering, that he was creating more Baptistes by his own hand. His closeness with Mauga proved a selfish thing, one of the many comforts Talon offered in exchange for his soul. He fled from the Monte Cristi battlefield, but Mauga proved as attuned to him as ever, and was the first to find him in his escape.

“Cuerva told us that those missions were on the level,” Baptiste said weakly. He’d known the truth, even then. But he hadn’t wanted to believe it. And from the look on Mauga’s face, he knew that, too.

“Of course he did. And of course they weren’t. But who cares? We’re in too deep, Baptiste.” For a moment, all his bravado dropped away. It was just the two of them, no audience, standing beside the water. When he spoke, it was quiet. “There are no good people. Not you, not me. All we can do is have fun while we’ve got the chance.”

And Mauga challenged Baptiste’s narrative of his life. He highlighted two other missions, Makati and Singapore, that had been just as heinous. According to Mauga, Baptiste knew it was wrong the whole time. It was just that in Monte Cristi he encountered something personal—saw a ghost—and that his flight from Talon was just another self-indulgent act. Mauga ultimately let Baptiste go, but he also did not go with him. Baptiste, likewise, never thought to offer that possibility to Mauga.

Unlike Baptiste, who grew up dreaming about a world that could be and an Overwatch that never came to save him, Mauga has made his judgement of the world and the people in it. It makes sense for him to have no interest in deserting: the entire world is as awful as Talon in his eyes, but Talon is where he has the most fun wading through it. But he retains a weakness for Baptiste, his own personal mind-reader, and ultimately he becomes one of the ghosts that Baptiste leaves behind.

Flash-forward four years and Baptiste is consumed by the nightmare of his choice, which has left him without a home or a family. He travels from place to place, trying to outrun the invitations Talon constantly sends after him. It’s not as simple as fearing for his life. Talon prefers his talent, not his blood. His old captain, Cuerva, describes the potential capture of him in the most idyllic sense:

If all goes well, everything will be settled and we’ll be on our way home by tonight. Hopefully Baptiste will be among us, playing cards and drinking rum, instead of lying in a shallow island grave. [Cuerva Strike Team Log]

The threat for Baptiste is playing cards and drinking rum with his fellow soldiers is something he would prefer to running and hiding too. But given it was the behavior of his squadmates and Cuerva that led him to flee Monte Cristi, he has no trouble dispatching all of them when they come to call.

It’s Mauga who becomes the problem. Mauga, his perfect foil, comes hunting Baptiste in Port-de-Paix, stalking out Baptiste’s habitual safety net, inserting himself in Baptiste’s old home—offering himself and Talon as a replacement. Mauga does not do this at the whimsy of some higher-up, but for his own attachment to Baptiste. He comes offering the horror of constant killing, and the chance to belong again.

Even the mission Mauga shuttles Baptiste into is tailored to play on his desire to find purpose in serving others. Mauga’s manipulations are expert, a send-up to the fact that he only plays the role of a brute, and that in truth he is sly and dangerous—unfortunately this too is a trait Baptiste likes about him. Theirs is a friendship compounded by years of fighting beside each other, and as Baptiste embarks on the Port-de-Paix mission, he finds himself coming back to Mauga’s style “as natural as breathing”.

The mission itself seems to be dancing to Mauga’s tune too. Baptiste finally meets a member of Overwatch, and he is man invested in causing suffering to his own city, a man who gave up his comrades for gold. Mauga uses this man to test Baptiste, to get him to break his final code: that he will not kill an unarmed combatant.

But for a second time, Baptiste and Mauga cannot find agreement. Thus when Mauga comes again after Baptiste’s escape, all he offers is death. Just as Baptiste was never able to completely relinquish the comforts of friendship to do what is right, Mauga refuses to relinquish the comfort of Talon for friendship. The two of them are divorced from the larger conflicts of Talon and Overwatch or omnics and humans except as collateral victims, and in Mauga’s case this has produced a demon who is smiling at you as he kills you.

Mauga stood in the full-length window, scanning the canopy of trees. All of the glass panes were blown out, shattered by the bullets from his massive guns. “Baptiste,” he called. “Buddy, I just want to talk.”

The story’s dramatic showpiece of Baptiste and Mauga’s connection sees Baptiste working Mauga out of a battle-lust using nothing but his voice. There are a couple important features to this scene: 1) that Baptiste only gets to Mauga to behave like a friendly human being for a moment, that Mauga smiles, then kills a helpless man anyway, 2) that from the very start Mauga understands Baptiste’s thoughts too.

Mauga spends a lot of his time smiling like he does to Baptiste in the scene, either acting a role, or confident he has worked out everything Baptiste will do. When Baptiste does not behave to his expectations, he goes straight to violence, as it’s the only other skill he has. Their relationship has all the hallmarks of being toxic, but What You Left Behind is seeking a degree of understanding, trying to explain why Baptiste would return to someone who is no good for him, and why he nearly recalls to a life of brutality despite being a “good person”. And in the end, almost the only distinction between Mauga the Berserker and Baptiste the Healer is that somewhere inside Baptiste a shred of hope remains.

Baptiste stood, and Mauga stood with him. “Whatever you’re worrying about, don’t. Get in, get it done, and get paid,” Mauga said, only loud enough for Baptiste to hear. He hefted his pair of machine guns, each as tall as a full-grown man, like they weighed nothing. The coolant tanks on his back gleamed in the scant light. He raised his voice, letting it carry across the dropship. “Now, who’s ready to have some fun?”

Nguyen & Sainclair

“You see what I’m up against, Baptiste? I got him a hat, but he won’t wear it.”

Nguyen looked at the panama hat on the bar top like it was the filthiest thing he’d ever seen. There was a pink sunburned stripe across his nose.

For your reference if you are unfamiliar with Nguyen’s name pronunciation:

At first Talon Senior Analyst Trung Le Nguyen exists to provide an example of a personality that is absolutely repellent to Baptiste, whereas Mauga is an inescapable attraction. Nguyen does not like Baptiste very much either, but there is one other lesson to take from this story: despite Baptiste’s inability to appreciate Nguyen as a person, they are able to work together without issue. Baptiste sees Nguyen as dependable, which makes sense given that Nguyen provided his unit with analysis through all their missions. Nguyen is also more flexible than he may seem, agreeing to meet with Baptiste at Mauga’s insistence despite his own reservations.

Mauga is not as vested in disliking Nguyen as Baptiste. In fact he constantly seems to be trying to rope Nguyen in as he does with most people, but it does not work with Nguyen because Nguyen is impervious to charisma. Despite Mauga and Nguyen not really getting each other like Mauga and Baptiste do, they are also content to work with each other. Mauga and Nguyen also happen to be the only named members of Baptiste’s old unit who are still alive.

We don’t enjoy as deep a look into Nguyen in this story as we do with Mauga, but let’s take a peek at some words and phrases used to describe him from Baptiste’s point of view:

clinical and cold

cold as frostbite

cool, expressionless eyes

[Nguyen’s] voice cut through the air like a knife. Mauga sighed. “Sweet as always.”

From anyone else, the gesture would be courteous. From Nguyen, it felt like a threat.

Nguyen is an easy read as a clinical workaholic, not inclined to emotion, making him a good foil to Mauga’s impulsive brutality. He notably wears the same adequately professional attire, impeccably laundered, day after day. His detachment from excess is strange in Talon, an organization where many of the day-to-day troops are getting their first taste of luxury and end up feasting on it.

But his professionalism cracks toward the end of the story, after he learns that their target Vernand Sainclair has betrayed and murdered Talon forces—the same kinds of grunts as Baptiste and Mauga—stationed at his mansion for his protection, and Vernand further tries to shoot Mauga after promising he is loyal (the bullets ricochet harmlessly off Mauga’s shield and break some windows).

Nguyen stalked forward, Mauga covering him with the shield. “You sent us into a trap. You murdered the forces we stationed here for your protection,” he snarled. Nguyen yanked the gun from Sainclair’s grasp and slammed it onto the desk. “I even set up an appointment. And yet you continue to inconvenience us. Give me one reason why I shouldn’t put a bullet through your head right now.”

Unlike Mauga, Nguyen appears to display his emotions raw and honestly...it’s just that his most common emotion is disappointment, followed closely by irritation. His anger here probably comes from a variety of sources, but one of the strangest aspects of the story is that Nguyen is on the ground at all. He is an analyst, and despite his John Wick-caliber pistol work, it is not clear why he felt the need to personally handle Sainclair. Nguyen ran analysis for Baptiste’s unit and also for Cuerva’s attempted recovery mission, but it’s not apparent that he has any particular affection for Baptiste...or anyone really. When Baptiste attempts escape, Nguyen’s professional response rules over all others:

There was a gunshot, and pain tore through his left arm. He almost lost his grip on Sainclair. He didn’t have to look to know who had fired that shot, and that he was lucky to have survived.

It is unlikely that Nguyen is any sort of hero candidate at this point, but he is a well-realized accessory to the story and its themes. Everything in What You Left Behind comes in matched pairs—Mauga and Baptiste, Baptiste’s childhood friend Dr. Roseline Mondésir and Dr. Angela Ziegler, Nguyen and Sainclair. But whereas most of these pairs harmonize with each other, exuding similar personalities or goals, Nguyen flatly rejects his counterpart at every turn. Vernand Sainclair is a man of excess, an analyst like Nguyen, but he abhors field work, betrays casually to feed his own self-interest, and like so many members of Talon, he originally worked for Overwatch.

Overwatch & Talon

“You were Overwatch?” Baptiste said, stunned. He’d never met one before. All the dreams he’d had as a teenager, the recruitment poster he hung above his bed at the orphanage, the secret hope that somehow, someday, Overwatch would come in and make everything better. And now one of his childhood heroes stood before him, a man willing to throttle his country to turn a profit and betray his organization to spare his own life.

“I was never in the field. I was just a handler, like you.” Sainclair nodded at Nguyen. “Overwatch always took me for granted. That organization was poisoned from the very start, and the longer I was there, the more I could see that it was slowly rotting from the inside out.”

When the Retribution mission came out, people were quick to note the similarities between the elite Talon units and existing Overwatch agents. The Heavy Assault has a rocket-powered charge just like Reinhardt, the Assassin blinks from perch to perch like Tracer, the Sniper appears in a puff of wraithform smoke. Most fingers ended up pointing at Moira, whose hero profile states:

After Overwatch was disbanded, O'Deorain was forced to turn to unconventional sources of funding. This time, she was invited to join the scientific collective that had founded the city of Oasis. Yet some have whispered that the shadowy Talon organization had already been supporting her for years, aiding her experiments in exchange for utilizing the results for their own purposes. [Hero Profile: Moira]

But What You Left Behind tells us is that the fall of Overwatch and rise of Talon was inevitable, and not the fault of one single betrayer or leak. Towards the end of its life, Overwatch ceased to look like the promise on its recruiting posters—or if you prefer Sainclair’s outlook, Overwatch was never the same as the idea of Overwatch. This also goes back to Mauga’s philosophy: there are no good people anywhere, so even if something like Overwatch was founded with good intentions, the people inside it would eventually fail its honorable mission.

Blackwatch enjoys an especially close connection with Talon. We learn in the story that Talon HQ is in Rome, which is also where the Blackwatch facility was located until it was destroyed by a Talon bombing eight years ago. The Blackwatch Commander and his attending geneticist both became Talon council members, the top sniper in Talon is the widow of a Blackwatch agent, and as we previously saw in Train Hopper many Blackwatch grunts happily became Talon grunts.

But Overwatch also created Talon operatives whenever it failed to reach out enough, such as in Haiti. And Nguyen’s reflective examination of the Recall dossiers at the end of the story also suggests that some existing agents or some who have yet to officially respond may actually be traitors lying in wait.

The mirror of Overwatch and Talon is not as simple as saying “Actually Overwatch is really the evil one!!!111″ Talon is a bunch of terrorists and profiteers. In fact this story tells us that Talon has the exact same issue Overwatch did: it has leaders like Doomfist invested in powerful ideals and visions of the world, but the rank-and-file like Baptiste and Mauga end up engaging in the same petty ravaging that armies have since the beginning of time. The Council is never sharing their entire hand with the grunts either, trusting that their lofty ideals will be accomplished on the backs of handsome mercenary payments.

At this point maybe it’s easy to throw up our hands and say “okay, everything is bad, so why care about any of it?” That’s the exact conclusion Mauga reached. But Baptiste thinks differently. After forcibly escaping Mauga’s clutches at the end of the story, he reviews the Overwatch dossiers and recognizes Dr. Angela Ziegler. They met in their travels because of one shared idea: that they wanted to help communities in need, without violence. Baptiste goes on to recognize how Mercy is very like the local clinic doctor in Port-de-Paix, and very unlike her glossy image on the Overwatch recruitment posters. It is because of his personal connection and personally witnessed strength that he reaches out to her, and not because of an ideal or a formless dream.

I think what the story is trying to get at here is that any organization, regardless of name or mission, is only as good as the people in it. There isn’t good and evil, Overwatch and Talon—there are individuals, and all of them have relationships just as complicated as the one between Baptiste and Mauga.

The Middle East Scenario

Baptiste tapped the glowing dot marking her last known position on the map. He’d thought that Overwatch was dead, but maybe it wasn’t. If Talon was coming for Dr. Ziegler, then she had a right to know. He’d need help tracking her down, but luckily, he knew just who to ask.

Baptiste opened an encrypted app on his phone, entered the password, and hit the call button on the bottom of the screen. It only rang twice before a familiar voice came through the speaker. “Hey, mijo. It’s been a while.”

“Hey, Sombra,” he said, looking at Dr. Ziegler’s profile. “Can you do me a favor?”

Time to gossip about god programs again, yippee!!!

A couple things about this section: 1) It’s going to be more speculative than the others by necessity, so feel free to ignore it!, 2) Ultimately I don’t know what the plot is here...just admitting that up front. I do make a guess though!

So recent Overwatch media has a pattern of introducing a tease at the end. The Blizzardworld map trailer showed Winston, Tracer, Bastion, and Torbjörn chilling in a living room at the end. Reunion ended with Echo. Storm Rising ended by introducing some omnic no one has ever seen before. And What You Left Behind ends by introducing Baptiste’s friendship with Sombra and indicating that he is shipping off to find Mercy with her help. Some of these teases contribute to what I am going to call the “Middle East Scenario”, where a lot of plot threads seem to be orbiting around the Middle East and Mercy, with the potential for converging.

First let’s look at what individuals are actively pursuing Mercy:

Ana & Soldier 76 - Soldier has a documented aversion to Mercy in Bastet, but in the follow-up animation Bastet Rises, Ana ends up hauling his useless carcass all the way to Mercy’s doorstep. Bastet tells us that Ana for some reason knows where Mercy is, and Soldier’s wounds in Bastet (from an attack by Reaper in Old Soldiers—still with me?) are not healing correctly, necessitating a slightly more advanced medical approach than Ana’s field stitching. I guess you could argue the canonicity of Bastet Rises, but it was commissioned by Blizzard and I’m pretty sure that Genjicat in the final shot is the only wink-wink.

Baptiste - Of course What You Left Behind ends with Baptiste seeking Mercy out to warn her of Talon’s interest in her and the other former agents. He’s checking for a physical location, so he probably intends to meet her in person. The only complication here is timing: Baptiste’s story takes place three days after the Recall, the events of Bastet take place around the same time as Reflections (where you can see Ana and Soldier moping together at Christmas), so whatever Baptiste is doing he’s either taking a really scenic route to Mercy or he actually meets her separately from Ana and Soldier meeting her. Reflections also shows us that Mercy is still chilling in a tent somewhere, so if anybody has met with her they have yet to disrupt her post-Overwatch routine of traveling from one humanitarian mission to another.

Reaper - In a general sense Reaper operates as Talon’s executioner and would be seeking Mercy for that reason. Baptiste seems to think Talon is a very present threat at the end of the story, though he may not know Reaper personally. There is a second reason Reaper may show up at Mercy’s house, which is his pursuit of Ana and Soldier. Soldier specifically worries about staying in one place too long because of Reaper in Bastet.

Sombra - Likely to be in touch with the good doctor, at least virtually, due to Baptiste calling in a favor. Baptiste and Sombra met while they were both working at Talon, per the Developer Q&A.

Next we should consider what other forces are operating regionally or who otherwise might get pulled into Mercy’s orbit:

Pharah & Helix Security - From Bastet we know Ana has written a letter to Pharah, but Pharah has yet to respond. Soldier speculates that Ana will request Pharah to manage some artifacts at the Necropolis, and encourages her to contact Pharah again. If Pharah does seek out Ana, the trail will inevitably lead her to Mercy. Helix Security, the private military Pharah works for, is also active in the post-Recall timeline. The Anubis god program broke out of a Helix facility, and so did Doomfist, quite effortlessly. Despite this there is nothing currently indicating Helix is a Talon puppet. Talon has an interest in their properties but has been unable to access them freely. Reaper notes that Helix is unaware of the true value of what they are guarding. It’s hard to imagine Helix being unaware of the importance of keeping Doomfist imprisoned, which along with Sombra’s involvement suggests Talon’s interest is in a software asset—Anubis, or something like it.

Helix Security should have upgraded the Anubis facility after we took it over a few years back. And now the worst has happened—or it’s about to. The Anubis A.I.—one of the “god programs” Overwatch quarantined after the Omnic Crisis—broke its containment at 2300 hours.  

Anubis - Pharah and her team destroyed Anubis in Mission Statement. Ten years before that, Overwatch quarantined Anubis for the first time. Overwatch’s intervention led Egypt into a state of famine and ruin, which suggests very strongly that Anubis was originally some sort of post-Crisis A.I. infrastructure initiative. In fact the first panel of Old Soldiers shows some graffiti on a wall that reads “A.I. is our right”. It seems that whatever Overwatch did, they not only goofed it up hard, but that their intervention was not necessarily desired in the first place. A further incident occurs in Cairo three years after Overwatch’s Anubis intervention, while the humanitarian crisis is in full swing, but no details are given—it’s a background headline in the Uprising comic. By the time Mission Statement comes to pass, the Anubis A.I. was badly malfunctioning and its containment facility lacked the necessary security upgrades to handle it (remember Reaper’s comment about Helix not knowing what they are guarding...). We don’t know what Anubis was like when Overwatch originally intervened in its operation, but we do know that the humanitarian crisis sparked by that intervention was of special concern to both Mercy and Ana. Even with all this information, I feel like there is a catalyst missing. After all, Anubis is dead, and Talon has not been successful in getting whatever it is they want out of Helix Security’s protection. But Storm Rising may have offered the missing piece...

We learn that Doomfist is in collusion with whoever that mysterious omnic gentleman was. […] No, he’s not a part of Talon. […] Even though we’re in the past here, we’re learning about something that’s coming up, that’s unfolding… We know there’s going to be a minor detour because Doomfist has to spend a few years in jail because he’s going to get captured shortly after this. But then, the plan will unfold. [Jeff Kaplan]

Storm Rising Mystery Omnic - There are multiple reasons to believe this omnic is a member of Null Sector, but the remaining weirdness to his appearance is that he meets Doomfist in Egypt. Why would either Null Sector or Doomfist be in Egypt? The only clue we have is Jeff’s comment, that the two of them had a plan to execute six years ago, but it got put on hold after Doomfist was jailed. The possibility exists that this plan requires access to a powerful infrastructure A.I. like Anubis, and what we see in Old Soldiers is that Talon is trying to get access to property guarded by Helix Security... It would be interesting if Overwatch’s apparent mistake in Egypt came back to haunt them ten years later. There’s a lot of ghosts in this game.

Moira & Oasis - A lot of these orbiting issues are centralized in Egypt, but Mercy’s position on the map in Recall is closer to Iraq. We know she isn’t precisely in Oasis because Oasis is hardly the site of a humanitarian crisis, but it’s not unfathomable that she would know people working there. That includes the Minister of Genetics, Moira, who is also on the Talon council, and who also gets regular visits from Reaper to further treat his condition. If, say, Soldier 76 showed up on Mercy’s doorstep with a stubborn wound caused by Reaper, the temptation might be there to reach out to Moira to help treat him. One of the weirdest unresolved plot threads in Overwatch is also potentially connected to Oasis—Dr. Hamid Faisal, whose excavations at Petra and Ayutthaya make use of Oasis-style drones. Faisal works for an unknown benefactor, and also has work at Ilios, a site from which Talon has been attempting to steal artifacts. As revealed in Bastet, Ana also knows Faisal and has a favorable opinion of his work.  

Genji - Genji, you say? Well at the time of Reflections we know Genji is aware of Mercy’s location since he is writing her a physical letter that presumably is addressed and mailed and not just delivered by a dragon Fed-Ex. He and Zenyatta appear to be chilling in Nepal (geddit), but there is nothing saying Genji isn’t going to walk over for a visit sometime. Wouldn’t it be just fun if he happened to arrive at the same time as all this other stuff was going down? Zenyatta could come too and enter directly into the middle of this big vengeful Old Soldiers plot and save some lives! What? No? Okay, back to my corner then.

In speculative conclusion: another animated short ala Infiltration, introducing a new hero (MO?) while simultaneously advancing the plot? There are a lot of moving pieces here though, and a lot of characters to render in an 8-10 min runtime. Bear in mind that Mission Statement was originally supposed to be an animated short and was cancelled for similar reasons. So there might be some additional media interventions building up to some showpiece cinematic.

But know that I will always consume and digest to a paste more short stories and comics Blizz, you can count on me!

References

What You Left Behind [short story]

Cuerva Strike Team - Log Recovered [blog post]

Venice Memorandum Declassification [blog post]

Baptiste Developer Q&A [forums discussion]

Baptiste [hero profile]

Baptiste [origin story]

Mercy [hero profile]

Moira [hero profile]

Sombra [hero profile]

Storm Rising [voicelines/cinematics]

Storm Rising [Creator Residency stream] (Jeff Kaplan/OhNickel/Fareeha -  2019.4.16)

Bastet [short story]

Bastet Rises [animation] (by Dillongoo, commissioned by Blizzard Entertainment)

Train Hopper [comic]

Mission Statement [comic]

Old Soldiers [comic]

Reflections [comic]

Masquerade [comic]

Uprising [comic]

Retribution [comic]

Recall [cinematic]

[seenashwrite]

The Last Job

Word Count: 3.5K   Category: One-shot; Behind-the-scenes canon-compliant; Family; Life choices Rating: Teen & Up Character(s): References to familiar people/places Pairing(s): N/A Warnings: Mild coarse language Author’s Note(s):  *This is a re-post minus tags and links, in an effort to get it to show up in searches*; While this little vignette can be read as a stand-a-lone, highly recommend you check out “Hello, I’m Gone” (linked in Master Post) if you haven’t already, but if you *have* and found something to like about it, then I suspect you’ll find something to enjoy in this one, too. Overall Summary: A long-time client gives a contractor his final assignment.

The sky was different in Texas. He couldn’t speak to Arizona or Colorado or Nevada, or even Mexico, but he knew what he knew. It was something about the way the sun cut through, something about the tint of the blue.  

He traveled, albeit limited distances and for limited amounts of time. Texas was a big state, though not so big as to be gone long enough for his wife to fret. His work was no-nonsense and he was extra appreciated amongst his current clientele for his frugality, his efficiency.  

They’d initially claimed to have no care for messy versus clean, but he knew better. They’d rather keep unknown, to where few a souls on earth as possible would even suspect they existed. Everything worked better for them this way; seemed they had no desire to be summoned all over the globe.  

He could see that - he’d lived in the lone star state all his life, and had no pull to elsewhere. The constant position of the dials on public radios and televisions to the news channels that catered to the aptitudes of the lowest common denominator was vexing. He imagined the future would be the same way. Nothing ever seemed to change in Texas. Blessing or curse, depending on your perspective.

Less vexing, but still annoying, was how the vast number of gun-carrying, bravado-swinging, cowboy hat-and-boot wearers had no practical, economical, life reasons for doing so. Dropped into a middle-of-nowhere scenario, they’d perish quickly. But all that posturing comforted them, and the conclusion he’d arrived at many moons ago was that for him, this was fortunate, to be surrounded by so many who were content. Unaware. Placid. Stereotypical.

And in a similar vein, he’d already been informed his last job was exactly that - basic. In and out. He’d actually hoped for more, hoped for a challenge, hoped for perhaps the comfort of a one-last-hoorah scenario where maybe, just maybe, it’d get a little messy for once and he’d get taken out in the process.

He wasn’t having suicidal ideations; he was being pragmatic. Anonymous body in another town, filed in a line of cold cases, and his family would move on, eventually. They wouldn’t have to suffer through it, watching him fade away.

Weeks ago, on a chilly morning in a park near, but not too near, his home, the designated attaché had appeared seemingly from nowhere. This was, as they say, par for the course. He was used to it, the air of strangeness accompanying his best customer. Rather, customers - seemed to be an alignment of at least two parties, far as he could tell. 

He found it easier to just think of the one at hand as the client versus dwelling too long on how many of them were really behind the curtain. It was supposed to go that the same one would never come twice, though he was pretty sure it’d happened a couple times and they were just outfitted differently. Maybe their ranks were thinning.

It wasn’t often his sort of folk actually got contracted for jobs. Come to think, he’d never even heard of such a proposition, not in his entire life. Somebody would’ve ran their mouth about it, to be sure. He chewed on the thought that perhaps he was a bit of a pioneer in that respect, if such arrangements would keep on long after he was gone.

Rewards and acknowledgment in his line of work were few and far between, some of his ilk never seeing either at all in their lifetimes. And so in that respect, these employers of his��were the best, foremost because they paid. But to be fair, he supposed it was more than that.

He was always given clear, precise locations and times, so on-the-nose he had no idea how they were doing it. And no paper trail, just how he liked it. Instruction came verbally, read from a small, rectangular device they all kept in their pockets that lit up at the touch of a finger.

He’d never gotten a good look at it, would simply commit to memory what they said. He’d never asked to look at it, and they’d never offered. Besides, it was too Star Trek. His eldest loved that old show, got his little brother into watching the reruns. He couldn’t hardly stand the thought of things like that, not for going on eight months now.  

The well-dressed man - sporting what his wife would’ve kindly described as an “interesting” haircut - had walked towards the bench, removing a pair of reflective-lens aviators, letting out a low whistle, eyeing him up and down.  

“Jesus. You’re eaten up with it.”

He’d shrugged, said that last part was true, but then informed his very last client there was no savior to be found here.

The client had laughed a little too hard. “Yeah, yeah, no God in the streets, no church in the wild, I got it.”

He’d assumed those statements referred to something but had no clue what, so he’d offered a tight-lipped trace of a smile in acknowledgment.  

A reply in the form of a sigh floated over as his visitor took a seat at the other end of the bench. “Always aaaall business with you,” the client commented, beginning to remove what he knew would be a fat envelope from the inside pocket of the pinstripe suit jacket. Then there was a pause - the arm extended in his direction, a finger raised. “You need a tune up first?  I can -–”

He’d interrupted, refused.  

The client’s eyes had grown dark and icy. “I’m not offering for your comfort. I have bosses to report to. I need to know the job’s gonna get done and you’re not gonna get all shaky, or go blind, or collapse. Get it?”

He could always tell from which faction of his clientele the dispatcher hailed, these messengers sent like clockwork every other Wednesday of every month to meet with him for around fifteen years now. The one down the bench was amongst those who dressed to the nines, walked with swagger, were more conversational and witty. The others tended to dress in a random array of seemingly whatever they could manage, had stiff gaits, impersonal to the point of being flat and rude.

So the shot across the bow was a little unexpected. Either way, he hadn’t ever been intimidated by any of them. This continued to be the case, especially now.

Call someone else then, he’d replied calmly.  And he’d held up his dominant hand. Steady as a rock.

The client nodded, handed over the envelope. It didn’t take long to relate the details. And then he watched as the client stood, re-buttoned the pristinely tailored jacket, adjusted a skinny tie, returned the shiny sunglasses to what always seemed to be a smirking face.  

Fidgety bastard, he’d thought as he watched the preening. Then he’d spoken one last time before his client zipped away. He wanted to know why the one standing before him - or another of the unique members making up the collective - weren’t handling it themselves. It seemed a little too simple. Too easy.

“It just may be. But they’d see me coming. Any of my kind. Or our partners. You? They won’t even notice.”

He supposed so, and shrugged his reply, because it was true - no one ever had.

A sly grin, a curt nod. “That’s why we like you, Buck. Might even miss you.”  

Now that was off-putting. The use of his nickname. No one outside of his wife - and his dearly departeds - should’ve known. None of his work associates, past nor present, ever knew this nickname.

His real name was something of an eye-roller, “old-timey” as his wife might’ve said. He thought it was cringe-worthy, never felt right on him. All the first-born boys in the family, back as far as they knew, had carried it. He - and everyone else up the line, at least back to his triple-great-granddaddy - had all had taken on nicknames. His own eldest was just called “Junior”.

He had been known in the family as simply “Buck” since he was born, and his father had become “Big Buck” following that day. Even after the man’s death that’s what everybody still called him, and he’d heard the story more than once. How, even as a kid, there was no tradition, no “that’s how we’ve always done things”, that Big Buck didn’t like to question. 

Bucking the system - that was the both of them, boiled down to a nutshell. His father had liked carrying that mantle, and so did he. Shame it wouldn’t be on his tombstone. 

And while he was pondering, just like that, the client was gone. Not that he’d have expected the truth, should he have made the inquiry. Not that it mattered anymore.

He made sure to switch over to his other self during the short walk to the truck and the drive back out to the house. Jovial and kind, kidding and chuckling with the bag boy at the supermarket. He was supposed to bring home a few things to complete supper later.

Most hunters didn’t bother with a ruse, but most hunters didn’t have families to consider like his always had. Like the legacy of the name, his line had all kept families. Defying the system as it were, long before the big and little Bucks came on the scene, marrying within their own community of like-minded folks and keeping up the family business. 

Which is how every last one of them had been wiped out.

He wasn’t going to make the same mistake. Married a sweet gal he’d met at a sock-hop and never looked back. Kept her and the boys in the dark for their own good.

She’d made too much for just the two of them, as usual. He’d still eat every bite served. He’d tried for awhile to reduce his girth, but his face got skinny and he thought his baseball caps didn’t sit the same way. His knees had felt better, and he’d briefly missed that barely-owned muscle car. 

All that was of no import now. Besides, his wife had been tickled pink that he’d gone back to second helpings of her comfort food. He wondered if he’d be able to recall her smile and her hugs and her kisses once he was gone. 

Junior was at a girlfriend’s house for dinner that evening, first time meeting the parents and such. He’d loaned the kid his church tie, even, so he knew his son must’ve really liked this one. The “kid” was out of his teens, and more than anxious to be out of the nest, though his mother was fighting it tooth and nail. Their youngest wouldn’t be home for awhile yet still; basketball practice always seemed to run long these days.

He looked through the mail while sitting at the table and smelling the fried chicken cooking. He’d have to feign some good-natured annoyance at the bills. He briefly thought on her reaction, if she’d be angry at the sizable chunk of money she’d have after he was gone. 

It’d be when she went to put the safety deposit boxes in just her name, likely dig through them while she was there. He’d made it seem like they had to survive on paltry Social Security and his equally dismal railroad pension. And of course, the bit of money from what she thought were under-the-table long-hauls he’d occasionally take on for the extra cash.  

Amongst the usual items, there was the annual Christmas card they’d consistently received, from that little girl they’d sold the Impala to several years back. She’d moved on from Kansas to Montana, with her new husband. The first card they’d gotten was just after the move - barely mentioned it, though, since it was filled up with apologies for selling the car. Neither he nor his wife cared. She was safe, and she was happy, and they were happy for her.

She’d gotten up to three kids now, according to the picture inside, looked to be that she’d had them back-to-back-to-back. Two boys and a girl. It actually gave him a genuine smile, before it hit him again: he’d never have grandbabies. Figured he’d give a go at pretending she was his daughter and those pretty, chubby-cheeked cherubs were his never-to-bes, maybe coax a dream when he tried to sleep.

That creepy sumbitch she’d been married to had actually come out from Dallas, tracked her all the way to Lubbock somehow. He’d already looked into who the dirtbag was, on a job that had taken him to that area. Later on, after good old-fashioned laziness caused an end to the jerk’s pursuit, he’d found the louse in a dive bar, just as he’d been promised.

It was the only favor he’d ever asked of his clients, asked it of one of the more drab contacts. The snotty ones would’ve wanted to make a deal of some sort for the information. They had, before, when his wife had gotten in a bad way. It’d been almost a decade prior. All the docs had given her six months. But he’d already let one of the messengers know, two jobs back, that his own ticket would likely be punched before his bill came due. They’d shrugged.

That business with the rescued girl was the only time he’d made an exception, taking care of something personal, something on the side. Something purely human. Not exactly his usual lot.

He’d taken care of it after the job, of course. Somehow wouldn’t have seemed appropriate not to. It never made the news, he’d checked. That pathetic excuse for a man only’d had one person to bother with him for awhile now, and she was in another life, long gone.

Marrying his wife, being a father, and looking out for that girl often seemed like the only noble things he’d done. Didn’t matter that perhaps these new sort of hunts were saving innocents on the back end. To him it was killing, and it had always been killing. 

It gave him a measure of peace, selling her the car for cheap. He’d slept like a baby for the rest of that summer. Til the next job came around, of course.

His assigned targets weren’t yet bumps in the night. His client had proven their eerily predictive skills to him. They’d given him several folks to watch over the course of a month, all those years ago, when he’d first been approached.

Down to the minute, they’d been right about when bites would occur, when the vengeance of unfinished business would begin. Reminded him how he’d been out of the game too long and was too old and out of shape to take on beasts. To prevent the transformations themselves. 

But perhaps he could still prevent the suffering of countless others by beating monsters to the punch with one long-distance shot. They’d shown him with those first few examples that his marks would be the most vicious. These were the sort who would wreak the most havoc upon their unholy conversions. 

He’d witnessed it. The first year, his employers had insisted he simply surveil, and these freshman nightcrawlers had indeed left miles of misery in their wake. Other hunters could take care of what got them that way, it was explained; the risk of these particular folks getting turned, whether today or tomorrow, was just too big a gamble any way you sliced it. 

It had somehow made for a twisted sort of logic at the time.

This last job was to happen in five days. A married couple. He’d taken care of women before, didn’t violate what sliver of a moral code he still possessed. The emotionless fellow who’d brought that first one to him had actually shown a touch of surprise when he didn’t even blink.  

He woke his wife and the boys just after dawn, kissing them all goodbye. He’d just be popping up to Kansas, he reminded them, be back in a few days. They understood - he’d made sure to do some extra complaining about the mortgage over the days prior, so it’d seem like sense, his making an exception to the no-out-of-state hauls rule. He’d pull extra cash from the box on his way back home to make the story stick.

“Bye, Pops,” the boys had mumbled with yawns and stretches.

“Love you, Buck, you be good,” his wife had sleepily said.

The tall, pretty blonde was out on the front porch putting up Christmas lights, then moving on to hanging a sparse wreath on the door. It looked homemade. The tail of one of the strings of lights fell and he could see her sigh as she pulled the little step stool back over and climbed up again. She moved slowly and carefully, that huge belly clearly impacting her balance.

His commissioners had neglected to mention this particular detail.

He kept watching as a shiny black Impala not unlike his old one pulled up right at sunset. The woman and God and everybody for a square mile had to have known about the arrival, that deep growl of an engine heralding the approach. She met her husband on the porch, gave as big a hug as her belly would allow, and she received an equally loving embrace right back, unwashed greased-stained hands be damned. She didn’t seem to care when some of it smudged off onto her cream-colored sweater when her belly got a rub.

He followed the strapping, jet-haired husband the next morning, sitting far enough away to go unnoticed but still close enough to watch through the garage’s open doors, drinking coffee from his beat up thermos, the one that, a lifetime ago, only held distilled water and a crucifix.  His targets were not far short of children in his eyes, this half just a boy - a kid not unlike Junior, he thought. But a hard worker, no doubt; whipped through four cars and had started on the fifth by the time lunch rolled around. Smiled and chatted with the other mechanics all along the way.

Then the engine whisperer sat on a nearby curb, eating a sack lunch the wife must’ve packed. Good time to leave, check on what she was up to. Wanted to give her enough time to ease into her day. He recalled the slow starts that came with being so close to giving birth. And he knew from experience how close she was; the baby would arrive before February rolled around, he’d bet money.

She left the house after lunch, looked like a friend had come to pick her up. Her eyebrows knit and her nose crinkled as she passed by her handiwork from the evening prior. That same ornery tail of tiny sparkles had come loose again, apparently not agreeing with the nail he’d watched her hammer into the front of the porch’s overhang.

The roof didn’t look all that good. He was curious as to whether she or her husband realized their desperate need for new shingles. Paint was chipping all over the exterior. He’d have a look around inside later, once he was sure she was occupied, but he suspected he’d find more of the same - they were young, they had a baby to plan for, and they hardly had anything but each other.

He remembered those days clear as a bell. His mind hadn’t gone yet. Curse or blessing, depending on your perspective.

She and the friend had gone to a little consignment shop. They browsed, he browsed. Looked like she purchased some bedding for the crib he imagined was ready to go inside their house, given her husband’s work ethic. Then they stopped by a garage sale. She bought an angel figurine. He found it both sweet and futile, all at the same time. All dicks, far as he’d been able to tell.

But resolved, both the unfeathered and the shark-eyed bastards alike. They’d send others to the modest house on Robintree; could be they already had. Maybe they’d be successful next time they tried. For now, they could go to hell.

Which is what he said aloud while he was driving back home. Just passed through Oklahoma City when the same messenger who’d delivered the assignment popped into the truck’s cab without warning. Looked more than simply irritated - seemed pretty beat down. Perhaps their little jaunts to come see him wore them out more than they’d let on.

Seeing as how he hadn’t gotten his last hurrah, the warning he expected was issued. About a month left on the clock. The payment was returned - minus the chunk that now resided in the Impala’s glove box, wrapped in a brief note that implied they should just accept they had their own secret Santa. There was a roll of darkened eyes, followed by as abrupt an exit as the arrival.

He made sure he was out of state again, staying in a dingy motel in a bad part of the random city he’d selected. And he thought hard on the couple he’d chosen to spare as he laid quietly atop the stained bedspread, eyes closed and smiling. Even when he heard the dogs begin to howl.

Want more stories? My Master Post is linked in my profile, and it tells you about getting on the Tag List, too! If for whatever reason it gives you trouble, don’t hesitate to send an Ask and I’ll link you.

Re-blogs and feedback are fuel for a writer’s soul - please do let me know if you enjoyed. 😘

[the-ship-port]

Detroit Become Human Ship Request

@nightrainn2

I’m really excited you requested this fandom!  It really doesn’t get enough love.  Thanks for requesting darling, and if any of these were unsatisfactory, if you’d like more, or if you simply want to chat, just drop me a message or an ask! :)

Your Best Friend

Kara! (The following goes into events portrayed in the excellent short film Kara, available in the “Extras” section off the main menu of the game). You were a cognitive engineer at CyberLife--tasked with manufacturing the complex “emotion algorithm” to be applied to each android depending upon the task the android was designed to perform.  You even designed Kara’s--making her the caring and resourceful woman she is(at least, would become).  You had created many algorithms over your days at CyberLife, but Kara--she was...special.  You poured something into her more soulful than you had in past projects.  You were going through a hard lapse in your life, and for whatever reason it felt like you were...confiding in this...thing.  When she was assembled, the results showed--she thought herself alive.  She was almost deprogrammed because of it, but the employee overseeing her construction took pity on her, seeing something akin to true fear within her.  The security footage for this event fell to your desk, of course, and when you started watching it, you couldn’t stop.  There was something...in her.  Familiar.  Comforting.  Real, and...the word...it whispers over your countenance like a revelation sent by God… Alive. You tried to go back about your business after that, but it proved impossible.  Your thoughts always traveled back to the AX400 who said she was alive.  Things changed for good when you heard the same AX400 had been returned for repairs to its store.  You knew if you were ever going to get past this, you’d better face the android yourself… At the store, you examine the damaged android.  You inquire what had happened to her--she was in awful shape.  You were informed the owner had claimed she was hit by a car.  You frown, looking at the damage.  Her arms are removed clean from her sockets.  This kind of thing...doesn’t happen with a car wreck.  You sigh, realizing you’ll receive no closure here...you’re not really sure what you expected.  You tell the employee to keep you posted on the android’s condition, then return to work.  When you hear the same android has reported harmed her owner and fled the scene, you realize this is truly getting out of hand--and with a revolution on CyberLife’s hands, too!  You decide to investigate the matter personally, on your own time, even though CyberLife had provided an android for the case--you’d rather...no.  You need to see her. You manage to track the android to the Ravendale district.  From there, you spot her racing down the street with what looks like a child, and give chase.  She trips, and you overtake her, grabbing her shoulder-- Your eyes meet.  Her gray eyes--like a storm brewing--lock into yours...familiarly. “I know you,” she breaths.  You release her shoulder without knowing why, and nod without a single thought.  She stares at you, then places a hand on your own shoulder. “You’re [Y/N].”  You watch her, and nod.  She smiles softly.  “Everything is going to be okay,” she says, squeezing your shoulder once, before standing and rounding the corner with the child.  You stay there on the sidewalk for some time.  The two of you...there’s something connecting you.  A pull like gravity.  Like some part of your soul is now forever coursing through her thirium...like she is something to you stronger than blood...like she is your...sister.

Your Bestie Aesthetic:

Your Bestie Playlist: Welcome to the Machine(Pink Floyd) Eclipse(Pink Floyd) Learning to Fly(Pink Floyd) Comfortably Numb(Pink Floyd)

A/N: I legitimately have no idea what happened you and Kara are just a Pink Floyd kind of BROTP X,D

Your Love Interest:

Markus!

After that day with Kara, you realized you had to find some answers.  You signed onto the Deviancy case--not a difficult task given you were part of the team programming their personality emulations anyway--and over time your private investigations led you to Jericho.  Inside, you were immediately cornered and accused, given you’re a human, and, conveniently enough, delivered to their leader for him to decide your fate.  Markus watches you, trying to conceal his conflict.  This is the first time the sanctuary of Jericho has been breached.  Finally, he asks for you to be delivered, bound, to his quarters for an interrogation--in private.  His followers aren’t all about this resolution, but they don’t speak up, and turn you right over.

In his quarters, you and Markus watch each other carefully.  Calculatingly.  Markus is an INFJ, so on face-value seems to be very similar to you, but his cognitive functions are near-perfect shadows of your own(the ENFJ is your perfect shadow and therefore, many say, your “perfect match”).  Briefly explained, your function stack is Fi-Ne-Si-Te, and his is Ni-Fe-Ti-Se, where his Fe shadows your Fi, his Ni your Ne, etc.  The shadow functions suppress each other due to their conflicting cognition, but, ironic, are complementary; this is why “Shadow Matches”, as I call them, are often considered ideal.  In this case, your Fi is focused inward on how you feel and what you feel is right, making your values very important to you, while Markus’ Fe is outward focused on the welfare of others and how others view him, which makes him a good leader, but can be a hindrance when it comes to making decisions.  Likewise your Ne considers hundreds of possibilities, which is thorough, but can hinder you from making decisions quickly and even make you anxious and stressed due to so many possibilities and not knowing which one will happen or which one you even want to happen; meanwhile, Markus’ Ni is vision-focused, well-attuned to what is most likely to happen and helping to prepare for that outcome.  Therefore your Fi can concentrate his Fe and his Ni can concentrate your Ne.  Whoops that wasn’t brief sorry I’m a nerd.  Back to the story.  Markus, like you(and myself), is an analyzer.  He carefully surveys you, your face, your countenance, your eyes, trying to conclude how much of a threat you may mean for his people(Ni-Fe).  Likewise you watch him, imagining all of the vivid ways he can murder you right now(Fi-Ne).  Due to your mutual tendencies toward empathy, neither of you are receiving a threatening aura from the other, but you still need to be careful.  He walks around you, standing in front of you with arms crossed, and asks very evenly how you managed to find them.  Being an inherently honest person and also too scared to make any attempt at a lie, you tell him your story, starting with your position at CyberLife, gaining a raised brow from him until you go on to explain what happened with Kara, your--connection.  You explain that it almost seemed like she was alive, and that you came here seeking answers.  Markus contemplates whether to believe you, leaning against one wall.  Lowly, he asks, “And when you have them?”  You tell him evenly that depends on their nature.  He watches you, then turns away.  “You will stay here.  As our prisoner.  When you have your answers we will renew this discussion.”

You may find more answers than you were looking for over the next few weeks--certainly more than you were prepared for.  Imprisoned on the abandoned freighter, you see hundreds of damaged androids seeking sanctuary in its steely walls.  There’s something hanging about their shoulders that you swear you know...a feeling that everyone knows...a feeling that makes you slowly realize that these androids are just as alive and lost as you are.  Markus approaches you often to inquire whether you’ve found the answers you wanted, and of course, the answer is always “No” or “I don’t know.”  At one point when he approaches you, you break down in tears, saying you had no idea what his people were going through...what you were contributing to.  On seeing how distressed you are, Markus rests a careful hand on your forearm.  You look up at him. “What you’ve contributed to, Y/N, is our life.”  He gestures with the other hand. “What you see--it isn’t perfect.  But you put it here...you helped us come to life…” He nods. “You created Ra9.” “Ra9?” you ask, looking into his bicolored, beautiful eyes searchingly. Just then, a news coverage of what the androids did the day before appears on the screens around the freighter.  He squeezes your arm carefully.  “Later,” he promises, standing and walking away.

Then the battle for Jericho began...and it became clear you were going to lose.  The only thing to do was reduce the casualties.  Panicked, you tug at your binds as androids raced past you, trying to reach safety.  You find yourself on your back, squirming hopelessly.  Soon, humans with guns pour in.  They recognize you from CyberLife and spare you, severing your binds and helping you to your feet.  They ask you where the android leader is.  You look around at the androids cowering desperately behind storage units for sparse safety.  You look back at the man and say the leader isn’t here--he fled to a more secure location after yesterday’s occurrences.  The man seems to buy it, and starts to usher you to safety.  You wince when you hear gunfire and think desperately for something you can do--just then, something hits the back of the man’s head, then you see Markus disarming and knocking the others unconscious before whipping around to you. “Markus!” you exclaim.  He watches you. “You covered for me,” he says, with a grateful nod. “I owe you one.” You shake your head, and open your mouth to protest, but he cuts in, “Please--they’re everywhere.  We have no choice but to destroy Jericho--you need to get off this boat.” “What--What about you?” you can’t help asking, grabbing his forearm before he can run off again.  He glances back at you, then places a hand on yours. “Don’t worry about me,” he says. “Find North and the others.  I’ll catch up.” With this, he gently removes your hand from his arm and takes off before you can protest further.  You decide to do what he says.

Following the escape from Jericho, Markus broods in the church, and approaches you along with the rest of his team.  He thanks you for covering for him back on the boat.  You brush it off--you’re not one to take compliments well.  He says he means it, then carefully broaches the subject of Connor.  You recall the name as that of the prototype detective android--the most advanced model to date.  He explains that Connor has joined their side and will be infiltrating CyberLife--concluding that he may have more success with an esteemed employee such as yourself.  You take the mission with barely a moment’s consideration--out of character for you in most cases, but you feel guilty as all get out for what’s happening to the androids, and you have to help in any way you can.  And there’s something more...sprouting from the days you’ve spent in Jericho, watching Markus’ passion for his people, his grace and eloquence, his heart...You know he’s alive.  He must be.  Because he makes you feel alive.  “Markus?” you ask just as he’s turning away. “Hm--?” You cut him off with a kiss.  Impulsion is far from your leading characteristic...but what if you never see this man again?

(The other three people are North, Josh, and Simon.) Fortunately, you did.  You and Connor freed thousands of androids and lead them to Markus’ side, where you promptly greet him with a kiss.  You prevail in the revolution, and stand with Connor and the others at Markus’ side as he faces his freed people.  He incorporates into his speech the fact that humans and androids are not to be enemies, but equals...and so much more.  Then he proposes to you.  Caution and calculation fly out the window as you see this wonderful, compassionate, brave man on one knee before you, and you say yes.

Although you and Markus are more private people by nature and it wasn’t your first choice, Markus is practically android royalty, so the wedding could hardly help but be a public affair.  Fortunately, you two thought a way around this; you had your own, private wedding with Simon(best man), North, Josh, Kara(maid of honor), Connor, Hank, and Alice(flower girl).  The ring bearer is the boy Josh was watching over when Markus first entered Jericho(whom you and Markus will later adopt as your own).  As the best man, Simon states his gratitude that he has such a great leader with such a great spouse who will help androids and humans prosper together in harmony.  Then, you had the public wedding in front of an enormous android assembly, and were paraded through the recently liberated streets of detroit in the back of a construction truck with flowers attached to the rims.

You take in the child left for dead that Josh was watching over, and he learns your empathy and quiet intelligence and Markus’ eloquence and leadership abilities.(I can��t find a picture of him anywhere but let’s say he looks somewhat like this.)

Your Couple Aesthetic:

Your Couple Playlist: Skyfall(Adele) Zombie(The Cranberries) Restless Heart(Peter Cetera) Show Me the Way(Peter Frampton)

[jonathanvik]

Starlight Dream - Chapter 5

“What are we trying to accomplish here?” She asked. Instead of her usual clothes, Seina wore a training Gi which chaffed against her skin. “I’m already super powerful, so what are you trying to teach me? This probably won’t help me learn how to use magic.”

Mr. Kiyojiro crossed his arms. “Power is one thing, but you need to learn to channel and harness it. This isn’t about training your muscles, Seina. This is about developing technique. You can’t win every fight with raw strength alone. I’m teaching you to become a more effective fighter.”

They stood inside a long since abandoned gym. After the vampire’s defeat, many buildings remained unclaimed. Inside, they found several hundred exercising machines left to rust. It struck a chord with Seina, leaving her with a sense of melancholy. She sat cross-legged on a training mat with her bodyguard sitting across from her. Her friend Aiko watched from the sidelines, eager to provide Seina with support.

“There are plenty of powerful magical girls out there. They won’t be so untrained like Takako,” Colten said. “There’s more to a magical girl’s arsenal than magic.”

“Sounds scary. I can’t believe evil magical girls exist!” Aiko said. “Aren’t vampires enough?”

No kidding!

“I suppose you’re right. If I can’t use magic, I’ll need to depend on my fighting skills instead.” It still sounded like a great deal of hard work to Seina. She really wanted an easier solution to this, but from her short experience she’d learned reality was rarely nice.

I can’t believe I’m back to hard labor again. Still, if it meant protecting her friends, she’d endure it.

“I’ve created something that might help!” Colten dug into an old duffle bag he’d produced from somewhere and retrieved two pictures. One showed a regular photo of Seina. The other was a picture of a female bodybuilder with enormous rippling muscles with arms and legs the size of tree trunks. A cutout of Seina’s face overlaying the muscular woman.

“This is our goal.” The fairy pointed towards the picture of the bodybuilder. “This should provide some motivation! It’s a goal to work towards!”

“What? No thanks!” Seina said in automatic protest, making a face. She imagined herself with that body in her magical girl dress and shuttered in horror. It wasn’t even remotely cute.

Aiko wore a strained smile. “Yeah, it doesn’t really suit Seina. That’s just weird.”

“Come on, it looks super cool! No one would dare mess with you.” Colten replied, pointing at the muscular Seina for emphasis.

After staring at the bizarre picture of muscular Seina for several moments in bewilderment, Mr. Kiyojiro coughed into his fist. “That won’t be necessary. We’re working more towards dexterity and athleticism. Building up her muscles won’t be necessary.”

Thank you. Someone speaking sense! Aiko seemed just as relieved as Seina, sharing one mind on this subject.

Colten sighed. “Fine, but we’re at least giving you ripped abs! Every warrior must have those at least!”

“... Right. Anyway, let’s get started,” Seina replied, eager to change the subject. “What cool moves are we learning today?”

“Yeah!” Aiko said, nodding with enthusiasm. “She could be like Bruce Li! Have you ever watched his movies, Seina? He is so cool!” She entered a fighting stance and made a punch while screaming a high-pitched yell.

“Great idea!” Seina said, nodding. Ever since she’d gained her freedom, she’d enjoyed watching movies. She wondered if these martial arts movies would teach her cool techniques.

“No, we’re working on simple forms today.” Mr. Kiyojiro replied, and gave a pained sigh as he noticed the look of disappointment on Seina and Aiko’s faces.

“What?!”

“Those fancy moves might sound impressive, but the basics are always the most important. They build the foundation you’ll need later. We will be performing basic katas.” A nasty smile formed on Mr. Kiyojiro’s face. “We’ll be practicing them until you drop.”

“Okay,” Seina replied with little enthusiasm. What was the point of throwing the same punch a hundred times, anyway? It sounded tedious. Already, she hated training.

---

“Why are we here again?” Takako asked for the fifteenth time. “It smells.”

Lilha, with strained patience, gave her reply. “In these sewers lives a vampire of incredible ability. We’ll need his help to defeat Seina.”

“They live in a sewer.” Takako played with a pistol out of boredom, twirling and tossing it from hand to hand in a way that Lilha had to admit was impressive. “What use could they possibly be?”

“Yeah, and didn’t you say the most powerful vampires died at Seina’s hands?” Nier asked.

“Not all of them,” Lilha replied. “Some were wiser and fled.”

When she closed her eyes, Lilha still remembered that horrible, fateful day. The rain trickled against their rippling muscles as they faced their puny, pathetic foe. An entire army of vampires facing a single solitary opponent. Each one had abilities that could devastate entire continents. They stood proud, confident they could defeat some dumb little girl that dared challenge them. Even if she’d defeated their great leader and king, a single solitary person couldn’t defeat their entire army. They’d been horribly, tragically wrong. The slaughter was…

A tear of blood slid down Lilha’s cheek as she recalled that horrible day. In her dreams, she returned to the scene, reliving the carnage. It haunted her again and again. Even if they defeated their most hated foe, would the nightmares ever end?

“Don’t worry,” Lilha said, her voice hard. “Their power will be worth it.”

As they explored further, eyes glinted down at them from the shadows, watching them with hungrily. The slightest sign of weakness and they’d pounce. They were apex predators, eager to tear their victim limb from limb. They recognized their former queen, but ignored her. Instead, focusing their attention on the girl accompanying her. Despite looking like another magical girl, their hunger overrode their caution. Hundreds of lesser vampires emerged from the shadows.

“Well, well, what do we have here?” A vampire said. He dropped from his perched position on the ceiling, landing to block their escape path. “Are we lost, little girl? This place is dangerous. Who knows what might happen to you?” The vampire and his buddies gave cruel, predatory smiles, chuckling to themselves. Takako watched them, unafraid with a bored expression.

Lilha’s eye twitched in irritation. “She’s a magical girl, you idiots. Now step aside. We have business elsewhere.” And I’m your queen, damnit! Show some respect!

The news that their supposed prey was a magical girl gave the vampires pause, whipping the smile from their faces. The vampires gave their buddies nervous sideways glances.

“See Frank, I told you she was a magical girl.” Another vampire said. “Why didn’t you listen to me?”

“Yeah, isn’t that a fairy with her?” Another added.

“Shut up! She might just be coming from a costume party!” Frank said defensively, though his friends looked doubtful. “You never know! Besides, we’re vampires! We don’t cower from little girls! We’re apex predators! The worst of the worst!”

Frank turned his attention back to Takako. The sewer vampire showed his sharp fangs, giving a predatory smile. “Foolish little girl, you wandered into the wrong neighborhood.”

“Frank, what are you doing?” A vampire said incredulously. “Do you have a death wish?”

“Look, we have her outnumbered!” Frank snapped back. “She can’t fight all of us!”

“No, history proves otherwise! She totally can!” Another vampire replied. “Did you forget the great vampire massacre of Tennoji?!”

Frank stood straighter. “They’re not me. Besides, this is a different magical girl. With my power…”

“Enough,” Takako said and pulled out her black pistol, pressing it against Frank’s chest. Before the vampire could react, the magical girl pulled the trigger. Much to Lilha’s astonishment, instead of blowing a hole into Frank’s chest, he just dissolved into a green mist, vanishing without a trace.

“What did you do?” Lilha asked.

“I just erased him from existence,” Takako replied like she was speaking about the weather.

“What?” Another vampire’s voice cracked in terror.

“What? You can do that?!” Lilha asked in total astonishment.

Takako smirked, her expression smug. “My bullets can do anything. Didn’t I explain that? I can even restore him if I so wished. Not gonna though.”

“Why didn’t you use that against Seina?!” The vampire queen wanted to strangle someone.

“She’s a magical girl.” Takako looked away, pretending to study some spot on the wall. “Her magical defenses are too powerful.”

“You have got to be kidding me!” The more Lilha learned about magical girls, the more she grew to despise them. It only strengthened her resolve to kill them all.

“Anyway, you saw my capabilities,” Takako said, gesturing with her gun towards the frightened vampires at large. “You better answer some questions before I get testy.”

“Anything you say!” A vampire rubbed his hands together, eager to please. Sweat trickled down his undead forehead. “We’re at your service!”

“Where can we find Shinobu?” Takako asked. “Apparently, he lives down here.”

Each of the several hundred vampires pointed towards a left corridor. They stumbled over each other to answer the magical girl’s question first.

“Good. Come.” Without another word, the magical girl walked in that direction.

Lilha took several moments to calm her temper before following. After giving her previous subjects a pained but encouraging smile, Lilha disappeared down the corridor.

“Your so-called subjects didn’t offer you much respect,” Takako said when Lilha caught up.

“Were you really a queen?” Nier asked.

“Yes,” Lilha replied with strained patience. “They just didn’t recognize me in this disguise.” She gestured vaguely at her T-shirt.

It was a lame lie, and Lilha knew it. But what other choice did she have? Back when her husband ruled, he preached survival of the fittest. He encouraged his vampire elite to fight amongst themselves to become stronger. Only the most ruthless and heartless could survive in his court. Fat good that did her now. She slumped, realizing how much of a joke she’d transformed into. What respect did she deserve now as a deposed queen?

And now I’m following around a magical girl like an obedient puppy. She reminded herself they were actually partners, but it rang hollow. The vampire queen gave her brain a swift kick. No, it was the other way around! Lilha was manipulating the magical girl into performing her bidding. In reality, she was the puppet master! Takako was a fool for trusting her! She was the true master!

Yeah, Lilha, keep telling yourself that. Maybe if you repeat it enough, it might become true. The vampire queen’s body sagged as she followed Takako, who hummed to herself without a care in the world, still playing with her pistol.

The sewers seemed endless as they traversed them. They wound in confusing angles, making them hopelessly lost. Lilha hid a smirk as the magical girl tried and failed to make sense of it. No matter what direction they took, it never got them anywhere. The sewer tunnels made less sense by the moment, becoming an endless path of corridors with no escape in sight. Lilha enjoyed seeing Shinobu use his power to make the seemingly unstoppable magical girl appear the fool for once.

Amazing. The way he distorts reality is seamless! We’ve walked along the same corridors for ten minutes, and the fool girl doesn’t even notice! Lilha had confirmed this by dropping a rock with a marking on it, and they’d already passed it at least six times. The vampire queen enjoyed knowing something Takako didn’t, waiting for the magical girl to beg for help.

“Screw it!” Takako pulled out her pistols and spread out her arms in opposite directions.

Seconds later, Lilha yelped in fear and ducked her head as the magical girl spun around in a circle, firing her weapons. Concrete chunks flew in every direction as the bullets punctured through them, filling the corridors with dust. After several rotations, Takako ceased shooting, surveying the damage.

The endless corridors had vanished, revealing a different scene. They were in a Y-shaped intersection with corridors that branched out in different directions. Scattered across the walls were countless bullet holes. Kneeling on the pavement with several bullet wounds was a vampire holding their gut, trying not to bleed out.

“Why?” Shinobu said, his voice hoarse and pained. “I just wanted to be left alone.” He keeled over, and blood pooled under him as his bleeding refused to stop.

“Shinobu!” Lilha’s undead heart raced as he ran to his side. “What have you done?!” Down other corridors, she heard other vampires moaning in pain, caught up as collateral damage. How far had her bullets pierced? The holes she’d left seem to continue on forever.

“What?” Takako said, unmoved. “Was I meant to wander forever? Please.”

“Well, do something! He’ll die! He’s the reason we came down here!” Lilha fought back several choice words.

“True. Otherwise, we came down here for nothing,” Nier said.

“Fine. Healing Shot.” Takako rolled her eyes and shot the dying vampire. Shinobu blinked as his wounds vanished like they’d never existed. He touched his body, unable to believe his injuries had just disappeared.

“Thank you,” Lilha said through clenched teeth. “How are you?”

“What do you want?! Why are you bothering me?!” Shinobu said once his wits returned to him. “I was just minding my own business when you brought that thing into my home!”

Annoyed, the vampire clerk waved a hand and the surrounding tunnel changed. They suddenly found themselves in an enormous old-fashioned reading room, the walls stacked with countless books. Shinobu pulled a chair from a desk which gave a loud creak as he rested heavily on it. Lilha extended a hand in wonder and found her hand touching empty air where the tunnel wall should have existed. Even Takako seemed impressed by this display of power.

Shinobu turned away from them, addressing some papers lying on his desk, rifling through them. “If you would excuse me, I’m very busy. Leave and never return.”

“Some thanks for saving your life.” Takako rolled her eyes.

“You’re the reason I almost died in the first place!” An incensed Shinobu replied, pointing an accusatory finger.

“Now, let’s not fight,” Lilha said, trying to salvage this situation. “We’re here to ask for your help.”

“Why would I do that?” Shinobu asked, deadpan. “You almost killed me.”

The vampire queen opened her mouth, only to close it again moments later, realizing she didn’t have an adequate answer for that. In mere moments, Takako had inadvertently ruined her plan.

No, I can salvage this! I didn’t suffer the utter hell of working at an ice cream stand for nothing!

“I’m glad you asked!” Lilha replied. Her voice sounded much too eager for her ears. “With your help, we can restore the vampires to their former glory!”

Shinobu gave a contemptuous snort. “Why would I want that? Before the darkness’s arrival, I was only a clerk. I’ve never cared about vampires. I just want to be left alone. Besides, I already have everything I could ever want. In a secret compartment, I have the complete collection of every great poet in human history with several hundred books besides that. If your friend hasn’t shot them to pieces too.” Panic filled the clerk’s voice upon coming to this sudden realization.

I’m losing him! “Is there anything else you desire? With our great magical means, we can accomplish anything.” Lilha said, trying to hide her desperation.

“Well, there isn’t,” Shinobu replied. “Unless you bring the dead back, leave my house before you cause any more damage!”

“That’s that, I guess,” Takako said, turning away. “Let’s leave this horrible smelly place.”

“That was a waste of time,” Nier replied, nodding.

“Wait, uh!” Lilha’s mind raced. Unless she added this clerk to their side, there wasn’t any other vampire powerful enough to remotely challenge Seina. She refused to return empty-handed. Then, the perfect answer appeared in her head.

“Actually, I believe we might help each other,” Lilha said. “Bring back the dead, no problem. Nothing my evil magical girl associate can’t accomplish.”

Takako blinked. “Huh?”

“Can you bring someone back from the dead?” Lilha hissed under her breath.

“Uh, maybe?” Takako replied. “I’ve never attempted it before.”

Louder, she addressed the astonished vampire clerk. “You saw how Takako revived you from near death. Bring back the dead? Not an issue!!”

“Really?” While not entirely convinced, Shinobu seemed hopeful. Tears welled in his eyes. “You can bring my Chikao back?”

“Absolutely!”

The vampire clerk remained silent, mulling this unexpected opportunity over.

“Uh, I’m pretty sure I can’t actually,” Takako whispered towards Lilha. “I’m pretty sure it’s impossible.”

Lilha waved a dismissive hand. “It’s fine. We’ll cross that bridge when we come to it!”

“I’ll do it!” Tears flowed freely in the clerk’s eyes. “If it means getting my son back, I’ll do anything! Count me in!”

“Right! Glad to have you!” Lilha forced a smile.

Shinobu pulled out a picture of a six-year-old boy from his wallet, stroking it with a hand. “Soon, we’ll be together again, Chikao. Soon.”

“Yes, soon!” Lilha replied. Thankfully, the grieving father hadn’t noticed the forced cheerfulness in her voice.

“You know, sidekick,” Takako said. “I may be one of the evilest beings in the multiverse, but even I think that’s cold.” Her fairy friend nodded his agreement.

“It’s fine! I’m sure it’ll work out!” Lilah replied. “Totally!”

Still, his power has more limitations than I expected. She’d heard stories about how Shinobu could create entire lifelike buildings with his ability. He could summon food so realistic it tasted like the real thing, capable of filling someone’s stomach until it disappeared. But, as Takako had demonstrated, his illusions weren’t unbreakable. It ruined her pain to trap Seina in an inescapable prison and have Takako shoot their mutual enemy to death.Still, she had better and even more imaginative ideas. With Takako’s help, they might stand a chance in killing Seina.

Then I shall feast on her! A nasty smile grew on her face. Vampires grew more powerful when they fed on people. What would happen if a vampire devoured a magical girl? Could she steal Seina’s magic? Then nothing could stop her. She’d enjoy whipping the smug expression off Takako’s face.

Laugh while you can, Takako. After this, a once vampire queen will ascend into godhood!

[aion-rsa]

Line of Duty Series 6 Episode 6: Thurwell, Carmichael, Osborne & All Our Questions & Theories

https://ift.tt/3xnNak3

Warning: contains Line of Duty spoilers.

Notebooks at the ready. There’s just one episode remaining in this special extra-long Line of Duty series, and after that whopper of an interview scene, we already have the answers to several of our previous questions. Below are a few still to be pondered, including: how long has Marcus Thurwell been dead? (Ages) Is Patricia ‘Don’t call me the Guvnor’ Carmichael working for the OCG? (Nah) Is CC Osborne The Fourth Man? (Has to be, doesn’t he?) And what are they going to find under the concrete floor in that workshop? After you’ve read our weekly episode review, join the speculation scrum below.

So, Jo didn’t know Tommy was her father?

No, she’d been told that her father was a corrupt police officer who’d raped her mother aged 15. Marcus Thurwell perhaps? That looked like a flinch when his name was mentioned. Either way, the news that ‘Uncle Tommy‘ was actually the man who had impregnated her mother was clearly devastating. Jo grew up in Glasgow as part of the Hunter crime family (who lived in the English city where Line of Duty is set). When her mother Samantha became pregnant as a result of incestuous rape by her younger brother, Samantha was sent back to Glasgow to live under her mother’s maiden name of Davidson, and forced to keep the baby – Jo. 16 years later, Tommy Hunter returned to Glasgow and took an interest in his daughter/niece. He wanted Jo to become another one of his ‘Caddies’, a police officer working for him on the inside. Samantha Davidson killed herself, and since Jo joined the service, she’s been forced into doing the OCG’s criminal bidding from within.

Who killed Marcus Thurwell?

We don’t know, but a good guess would suggest a contract killing on behalf of the OCG and CC Osborne, whom is the likeliest suspect for The Fourth Man. Precisely why Thurwell was killed depends on how long the bodies have been there (see below). If it’s months or even a year, then it’s possible the order was given at the same time as the order to kill Gail Vella. Osborne would have been cleaning house, so to speak, to avoid any connection being made between him and organised crime. If Thurwell was killed more recently, it could have been after AC-12 identified him as the link between the cover ups of the murders of Lawrence Christopher and Oliver Stephens-Lloyd. Let’s suppose that Patrick Fairbank was faking his senility last episode, and as soon as Steve and Chloe left, he contacted Osborne to say that AC-12 were onto Thurwell. Then it would have been adios Marcus. 

How long has Thurwell been dead?

A while. Jo Davidson received the order to “get rid of” Kate on the 24th of November, and the shoot-out with Ryan happened the next day. Then Kate and Jo spent a night in custody, before Jo was charged on the 26th, and Kate went back to work, assuming command of MIT on the 27th or 28th. Those corpses showed much more than four days’ worth of decomposition, indicating that it couldn’t have been Thurwell who gave Jo the order to kill Kate because he’d been long dead. 

But the Unknown User had an IP address in Spain?

It’s easy to disguise an IP address by rerouting it through another country using a virtual private network or VPN. Osborne could have made it look as though his messages were coming from Spain, protecting him further and potentially incriminating his former partner in crime, Thurwell. 

Read more

TV

Line of Duty Series 6 Episode 6 Review: No Comment!

By Louisa Mellor

TV

Line of Duty: Could Jo Davidson End Tommy Hunter’s Legacy For Good?

By Louisa Mellor

Is Patricia Carmichael bent?

Carmichael’s priority is clearly protecting CC Osborne and undermining the work of AC-12, which either makes her bent (assuming, as we do at this stage, that Osborne is The Fourth Man/H) or a careerist kiss-ass with both eyes on her next promotion. My money’s on the latter, though there is a mountain of evidence against her, as follows:

Back in series five, Pat did her damnedest to have Ted charged as corrupt, which played into the OCG’s plan but could equally have just been down to her being a ladder-climbing prick. In series six, she removed surveillance from Kate and Ryan, which also played into the OCG’s hands but could equally be down to her CC-pleasing budget cuts. She also colluded with Osborne to place trackers on AC-12’s personal vehicles, which obviously helps the OCG but could just the same be a result of sour grapes. Carmichael knows that Jo is lying about Ryan’s death to protect Kate, and has told Kate as much, describing herself as not gullible but pragmatic. I’d say that covers it. She’s pragmatic insofar as it helps her career, and totally insufferable, but bent? Not convinced. 

Why did AC-3 put trackers on AC-12 vehicles? 

Because Carmichael would do anything CC Osborne says, and he needs to know where AC-12 are at all times now that they’ve solved the Vella murder and are getting close to the truth about him.

Who were those prison guards at the end?

Alison Merchant and Jenny Leland, bent employees of a private security service at HMP Brentiss, the woman’s prison where Lindsay Denton, Roz Huntley, Farida Jatri and others were sent down. Those two attacked Denton Denton in series two, and Merchant was the one who broke Farida Jatri’s wrist to stop her from talking to AC-12 about being framed by Jo. Like the bent prison officer who facilitated Lee Banks’ murder of Jimmy Lakewell, they’re in the pay of the OCG and obviously represent a threat to Jo’s life. Hopefully those CCTV cameras will keep her safe.

Amanda Yao from Cybercrime is useful isn’t she?

She really is, as her fluent Spanish showed this episode. Amanda’s played by Rosa Escoda, who handily speaks fluent Spanish and Korean.

So, Buckells isn’t bent?

Like Carmichael, he’s either in league with the OCG or there’s another explanation. Pat’s explanation would be career-minded toadyism, Buckells’ would be that he doesn’t have the brainpower to corrupt himself out of a paper bag. Buckells is lazy, unreconstructed, unethical, and a bad copper who’s been promoted beyond his ability. There’s a chance though, that he’s their useful idiot and has been routinely exploited by higher-ups Thurwell and Osborne, because it’s easy to pull the wool over his eyes.

We know that Jo manipulated Buckells to mess up the surveillance authority on the Carl Banks pick-up, and that she got him to delay the raid until the next day. Jo though, didn’t cop to orchestrating the fake witness statement from Buckells’ ex-girlfriend Deborah Devoreux, or putting Ryan Pilkington on MIT. Buckells might have done the former because he wanted the evidence to lock Terry up regardless of whether or not he was guilty, which shows you exactly what kind of police officer he is. Either way, a disgrace to the uniform.

Is Jo bent?

She’s worked on behalf of the OCG throughout her police career, so technically yes, she’s a corrupt copper. However, that corruption was all carried out under duress, none of it was done to benefit Jo directly or at her behest. The more jobs she did for the OCG, the more blackmail material they had over her, so right from the start, she was caught in an inescapable trap. Stop working for them, and have her life destroyed, squeal on them and get killed… she had no choice. 

In fact, Jo seems to have a strong moral centre. In episode six, she copped to all the corruption she did and exonerated Terry Boyle, Farida Jatri and Ian Buckells, as well as taking the rap for Kate shooting Ryan. With her family background, she’s also desperate not to be thought of as bent, explaining her sudden noble turn.

Is CC Osborne The Fourth Man?

If he isn’t, then nobody is. There are no other candidates, and it all adds up. The two-faced bastard.

What are they going to find under the cement at the workshop? 

With any luck, some evidence that would conclusively link CC Obsorne to organised crime. Drugs? Guns? Dead bodies? A load of hooky cash he was saving for his retirement? Whatever it is, it must have been a priority to retrieve, because whoever is giving the OCG goons their orders sent them straight to retrieve it as soon as Ryan leaked MIT’s industrial unit raid plans.

cnx.cmd.push(function() { cnx({ playerId: "106e33c0-3911-473c-b599-b1426db57530", }).render("0270c398a82f44f49c23c16122516796"); });

Line of Duty concludes on Sunday the 2nd of May at 9pm on BBC One.

The post Line of Duty Series 6 Episode 6: Thurwell, Carmichael, Osborne & All Our Questions & Theories appeared first on Den of Geek.

from Den of Geek https://ift.tt/32K1OEh

[ohgodwhy151]

Reiner Braun, the broken hearted patriot

As I explained with Bertholdt the most interesting part of Reiner’s character is how he chooses to live and deal with the consequences of his actions. Since Reiner has become one of the most important characters in the story and the main focus of the Marely arc we get to see him in his own home, where he wanted to return to for so long. His progression and arc is longer and larger than nearly every other character making him possibly the most intriguing character in the series. (Along with Annie).  

In this analysis, I’m going to do something a little different. I’m going to chronologically follow Reiner’s story, commenting on his actions, choices, beliefs and what they mean to him, the people around him and the story as a whole. And seeing how he has become one of the main characters there is a lot to talk about.

The first time we see Reiner is in the arms of his mother, she is telling him about his Marleyan father and the taboo nature of her relationship. This scene put Reiner on the path that will lead him to be the tired, broken man he is in the latest chapters. His mother’s words plant a seed of self-hatred in his heart, hatred directed at himself and the blood in his veins. “If only you were born to a Marleyan.” His mother says while crying. As young children we love our parents, we want them to be happy and impress them so when Reiner sees his own mother crying while condemning and his blood it births a goal in his head and heart. The goal being to live as an honorary Marleyan with his mother, it drives to push himself beyond his limits as shown during his training where he works harder than anyone else, yet despite his determination, he still fails time and time again.

When he finally gets onto the warrior cadet program he runs to his mother and into her arms, then she says something so toxic and poisonous it damages Reiner’s psyche in ways difficult to describe. She doesn’t congratulate him, instead, she says. “We’re only a step away from being honorary Marleyan.” In saying this Reiner’s mother doesn’t recognise her son’s accomplishment for a personal triumph for Reiner. (As he worked SO hard to get on the program.) Instead, she reaffirms her own goal for her son and Reiner's response hurts my heart. “I promise I’ll inherit one of the Titans.” This is a seven-year-old boy, who is would be happy to shorten his own life for a deranged idea that has been drilled into him for years. If anything Reiner’s mother is a living metaphor for the brainwashing and propaganda that the Marley government relies on.

After his conversation with his mother we next see Reiner with the other cadets and here we learn a lot about Reiner’s personal goals and reasoning. While talking with Bertholdt he met with an important question. “Are you okay with that? You’d only have 13 years.” This also alludes to Bertholdt’s intelligence as he recognises the fate he and others have been doomed to live out. But Reiner’s response is equally as interesting as Bertholdt’s question. He quickly answers with. “And then I’d be a hero right?” He immediately shrugs off the death sentence inheriting one of Titans is, and instead sees it as the greatest honor possible. He then goes on to say in doing so he’d “Make his parents the proudest of all.” And this stings because this CHILD believes that the only way to make his parents proud is to sacrifice his life for his country. Did I mention that he was a CHILD? Because that makes my heart sink in my chest whenever I think about it.

The next time we see him Reiner has already inherited the Armoured Titan and is actively participating in warfare. In becoming the Armoured Titan he has allowed both himself and his mother to become Honorary Marleyans, he has succeeded in the eyes of his mother and now all that remains is to get his mother and father back together, there is nothing stopping him from getting his family back together. (Forgetting the fact he has shortened his life.) And then we see his father and the split that comes to define Reiner’s personality is born. Upon seeing his father Reiner follows him and shows him the band on his arm, showing him that now, after everything he has been through, the grueling training and curse that comes with the power of the Titans he and his mother can be together. And then, and then Reiner’s father shuts him down. He’s horrified and furious that Karina would put her son through all this just to “Get revenge.” He screams at his child, calling him and his mother devils that could ruin his life. Here Reiner is being faced with something he never thought would happen, he dedicated himself to the goal of making his parents proud and yet his father is condemning him and his achievements. To Reiner and children his age, this is a contradiction, children believe that good actions should be rewarded and yet despite his ‘good’ actions there is no reward. In fact, the opposite occurs, his father condemns him and verbally punishes him. This damages the way Reiner sees the world and contributes heavily to his split personality.

To cope with this contradiction (Something that comes to define his character) He chooses to believe that even if his mother and father can’t be together his father would at least pray for his success. This is likely the first time that Reiner develops a split to deal with something that contradicts his views, goals and ideals.

So after the confrontation with his father we next see Reiner he is on the shore of Paradis and as the boat and his mother sail away he reaffirms his goal of becoming a respected hero to the world despite the fact the rest of the world sees the Titans as monsters. So then we have the campfire scene… Here we have Marcel apologizing to Reiner for forsaking him to die in 13 years and it’s Reiner’s response that hurts the most about this scene. He doesn’t understand why Marcel is apologising, because despite the lies that allowed him to inherit the Armoured Titan he still inherited it. It’s not that Reiner doesn’t see the tragedy of his fate, it’s that he can’t, it’s something I’ll touch on later but it feels similar to an idea brought up in George Orwell's 1984. Doublethink.

After Marcel is eaten and killed Annie confronts Reiner over his indecisiveness which likely got Marcel killed. Of course, I’ll be analysing this whole scene when I talk about Annie since it is mainly about her but one part is crucial to the development of Reiner as a person. “TAKE THE BLAME AND DIE!” Annie screams. And he does. Reiner makes a point saying. “Reiner is dead, I’ll be Marcel.” Yet again Reiner deals with a contradiction (In this case all the work and training he’s done being rendered mute only a day into the mission. Once again a child so this doesn’t make sense to him.) by making sure that the idea of Marcel survives in his body.

For the sake of time and space, I’m going to jump ahead to the 104th and his relationships with Eren and the others. While training in the 104th with the other Shardis mentions that Reiner is strong emotionally, physically AND most importantly people looked up to him which is possibly the most important part of his character. While in the 104th the split in his personality develops and grows to such a powerful degree he has different memories of certain events depending on whether he is a soldier or warrior. With each personality hating the other but sharing their ideals as shown at the end of chapter 96 where Reiner is asked: “What the hell did you come here for?” And both the still young soldier personality and warrior answer “To save humanity.” This moment blurs the line between the personalities Reiner developed which leads to his break down on top of Wall Rose.

I think the anime does an AMAZING job when it shows Reiner breaking down and telling Eren about his mission as the Armoured Titan. At this point, he exists outside of the warrior and soldier personalities and is similar to the Reiner we see in the latest chapters. At these points, he realises the hypocrisy of everything he’s done and why he has done it. Chapter 42 “We were just kids who didn’t know anything.” It hurts to watch and read this because it is the raw personality that Reiner has hidden from everyone and himself for most of his life, and what does he do when exposed like this? He cries.

And when he comes home he suddenly finds himself looking at himself when he looks at Gabi. I think the fact that Reiner and Gabi are actually related just goes to show the links between them, she is exactly like he was back them, hopeful, loyal and full of hatred towards the Edilans and people of Paradis. And now Reiner knows where that leads, to nightmares, PTSD and suicidal depression. The only reason he didn’t pull the trigger in chapter 97 was because he heard a frustrated Falco telling himself that ‘he needed to change something’ at this point Reiner realised he had a chance to stop Gabi and the other children repeating his mistakes and ending up the way he has.

Now chapter 100 hasn’t officially come out yet (As I’m writing this) BUT I have seen the spoilers and several fan translations and from I’ve seen it seems that Reiner is being judged by Eren, drawing parallels to the story of the hanged man. Eren is the one capable of judging Reiner and judging (Get it) from the fan translations it seems that Eren in some ways forgives Reiner or at least understands the situation that he was in and now finds himself in a similar one. I’m not going to use the fan translations that much because they aren’t official the fact that Eren is right in front of him and that came right after the panel where Bertholdt claims the hanged man wanted to be judged says a lot.

But anyway from the spoilers I’ve seen Reiner seems to have a breakdown and falls to his hands and knees in front of Eren now that he can be judged. In a way he seems slightly relieved as now the guilt that weighs him down (and drove him to put a gun in his mouth at the very thought of going back to Paradis.) Can be taken away.

In conclusion Reiner’s story is a tragedy, of a child groomed into fulfilling the dreams of his deluded mother, having his father (One of his goals) call him a devil, his training and dedication coming to naught, (Failing to take the Founding Titan.) losing his friend and watching his mistakes repeat themselves in the form of his own cousin. My hopes for Reiner is that when he dies it is quick, painless and AFTER he has been forgiven.          

That was a long one... but Reiner is a complex character who needs to be understood. So let me know what you thought, agree or disagree I wanna hear it! So stay tuned for Annie’s turn.              

[tjlcisthenewsexy]

Sherlock S4 is a DYSTOPIA

A terrible reality that isn’t technically “real”, but which represents an undesirable, regressive future. Like a simulation, you could say. Or a nightmare. I have actual truck loads of evidence for this. There’s lots more to come in future parts. For now, I will share why I am very convinced that Moftiss have covertly inserted a dystopian tale into the 4th act of this five-act series. It would explain the extremely confusing (opposite, in fact) characterization (like John), Mary’s redemption, and the removal of the romance and chemistry from the show. A nightmare. Possibly our nightmare more than Sherlock’s.

It seemed like they were telling a different story because they were telling a different story, a “What if?”. What if heteronormativity and homophobia won? What if not only the love story failed to come to fruition, but the love story never even existed.

I hear you asking already; what would be the point of that? I came across this:

“Many novels combine both [utopia and dystopia], often as a metaphor for the different directions humanity can take, depending on its choices, ending up with one of two possible futures.” x

Without yet having the final and fifth act to give the fourth series meaning, it makes one hell of a stressful puzzle to be left with for a hiatus. It’s a puzzle, because it’s a dystopia that’s missing it’s counterpart, the utopia. 

Continued under the cut.

For me, this feels like every little thread coming together. Because DIRECTION, and CHOICE, like in the quote above, are themes that have been in Sherlock since the beginning. 

Even the cab chase scene in ASiP has a major “direction” theme to it with the “no left turn” signs, Sherlock running right and John running left, then John’s little “sorry” as he switches direction to catch up. This little spinny arrow reminiscent of a compass features as a very quick shot in the ASiP chase, one of many direction-themed images in the scene.  

And then there’s the lovely Moffat word-play in HLV where John says “your way” when “way” also means “direction”, in a scene where John is standing at the centre axis between Sherlock and Mary like they represent his two directions/choices.

There are lots of examples of CHOICE, but two big ones are the pills in ASiP, and then Sherlock needing to choose between Mycroft and John in TFP. The theme has been noticed by many, and is always a choice between two things, two things that ultimately seem to stand in for life and death like the pills did.

“Many novels combine both [utopia and dystopia], often as a metaphor for the different directions humanity can take, depending on its choices, ending up with one of two possible futures.”

A choice was the climax of the plot of the first episode, and then it happened again very prominently in the last episode. And thanks to the predictive power of a parallel which is the basis of so much of what we do, you can absolutely guarantee that Sherlock’s choice between John and Mycroft in TFP, even though on the surface level it was about who was more useful to Sherlock, was as much about Sherlock’s own life or death as his choice of bottles in ASiP was. 

Two possible futures, like a good bottle (good future) and a bad bottle (bad future). Which one comes to pass depends on your choice.

We find threads of symbolism that fit beautifully into the romance, but we fail to see beyond Sherlock and John’s story to how those two are just an example (albeit, a very important one) of a larger story of the struggle for freedom from oppression. As Sherlock said; “Make no mistake, this is war”. This is so important, because without the context of the sociopolitical allegory that’s very much there, you probably wouldn’t believe me if I suggested that “forwards or backwards” stands in for “the different directions humanity can take”

As I began yelling about a year ago, Molly’s advice after Sherlock was shot in His Last Vow is significant because:

‘Forwards or backwards’ is code for the progression versus regression of society

I hear your skeptical thoughts. Which is why I am absolutely elated to be able to share that Moffat’s little word-play metaphor in Molly’s dialogue was “confirmed”, you might say, in Moffat’s Doctor Who this year:

And now we’ve been given an undesirable, regressive series, after Sherlock fell backwards in His Last Vow, in a scene where an awful lot of drama seemed to surround his decision as to which way he fell, and it meant his life or death. 

[Side note: In fact, the regression to a more heteronormative and homophobic false reality began immediately after Sherlock’s decision to fall backwards - Janine’s newspaper articles, John forgiving Mary at Christmas, John not understanding anything at Appledore when we know he’s pretty damn smart, John not stopping Sherlock from pulling his gun out of his coat pocket, John not doing everything in his power to save Sherlock as he flew off to his death at the Tarmac. The romance was already gone. The only decent explanation back then, was that John was faking all of that to plot against Mary. But really, John had already been replaced by his dystopian twin, the one who never loved Sherlock that way.]

Going further back to an older Moffat Doctor Who episode, Blink, we get a bit more context. I get the impression that Moffat got more subtle (or careful) in his later Doctor Who seasons, but back in Blink in 2007 he included this hilarious and very telling dialogue about his own word choice, like Captain Subtext was in the room. 

I absolutely have to put this gif of John here for you again, because note that John turns his head to his left where Sherlock is as he says “your way” (way = direction) like the Doctor’s little head movement in the gif above, and like Sally in the gif above looks up from the computer and over at Larry to her left, who (spoilers) she ends up together with at the end of the episode. It’s subtle. Infuriatingly subtle.

Direction has a political subtext. ‘Left and right’ is left-wing versus right-wing politics. The progression versus regression of society. Left and right is less subtle, which is maybe why it hasn’t been used again as blatantly as it was in the cabbie chase scene in ASiP that featured, among other things, the ‘alternative route’ being to the left...

So much wordplay. ‘Alternative’ meaning another possibility or choice, and ‘alternative’ meaning departing from or challenging traditional norms.

(The signs in the cabbie chase need a whole meta, because if you go and check up on my claims here, you’ll find *no left turn* and *end of the road* which tell their own little story about S4 I think)

We do see left and right incorporated again more subtly as the show goes on. If I can borrow this great gif, we see a hint to which direction Sherlock should be going in the beautiful cinematography of the tarmac scene, where the nose of the jet looms behind Sherlock threatening to push him forwards, to the left, into John.

Moffat’s subtext and wordplay is used in a BARELY-THERE level of subtlety in Sherlock compared to being OFFERED UP ON A PLATTER in Doctor Who.

If I can just present a tiny example of what I mean by that before we move on...

Exhibit A:

One of the examples in Sherlock S4 of characters looking through the “fourth wall” (into the camera), likely as an acknowledgement of the audience and their part in the story. John raises his glass to the audience:

(thank you @inevitably-johnlocked)

Exhibit B:

The same thing, except in Doctor Who:

(He actually says “an audience” but thank you lovely gif maker) 

That’s not behind the scenes. That’s a clip of actual show, the Doctor emphasizing a very quick deliberate glance into the camera in an otherwise normally acted scene.

You might need a moment to recover from that. I certainly did.

And then there’s the context, the rest of the dialogue from that moment (the episode is Heaven Sent):

I am falling, Clara. I'm dying. And I am going to explain to you how I survived. I can't wait to hear what I say. I'm nothing without an audience.

BBC Sherlock owes it’s success in no small part to the S2 audience that were lured in to the puzzle of how Sherlock survived the fall. So all in all, a fairly obvious Sherlock reference right there in that Doctor Who dialogue, and I think I’ve also made my point about how Doctor Who is less subtle, to say the least.

So. What is “Left or Right” in Doctor Who becomes “Forwards or Backwards” in Sherlock (more subtle, more necessary for a top secret gay conspiracy).

Moving on, let’s not forget that little Clue tagline promo for S4 that hinted at an alternate ending. 

Clue (1985) featured three alternate endings and shares an almost identical tagline with Sherlock S4. We ASSUMED the alternate ending would appear around the airdate of TFP. But what if the entirety of series 5 is that alternate ending. 

This is my main point, thank you for reading:

Series 5 would comprise the utopia that follows the dystopia, as a metaphor for the consequences of our choices.

Backwards for S4. Then forwards for S5.

....code named... Back 4 ??

“A dystopia is an unpleasant (typically repressive) society, often propagandized as being utopian...” “.... dystopian works depict a negative view of the way the world is supposedly going in order to provide urgent propaganda for a change in direction” x

If this is indeed a dystopia, let’s break down that definition and see how well it fits series 4:

“An unpleasant, typically repressive society” 

The writers’ view of “unpleasant” and “repressive” is the same as ours. In Moftiss’s dystopia, gay romance is censored and the pure wholesome friendship is reinstated. The villain who killed the gay protagonist is redeemed, glorified, and allowed to write and narrate the “ending” for Sherlock and John. Series 4 as a secret dystopia means that the meaning of series 4 will be visible once the entire 5-act story is finished.

“Often propagandized as being utopian”

We were asked to believe that S4 was real, that the outcome we were given is the joyous ending envisioned for the characters. Propagandized, by the show itself, by the writers, by the cast, as being utopian. Hence the demolishing of that fourth wall - it sure as fuck is not a game anymore. Series 4 would have us believe that it’s always been this way, and WE were reading it wrong all along. 

These gifs below are from the same 2017 Doctor Who episode as I mentioned earlier, where a dystopia was propagandized as being utopia. Here, “the Monks” are the oppressive invaders who brainwashed the world into thinking they had always been there when in reality they arrived only 6 months before. Nardole dons the Captain Subtext hat and explains the themes here that people miss:

However bad a situation is, if people think that's how it's always been, they'll put up with it.

This woman is one of few who can’t be tricked though, and who fights against “the Monks”. She’s us. 

As she’s being arrested, she’s told:

“You are charged with the manufacture and possession of propaganda intended to undermine the True History. This is in contravention of the Memory Crimes Act of 1975.”

(Note the “Memory Police” reference to Nineteen Eighty-Four, the famous dystopian novel by George Orwell) 

This episode needs a whole meta. Hence why I said there will be more instalments to this theory. The woman above “manufactured propaganda” to fight back against the lies. Umm. That’s....us again, I think.

“Dystopian works depict a negative view of the way the world is going to provide a sense of urgency for a change in direction” 

By it’s very nature, dystopian fiction has a BIG something in common with Epic Theatre; they both aim to be a force of change.

“Many works combine elements of both utopias and dystopias. Typically, an observer from our world will journey to another place or time and see one society the author considers ideal, and another representing the worst possible outcome. The point is usually that the choices we make now may lead to a better or worse potential future world” x

Dystopia Theory fits with the mirrorverse idea; two alternate universes that are opposites. Mirror images. Utopia versus dystopia, up and down, left and right, good pill and bad pill, backwards and forwards.

The two alternate universes represent the consequences of our choices. Society’s choices, the government’s choices, yes, but also one individual and their choices. I think a large part of the subtext here, where Sherlock is the one to decide which direction we go in despite the forces working against him, is a statement about one ordinary person taking a stand, for the sake of their own liberation, as much as for society’s, and possibly winning both anyway.

After much research (ie. watching Doctor Who), I’ve found that what this ‘choice’ subtext boils down to (at least some of the time - there are more types of choice I’ve noticed) is...

...apathy versus a fight.

In a future part I’ll go further into this idea, but for now, here is one example of where the dichotomy of ‘apathy versus fight’ can be found: 

In The Lying Detective it is alluded to in the sequence of events of Sherlock’s near-death, where it appears as if he’s going to “lie down to die” in Smith’s lair (representing apathy) versus what he ends up doing, which is first swapping out the IV, then trying to fight Culverton off. Sherlock’s realization, so close to the end, that he doesn’t in fact want to die, also represents his decision that life, and what life has to offer, is worth the fight.

[The theme of apathy versus fight is seen also in the reference to Buridan’s Ass in TFP, the choice paradox (thank you @tendergingergirl). Read the meta there for the full story, but short version; the donkey does nothing (apathy), and dies.]

I think there is quite the weight to Molly’s dialogue here when she says “it’s all about one thing now”. In other words; the remainder of the show is all about one thing; series four (backwards), and series five (forwards).

Dystopias often feature the end of the world.

This gif below is from a different Doctor Who episode featuring another actual surface-level plot of a dystopian parallel universe:

Then there was a lights-going-out theme in Sherlock series four. Keep in mind here the subtlety I pointed out earlier, less subtlety in Doctor Who, more in Sherlock.

And this tweet from Mark in 2014, 6 months (!) after January 1st 2014 when TEH aired.

And speaking of Mark, he tweeted something VERY suspicious in January, days after TFP aired. At the time I KNEW this was about Sherlock, but I didn’t yet know quite how or why. He got away with it mostly because it was very clearly referring to the political end-of-the-world that was unfolding at the time. But Mark does love his double, triple, meanings. 

There are some seriously geeky things to read into this one sentence, if I may: 

Dystopian fiction sort of blurs with it’s cousin, the alternative history novel. Also known as a counter-factual. Where dystopian fiction warns about things that haven’t happened but might, a counter-factual is where a real historical event is altered, and the author examines how the world would have been different as a result. For example, what if Napoleon had won the Battle of Waterloo?

If we do go back to His Last Vow where the alternate universes begin as I’ve suggested in this meta, then something interesting will happen. In terms of narrative, S4 would still have been a dystopia, a future that might have happened but didn’t, an aborted time line that was snuffed out of existence. But in terms of our reality, series 4 being a part of our history that exists whether we like it or not, a retelling of His Last Vow onwards would more closely resemble a counter-factual for it’s audience in the real world. An alternative history. What could series 4 have looked like, if things had gone differently?

So I’m saying that Mark has used the term “counter-factual” here firstly to avoid using the more suspicion-inducing phrase “alternative history”, which might make our brains ping and think of the “Alternatively” at the beginning of TAB, and secondly, to play on the idea that history, time, can be rewritten (if you’re a writer), an idea heard in Doctor Who once or twice:

Bit of a theme, you get the gist. History can’t be rewritten in real life, but stories can. Mark’s tweet has more 4th-wall-breaking references for the pile but also a call to action. Because calling S5 a counter-factual novel reminds us that S4 exists, and can be symbolically snuffed out, but not literally.

Then there’s Mark’s use of “sci-fi”in this tweet. Quite often, dystopian fiction overlaps with sci-fi, but is quite flexible and sometimes fluid in genre. Margaret Atwood called dystopian fiction a kind of “no martians science-fiction about things that might actually happen” x.

Mark could be referencing the idea that the writers are skirting a fine line between sci-fi and general fiction, with their use of parallel universes and what Sherlock is about to pull-off, which is unavoidably akin to time travel. There’s your Wholock crossover if you wanted it, which I didn’t. 

And if you weren’t sure about the utopia being guaranteed to follow the dystopia, hopefully Mark’s “where everything turns out fine” will convince you. Also, if the truth in this tweet goes that far, then he was perhaps secretly assuring us that he had started writing or planning series 5 days after series four finished airing.

WHAT MIGHT HAPPEN NEXT

Because dystopias are typically set in the future, it could mean that the ‘real’ narrative is paused before the dystopia began in His Last Vow, as if time were standing still while the future simulation plays out to it’s ending.

I believe....theorize....that the very next thing we will see is a snap back to reality, “reality” being some point on the day that Sherlock was shot in HLV.  At which point we will switch to the “utopian” parallel universe, which will then become purely a symbolic utopia, not a simulation. Because it will become reality, Sherlock and John’s reality. It becomes our show’s textual future, because what determines that future is their choices, and Sherlock and John are being handed the miraculous opportunity to rewrite their own lives; to go back and do it again. If you believe this theory, that is. Thanks for reading xx.

MORE TO COME

The next part will be about Time Standing Still in His Last Vow. Then there is maybe another thing or two to write. Or more. Feel free to come and poke me if I take too long, or if I’ve made a mistake here or failed to link to something or other. I’m tired. Goodnight!

[buggiewuggieuggie]

Whisper in Our Bones

Rated M

AO3

Mood Music Links

Implied Struckercest, Dark Themes - a potential au of what I anticipate next episode could look like. Will never happen in canon but alas I am self indulgent

It was their only escape. It was the only way to survive and protect all the other mutants. The siblings unleaded power of a destructive magnitude nobody had imagined. Their blood soaked path was paved over the dozens of dead Sentinel Services officers and the drugged mutants they’d brainwashed into slavery. Their parents forgave them. The Mutant Underground forgave them. Now all that was left was for them to wash off the blood and forgive themselves.

The Underground found a new headquarters to shelter the mutant refugees. A rundown, barely standing abandoned apartment building on the outskirts. This afforded them their own bedrooms but the siblings couldn’t help but slip into one another’s bedrooms at night, plagued by their fears and guilt. It was a silent ritual where one would lay beside the other and they would hold hands through the night. The Strucker siblings were safeest when they were close to one another. Their parents turned a blind eye to their obvious growing dependence, dismissing it a consequence of war.

They’d heard the story, seen those old photos of their ancestors, the Von Struckers, Fenris. It was a fitting title for the terrifying, destructive, and evil siblings.

“Are we Fenris?”

Lauren jolted at the unexpected question, coming from an equally unexpectedly pensive Andy in the middle of the night. She gave a small squeeze to his hand and felt his fingers flex back.

She turned to face him and answered his question with a question. “Do you think we are?”

“That’s what great-grandma and great-grandpa were. They could do what we can.”

“We’re not terrorists.”

“We killed those agents and mutants.”

Her reply was soft, “We didn’t have a choice. It was them or us.”

The silence after that was deafening, terribly unlike their usual comfortable silences. They stayed frozen in their positions, carefully in their own little bubbles of space except for their joined hands until Lauren finally rolled over.

She gently brushed the hair from his face with her free hand before she spoke again in attempt to assure him, “We’re not like them. We’re definitely not nazis. We’re something else, our own thing. Think of a cool superhero name for us. You’re good at that kind of stuff, right?”

“I can’t think of a superhero name for mutants that can annihilate anything within a 200 yard radius.”

“Andy,” she sighed out and lay back down. She couldn’t try to convince him any further of their innocence because she didn’t believe it either. He wasn’t the little brother she could easily manipulate anymore either.

The siblings drifted off to sleep, though a fitful one as it turned out. A continuous replay of the events from that day. Their hands clasped in a bone crushing grip, the merciless, blinding light emitting from them a combination of her manipulation of the elements and his destructive force. Senntinal Services had their guns trained at them but their orders had been to take them alive for experimentation. The drugged mutants launched to attack. But they were too late. It was over in a second, in a blast of a light so glorious it contained the fury of a thousand vengeful angels.

It was the aftermath that crushed a piece of her soul that she’ll never get back. The scene like a post missle strike. The bodies closest to the center were unrecognizable lumps of organs and bones. The house didn’t survive, with walls and support beams blown from existence. As the siblings made their way out, they saw the bodies more and more resemble human. Those furthest from the center died of evident physical trauma, some missing limbs. Possibly the only thing worse than the sight, had been the overwhelming stench of gore and death that left her unable to breathe.

“Lauren… Lauren!” Andy shook her, snapping her into the land of the living. “You almost blew up. You almost killed everyone here.”

She saw the last of the light fading from her fingertips. Her other hand kept a hard hold on his but he wasn’t trying to break their bond.

“I almost…” she trailed off slowly.

“It’s ok.”

She looked at him, pinpricks of tears glittering in her soft blue eyes. “No, it’s not. You were right. You saw what we did. What we’re capable of. Maybe… we are Fenris.”

He leaned in to press a kiss to her forehead, reminiscent of how she used to when they were kids. It was uncharacteristically sweet. He quietly confessed, “It’s me. I’m the one that breaks things. It feels good, especially what we did together. It felt really good to just... I just kept thinking ‘they deserve this.’ It’s what they get for hunting us down for just being mutants. But when I saw all those people dead, I knew you’d never forgive yourself. I’m sorry. Your shields wouldn’t have done that.”

That notion was instantly rejected, “You couldn’t have done that on your own either. No, it was both of us.” She rested her head against his shoulder, still contemplating what he said. His thumb stroked absentmindedly across her knuckles.

He whispered darkly against her temple, “They should be afraid of us. They all should. We can end the war, cut them all down like they’re nothing.”

She shuddered, goosebumps chilling her skin. “Andy, you don’t know what you’re saying. That’s murder. We’re not murderers.”

“Except when we have to be, huh?” It was a heated retort under his breath that made her flinch. He raised their still joined hands to present to her. “If you don’t want to kill anyone ever again, then maybe you can start by letting go of my hand.”

She stared at their hands, a cry caught in her throat. His expression was so hard and steadfast, she felt a new fear: that she would lose him to the darkness if she let go. But even in the darkest part of her heart, she couldn’t admit to herself that she liked the safety and power she felt when they were together.

She pulled their hands to her chest, the image of a girl clutching tight to a much beloved teddy bear. His piercing blues followed the path of their hands. Breathless and shivering, she shook her head, “We need each other.”

They shared a crucial, unspoken vow in the dark. A promise that when given the choice, they would choose each other every time, consequences be damned. They were naive of the ugly taint that clung to the air around them. Lauren thought she could steer them clear of the hellish bowels, of moral decay.

She underestimated the immunity to the horrors of death, like a vaccine that builds and strengthens. Neither of them could see that they were wrapped too close in their own world or that their faces were inches apart as they vowed blind loyalty.

They were Fenris.

[thefanfichotspot]

nine

“Trey?” he spoke from behind me. The touch to my shoulder prompted my eyes to squeeze shut. “Talk to me, what's up?”

“We gotta kill him,” is what I said, and I stole a glance at my daughter sleeping in my arms. She was the only thing keeping me from bolting from this place with a vengeance. Things had to be done differently now; she depended on me and every decision would affect her. J only stared at me as I passed him my phone. “Axel, he knows this place. He… he grew up here.”

“What?” His brows creased in shock, his swollen eye squinted further. “There's no way -”

“I shared my location with him and that was his reaction,” I cut him off. I looked around for something to use, and I praised God when I found a brand new car seat for Nyla. I carefully sat her down, fastened her strap, and laid a blanket on top of her to protect her from the outside weather. She was extremely small to begin with, but putting her in this seat  seemed to make her shrink. But why was she small? She was full term. “We gotta go.”

“Trey, are you sure?” He stayed where he was, not even bothering to help me pack her things. “This has to be a misunderstanding. He can't possibly be -”

I shot him a look. “All I know is he could know where Cameron is, and we need to find her.” I had to suffer through the pain in my ribcage, and tucking my arm close to me only did so much, but I managed to lift the small bag and her car seat. I headed for the door, but didn't hear his footsteps following me. “J, come on.”

“What if you're wrong?” My phone remained in his hand, and the screen lit up yet again. This time he read it, and his lips pressed into a line. I assumed it was another text from Axel. “If you go and do something stupid and you end up bein’ wrong, then what? You really wanna be responsible for his death? Can you really live with that?”

I shrugged, dismissing him. “Shit ain't gonna be the same no matter what happens! What difference does it make?”

“The difference is you have someone to live for now!” He was fuming, face flushed red. Body tensed in both pain and disappointment towards me. “That little girl needs her father in her life, man. If you get caught for murdering him, you gonna go away for life. Is that what you want for her?”

Was it? Could I live with being incarcerated, away from my little girl? Could I live with her mother finding another man to replace me and watch him be her father figure? Teach her things she needs to know, act a damn fool when her name is called at graduation, walk her down the aisle for her wedding? Of course not, but what choice did I have? This man was messing with my family.

My silence unsettled him. “I'm not letting either of you out that door until you stand here and be a fuckin’ man. Stop thinking like a damn child, Tremaine.” He stepped forward, and I brought my gaze to meet his. “I remember how excited you were when Cam told you she was pregnant. You were even more excited when you found out she was giving you a daughter. I know that you're not gonna ever let her out of your sight if you have any say. And I know you wouldn't be able to live with yourself if you end up getting locked up.”

“But he…” My nose was running, and my lashes felt damp.

“Talk to him, then we’ll go from there. Promise me.” He wanted to smile when I nodded, but part of him knew I wasn't being totally truthful. There was no telling what I would do upon seeing Axel. There were a lot of things jumbled in my mind, and all the things I pictured doing to him didn't end in anyone’s favor. J shrugged and sighed, defeated. “Let's go.”

He left me to carry Nyla and bring her out to the car left in the driveway. He also had no interest in driving, or even speaking to me for the duration of the drive to where Axel was - which was nearly on the other side of town. The more I sat still, the more anxious I became and the more my body began to resonate that it was badly injured. My side had a pulsing throb, and my eye felt like it had its own heartbeat. My lip was completely numb, and I tasted blood every time I tried to moisten it. It J was in pain, he barely let it show. The swelling in his face was just as bad, if not worse, than mine, and my heart sank at the thought of him being dragged into my mess. Throughout our entire friendship, J never had any trouble with anybody. He was a homebody, kept to himself. If it wasn't me or his family, he wanted nothing to do with it. He was shy, yet confident, level headed more than anything. And fatherhood didn't bring that on; he’d always been like that. We were complete opposites.

There was no way to make it up to him, to both apologize and thank him for being there for me through everything. No amount of money, no gift would ever explain what his brotherhood and loyalty meant to me. And I would make sure Nyla knew he was responsible for her making it out of this situation. He was her godfather, after all.

Axel’s location sent through his text led us to an abandoned parking lot. The building itself had long been demolished, and there wasn't even a foundation left in its place. The asphalt was riddled with weeds upon weeds, cracks and the worst potholes anyone could ever see. The single car was stranded in the middle of it all, and I slowly crept the car up behind it.

I felt his eyes on me as I gripped the steering wheel to the point where my knuckles turned pale. I gnawed on my lip, the rush of anger bringing beads of sweat to my forehead. I'm not going to lie, seeing him angered me all over again as if the entire conversation with Jermaine never happened. There were two voices in my head: one prompted me to remain calm and hear him out - maybe there was in fact an explanation as to why my newborn daughter was found at the house where he grew up; the other voice told me to fuck all that and just strangle him until his eyes popped out of his sockets, or to smash his head into the pavement until his brain spilled out of his skull. And I'll admit that the latter sounded more fulfilling.

From where I sat, Axel honestly looked dead. His eyes were closed, whether he could help it or not, and his body was slumped against the passenger door with his temple smudged against the window. He had larger lips to begin with, but they were swollen - damn near torn open. Why were all of our injuries similar?

“Trey,” J finally muttered when he followed my gaze. I choked underneath my breath, my eyes welling up all over again. “Trey…” I couldn't take it - I had to do something. I shoved my car door open and practically sprinted over to his door, and I completely ignored J. “Trey, Trey!”

“You son of a bitch!” I deliriously cried as I snatched him from the seat and slammed his back into the back passenger door, gripping the collar of his already torn shirt as his eyes blurred with surprise. “I'm gonna kill you and leave your body to rot!” My punch to his jaw threw him off the car and onto the ground, a cloud of dust rose like it was a scene from a movie. “No wonder you don't have any family.” I was ready to kick him in the gut when J rammed his shoulder into me, knocking me against the vehicle before my foot could make contact.

“Too fuckin’ far,” he growled at me as he groaned through his agony.

“Yo get off me.” I snatched away from him and glared down at Axel. He put up no fight, he didn't try and defend himself or even try and explain his side. He simply struggled to pull himself up against the side of the car. “I swear if you have anything to do with this…”

“With what?” he croaked, and there were tears in his eyes.

I tilted my head. “My daughter, my baby girl, was found where you used to live. Cam wasn't there and I have no idea where she is.”

“What?” He perked up, like a young puppy tilting his head to the side. His eyes widened as his face lost all its color and he shook his head rapidly. “No, I-I-I swear I didn't do it. W-Where is she? Is she okay?”

“She's fine,” I replied tightly. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw J branch off and examine the car. He checked the glove compartment, and I saw him tuck a small handgun into the waistband of his black jeans. Next he exited the car and made his way to the trunk. “Is that why you wanted to split up? So I wouldn't automatically kill you when you got caught? What, you tryna cover up the fact that you killed her? Huh?”

“N-No, I swear…”

“Stop lyin’ to me, man!” I was ready to just knock him out, because deep down I still felt he was lying to me, when a different thought knocked my mind of its railing. Spyder agreed to take Axel to wherever Cam was held, and the only thing around was the car. But she wasn't anywhere near here, unless -

“Cam?” The two of us snapped our heads to where J’s voice came from, and the lack of response shattered my heart into a million pieces. “Baby girl, can you hear me?”

No, it couldn't be.

“It's Jermaine. If you can hear me, I need you to squeeze my hand.”

She couldn't have been back there. That's impossible.

“Come on, baby girl. Gimme a squeeze.”

Cam was supposed to be with our daughter. We were supposed to be a family. We were supposed to cut her umbilical cord together, have some skin-to-skin bonding with her, childishly argue over what outfit she would wear home. She was supposed to be nursing. I was supposed to change her poopy diaper for the first time. Cam and I had already figured everything out, agreed on how everything would go.

It all happened so quickly. My hand was snatching the gun from J’s waistband and pointing it at Axel’s temple as the first round of tears dripped from his eyes. J was yelling at me, firing off demands to take control of the situation. Axel had his hands up, begging me to spare him.

My palm shook around the gun, my aim shaky and unfocused. I saw multiple Axel’s in my kaleidoscope vision. The voices in my head were loud with commands to just end it for the both of us. There were a couple of bullets in the clip, more than enough to get the job done.

“Trey,” J’s voice was louder than them all, but it was the softest, most urgent tone I’d heard ever come from him. “It's Jermaine. We have to call 911 now. Cameron needs more help than we can offer her. The police are gonna come too, and if they see you with a gun and Axel’s dead body… you can't be there for Cam nor Nyla. Can you give it to me?”

My entire body was trembling, and I was relieved that my finger wasn't on the trigger because I knew I’d fire it. And everything would be over. “But he… and she…”

As soon as his hand touched my own, every ounce of tension released and he caught the firearm just before it began falling to the ground. “I know, I know.” He gave one gentle tug and I was sobbing in his arms, harder than I would have liked for either of them to witness. He gave me a squeeze, but his own voice sounded strained and hesitant. “She has a pulse. It's shallow, but she's alive. I don't want you looking at her right now, but you gotta know that he didn't kill her. She's not dead, okay? And the sooner they help her, the sooner she’ll get better. Okay?” He released one arm from me so he could retrieve his phone to put in the call. As it rang, he rubbed my back. “The police are gonna ask us a lot of questions, but you don't have to answer anything until there's a lawyer present, okay?”

Fifteen minutes. That's how long it took for the two ambulances to arrive; their lights blinding, their sirens deafening. During that wait, I had vomited twice onto the concrete and succumbed to the weakness. I could only sit up against the other car, eyes staring blankly at the asphalt. Shock is what they call it, I think.

That was fifteen more minutes knocked off of Cam’s life. Who knows how long she had been in that trunk. Who knows what she endured during her labor and delivery, and whatever they put her through afterwards.

I vaguely remember a couple of cops showing up and attempting to ask me questions about who I was and what was happening, but there were more important things. I tapped away on my phone with shaking fingers, carefully dialing my mom’s number.

Her soft-spoken voice as she repeated her greeting a few times is what told me this was really happening. That this wasn't a nightmare. “Tremaine, baby? Hello?”

“Ma…” I smiled against my tears, hearing her voice made me feel slightly better, that I was actually on this earth and maybe I wasn't alone. “You gotta meet us at the hospital.”

She didn't ask questions. She didn't try and pry answers from me. She immediately picked up on the tone in my voice and she knew. “Alright, I'll be there as soon as I can be.”

/.\

They didn't admit me into a room, but they did patch me up. The cleaning solution or whatever it was they used on my cuts didn't faze me. How could it? It was nothing compared to what I felt on the inside. My ribs were only badly bruised so they gave me this wrap to wear and insisted on no heavy lifting or bending.

Upon my release, there was a nurse waiting for me holding a pink bundle in her arms. Her eyes lit up when she saw me, and we met in the middle of the hallway. “You're this darling’s father, right?”

I only nodded at first. “Is she okay?”

Jayla was what her name tag read. “She's in perfect health. Maybe a little hungry, but nothing to be concerned about. Do mind if I ask you some questions for her birth records?”

I shrugged a shoulder when she was in my arms, but followed the nurse to her station. I recited my first and last name along with my birthday, as well as Cam’s information. She asked for my daughter’s full name, birthday, eye and hair color, and her weight. I had no problem answering until the last question. I had no clue how much she weighed.

“I don't… I don't know.”

She didn't understand at first, but her face softened and she offered me a genuine smile. “Come with me and we can get her weighed.” I hesitated when she reached her arms out for her, and reluctantly followed her to the nursery. She unwrapped and undressed Nyla before placing her on a scale. “She was full term?”

I nodded.

“Hm,” she couldn't help but smile as Nyla fussed from the breeze. I was going to lash out on her, but she easily got her to calm down. “Daddy won't let anything happen to you, princess. He's right here, see?”

I brought her close to me, cradled her to my chest, and she completely relaxed like she already committed my touch to her memory.

“She's five pounds, eleven ounces.” She couldn't stop smiling at me. “I'm going to get her feet printed for her birth certificate, okay?” She stepped away from her computer to retrieve what she needed and I ran my finger down Nyla’s delicate little foot. When Jayla came back, she waited a moment before speaking. “Alright, baby. This is gonna be really cold, okay?” The pad of ink against her feet initiated another cry, and I swallowed hard. “I know, I know. I'm so sorry, baby.” When she was satisfied with her work, she giggled. “Alright, Daddy will make it all better.”

I redressed her and swaddled her like a burrito when her feet were cleaned off, and I sprinkled some kisses right along the edge of her little hat.

“T-Thank you,” I said to Jayla.

Her smile widened, became brighter as she handed me a small card. “If you need anything, anything at all, you can contact me here. Congrats on the miracle.” When she didn't get a response, she stepped away and went back to work. I shoved her card in my pocket and made my way from the nursery and to the general waiting room.

J was already waiting, patched up and in pain near the back. We met eyes, and he looked away briefly before sighing deeply - something from his gut. “She's okay?”

I nodded as we both looked down at her. She was wide awake and looking around. “Any word on -”

“I'm not family so they won't tell me shit. Axel should be out in no time. Looked like he needed stitches.”

I wiped my eyes for the umpteenth time today and settled in silence. I felt...inhuman. None of this felt real - even my own daughter in my arms felt like a figment of my imagination. Every coo and murmur sounded foreign and nothing about her clicked in my mind that she was actually here and she was perfectly fine.

“Mumma,” I breathed, and my legs nearly broke into a sprint toward her. She had barely gotten both feet through the sliding glass door, and she hadn't even heard me, before I almost collided with her. She was much smaller than I was, but I felt like a little boy all over again in her arms. Her touch was warm, more comforting than anything I could imagine in that moment. I didn't want to be anywhere else except with her so she could protect me from my fears. “M-Mumma…”

“Trey.” I was trembling again, and she held my face tenderly while she got a good look at me. “What's happened to you?”

I looked down at the bundle in my arms, feeling to weak to begin to express half of what was going on, and my mom’s gaze followed my own. Her lips parted to speak, but nothing came out. She wanted to be excited, and I knew she was, but she knew something was off. Her fingers were featherlight against my daughter’s face, and the tears weren't far off. She met my eyes as a way to ask if this was real. “Her name is Nyla Rose,” I whimpered. “She's your granddaughter…”

She was at a loss for words, but her wet eyes held so many questions.

“Mumma, we gotta talk… where's Forrest?”

[dontsee-observe]

Armitage Hux x Reader ~ See You Soon - Modern AU

(This is an AU where Hux is the leader of a gang. Enjoy.)

The stench of sweat clung to the air, bodies pressing against each other in a way to forget something or live out unimaginable fantasies. Such things were only found here, in the abandoned back alleyways of the lost and forgotten, of those who could do nothing but settle here to find refuge. Whether the refuge was from your own mind or the outside world was always left up to the patron. Drinks, girls, drugs, men and sex. All were factors that played parts in the scene, mingling together flashing lights that could send a drunk man spiraling onto the dance floor in a stupor. Hux wasn’t fond of these places, and neither was Kylo, but these places, no matter how stingy and desperate, were always filled with information.

Want to find someone who’s been gone for years?

They know where they are. Whether that’s dead in an alley or sneaking out of the country depends on who you’re asking for.

“Booth for…” Hux paused, glancing at the uncomfortable Kylo behind him. Kylo seemed to notice his non-verbal question and quickly shook his head, disgusted by even the prospect of it. “..one." 

The woman behind the counter paused for a moment, glancing between the two of them and then sent him a smile. Always polite, no matter how lecherous they really are. "Number 24. It’s down the second hallway on the left. Just follow down there, it should be on the right.” She paused and her eyes lit up in that glint that Hux had seen down here too many times. “Do enjoy your time, sir.” She purred the words and then stayed there, waiting for the next bill-filled customer.

Hux gave a curt nod before following her instructions to a tee, dodging clinging bodies that tried to lure him into the crowd of the delirious and solemn. He couldn’t get caught up here, doing such a thing would be dangerous and could set him in a warehouse with a gun pressed to his head. Information spread fast here, and that meant information about him too. No one was safe here, not even those who ruled these areas. Dodging past a leering woman who started to press against Kylo he slipped into room 24. As soon as he was in nicotine assaulted his nose, stinging his eyes and leaving a bitter taste in his mouth. He didn’t mind though, instead enjoying the soothing atmosphere that drowned out the bass of that desperate music. 

“Please, come in.” The sultry voice spoke through the fog and he followed, walking up the stairs to find himself in front of a dimly lit booth. An ash tray sat proudly in the middle of the mahogany table, countless buds of cigarettes left in a colored tray. The cushions were a deep red, the material seeming to be almost velvet. He slid in politely, hands supporting himself as he set himself across the disfigured person in front of him. She was definitely a woman though, the voice giving it away.

Hux didn’t care about gender though, he only needed information.

“So, what are you here for?” You didn’t move and Hux squinted slightly, trying to get a better picture of you. You noticed his curiosity, laughter ringing through the area as you waved your hand to dissipate the smoke surrounding the both of you. It worked, just enough for him to see the smirking lips and glinting eyes that watched his every movement. You seemed to be looking him up and down, assessing him like a cheetah would a wounded gazelle. 

“Information.” There was a slight pause as he answered and you put the cigarette wound in your fingers up to your lips, taking a long drag before releasing it. You had the courtesy to tilt away and up a bit, making sure not to hit him. Generous and careful despite searching for prey, quite the woman you were. Slowly, you released the smoke.

“Everyone looks for information. It just depends on what kind you’re looking for.” Cryptic but not quite so at the same time. Hux paused, such a response usually only came from those who were ready to set down a deal. He had to tread carefully here.

“Well, I heard from a regular around here that this place was the best for information that fueled wars between dangerous parties.” There was a pause again and you were staring at him again.

“I see…” You glanced a chance at the door and smirked upon seeing Kylo stationed there, back as stiff as a board as he settled himself at the front of the entryway. “You have a very… interesting bodyguard.” You quickly switched the conversation, avoiding the inevitable. 

“Yes, I guess you could say that.” Hux paused again, taking a glance at Kylo, smirking when he noticed that desperate woman slowly inching towards him again. It seemed that he hadn’t completely shaken her. “But, I suppose we should get down to business.” You turned to him again, lips pulling down in a frown as you sighed, stubbing out your cigarette. 

“Before we get there… Cigarette?” You pushed one out of your box, raising a brow at him in questioning. Hux shrugged, rolling his eyes in reluctant agreement. Might as well relax for now. 

You smirked the slightest bit, pushing out two cigarettes. You slid them out, holding one out for Hux. He took it, pressing the cigarette to his lips, waiting patiently as you brought out your lighter. You set your own cig in your parted lips, letting it settle there as you lean forward, holding the lighter out between the two of you. You pause and wait for him, and Hux raises an eyebrow but eventually meets you halfway, the cigarette in his mouth only centimeters away from yours. You smile, the cigarette in your mouth lifting as you stare at him from under your lashes. You quickly flick your eyes back down to the cigarettes and flick the metal on the lighter, producing a flame that makes heat caress the bottom of his jaw in warning. You lift the flame, pressing it between the two cigarettes, disappearing when the cigarettes start to smoke and light up.

“What gang are you wanting to…” You pause, eyes running over his suit and tie. “…corrupt?” Hux almost raised an eyebrow at your choice of words but refrained from doing so, knowing your slight accusation was correct.

“The Resistance. Particularly a few choice individuals.” His words started to lower and you pressed forward to make sure you could still hear him. Your eyebrows twitched and Hux shifted, moving farther from the door. “Poe Dameron,” You straightened up. “Rey and Finn. Their last names are unknown at this moment but I’m sure you know as to who I’m referring.” You lean back, neck laying on the top of the cushion.

“You’re into some really deep shit aren’t you?” Your head slowly lolled back, narrowed eyes zoning in on him. “Those three names are really starting to circulate around here. Poe is actually a regular, settling down for drinks and eager women.” Hux couldn’t help but to think about how he could catch the man here and drag him away. You noticed this quickly though, shooting down his wandering thoughts. “I wouldn’t recommend going after him here though. You and whatever party you could bring would be thrown out so quick you wouldn’t even be able to spit in Poe’s direction.”

Hux nods slowly, having a hard time pushing the idea completely away. It’s always a possibility, no matter what warnings he receives beforehand. You watch him suspiciously, but eventually go back to talking.

“Rey and Finn… Those two have started a type of rebellion around in these parts, bringing out the best and worst in some of our patrons. They’re not usually around here though. Maybe they think they’re too good for these places, or maybe they just aren’t that desperate yet.” Your eyes were holding onto his in a type of silent judging and Hux sneered slightly. “I do hear that they tend to hang around the local repair shops though. The girl is into some major mechanics and Finn just follows her around nervously. If you really want them I suggest you-”

“I don’t need your suggestions.” Hux barely pulls his cigarette out in time to sneer, hissing out the words like they’ve left a bitter taste in his mouth. You raise an eyebrow at his prideful figure that is looking down at you like you’re nothing more than another parasite.

The accusation isn’t far off.

“Well, even if you don’t need them, you might want them for future reference.” In frustration you stub out your barely-used cigarette, eyes narrowing down to glare at him. “I’ve seen these things go down so many times I know what I’m talking about.” Hux doesn’t care about your justification though. He stubs out his cigarette too.

“And I also know what I’m doing. I don’t need a ‘woman of the night’ to give me instructions like a child learning how to walk. I’ve been doing this long enough to know what to do even in the most urgent of situations.” Hux glances to the door, as if pondering whether he should leave or not. You sneer at him, fingers holding onto the table tightly in a way to quell your anger. 

To call a woman that here was belittling them and indicating you thought yourself superior. 

Nobody here was more important than another. Not in this broke down building.

“I would watch your tongue if I was you. Word might get to those who won’t hesitate to rip your gang apart.” You hiss the words, watching as Hux turns to face you, eyebrows raised as an amused smirk plays on his lips. 

“Is that a threat?” Hux challenges, taunting almost. 

“Yes. It is.” He pauses at your bold words but he still seems amused, almost in a sort of unsettling way.

“I see.” The words are purred and suddenly the air has changed from hostile to a more suffocating atmosphere. “Then please, go ahead and suggest what I might do to catch those two.” His head slowly rises the slightest bit. You pause, relaxing a bit in your chair as your hands release their tight grip on the table, falling into your lap.

“What is your name?” The question surprises him and his head falls just barely, eyes watching you cautiously. 

“Hux.” He drawls the word out slowly, still watching you suspiciously.

“Hux.” You let his name slide of your tongue and his eyes narrow even more. You smirk, looking directly at him. “Well, Hux, I would say to befriend or get a hold of the bosses of repair shops they usually visit. Then, convince the bosses to capture the two of them. Maybe even send in undercover, but armed, men of yours just in case something happens.” You huff out a small laugh. 

Silence hangs in the after your words have been spoken. Hux seems to be evaluating them and eventually gives a stiff nod, sliding out of the booth quickly. You raise a brow and he heads to the door, watching as Kylo shoves the woman on him away in disgust. Suddenly, before you can stop yourself, you speak again.

“(Y/n).” Hux pauses in his stride and turns to look at you, his eyebrows raised in question. “If you ever need more information ask for (Y/n).” 

There’s another tense pause and he smirks a bit, staring at you intensely. “And why should I do that?” You smirk.

“You’re interested in me and I’m interested in you. Plus I have the information you need. Quite the win-win would you agree?” Hux bypasses the information part as if you hadn’t even said it.

“And who said I was interested in you?” You laugh at his obvious question, your amusement bouncing off the walls and causing him to furrow his brows. Hux knows the people here never laugh so… So… Whole-heartedly. It was unnerving.

“You did.” Your words obviously confuse him as his lips purse and his nose scrunches the slightest bit. 

He never fully understood these people. But, when he looks you up and down, seeing the almost mischievous glint in your eyes he knows he doesn’t have to. Besides, it wasn’t like anyone understood him either.

He gives another curt nod and keeps walking to the door, when shoulder-to-shoulder with Kylo he speaks out a few words that have you smirking once again.

“See you soon (Y/n).”

[seenashwrite]

The Last Job

Status: Complete  Word Count: 3.5K    Category: One-shot; Behind-the-scenes canon-compliant; Family; Life choices Rating: Teen & Up Character(s): References to familiar people/places Pairing(s): N/A Warnings: Mild coarse language Author’s Note(s):  While this little vignette can be read as a stand-a-lone, highly recommend you check out “Hello, I’m Gone” if you haven't already - and if you *have* read that one and found something to like about it, then I suspect you’ll find something to enjoy in this one, too. Overall Summary: A long-time client gives a contractor his final assignment.

The sky was different in Texas. He couldn’t speak to Arizona or Colorado or Nevada, or even Mexico, but he knew what he knew.  It was something about the way the sun cut through, something about the tint of the blue.  

He traveled, albeit limited distances and for limited amounts of time. Texas was a big state, though not so big as to be gone long enough for his wife to fret. His work was no-nonsense and he was extra appreciated amongst his current clientele for his frugality, his efficiency.  

They’d initially claimed to have no care for messy versus clean, but he knew better. They’d rather keep unknown, to where few a souls on earth as possible would even suspect they existed. Everything worked better for them this way; seemed they had no desire to be summoned all over the globe.  

He could see that - he’d lived in the lone star state all his life, and had no pull to elsewhere. The constant position of the dials on public radios and televisions to the news channels that catered to the aptitudes of the lowest common denominator was vexing. He imagined the future would be the same way. Nothing ever seemed to change in Texas. Blessing or curse, depending on your perspective.

Less vexing, but still annoying, was how the vast number of gun-carrying, bravado-swinging, cowboy hat-and-boot wearers had no practical, economical, life reasons for doing so. Dropped into a middle-of-nowhere scenario, they’d perish quickly. But all that posturing comforted them, and the conclusion he’d arrived at many moons ago was that for him, this was fortunate, to be surrounded by so many who were content. Unaware. Placid. Stereotypical.

And in a similar vein, he’d already been informed his last job was exactly that - basic. In and out. He’d actually hoped for more, hoped for a challenge, hoped for perhaps the comfort of a one-last-hoorah scenario where maybe, just maybe, it’d get a little messy for once and he’d get taken out in the process.

He wasn’t having suicidal ideations; he was being pragmatic. Anonymous body in another town, filed in a line of cold cases, and his family would move on, eventually. They wouldn’t have to suffer through it, watching him fade away.

Weeks ago, on a chilly morning in a park near, but not too near, his home, the designated attaché had appeared seemingly from nowhere. This was, as they say, par for the course. He was used to it, the air of strangeness accompanying his best customer. Rather, customers - seemed to be an alignment of at least two parties, far as he could tell. 

He found it easier to just think of the one at hand as the client versus dwelling too long on how many of them were really behind the curtain. It was supposed to go that the same one would never come twice, though he was pretty sure it’d happened a couple times and they were just outfitted differently. Maybe their ranks were thinning.

It wasn’t often his sort of folk actually got contracted for jobs. Come to think, he’d never even heard of such a proposition, not in his entire life. Somebody would’ve ran their mouth about it, to be sure. He chewed on the thought that perhaps he was a bit of a pioneer in that respect, if such arrangements would keep on long after he was gone.

Rewards and acknowledgment in his line of work were few and far between, some of his ilk never seeing either at all in their lifetimes. And so in that respect, these employers of his were the best, foremost because they paid. But to be fair, he supposed it was more than that.

He was always given clear, precise locations and times, so on-the-nose he had no idea how they were doing it. And no paper trail, just how he liked it. Instruction came verbally, read from a small, rectangular device they all kept in their pockets that lit up at the touch of a finger.

He’d never gotten a good look at it, would simply commit to memory what they said. He’d never asked to look at it, and they’d never offered. Besides, it was too Star Trek. His eldest loved that old show, got his little brother into watching the reruns. He couldn’t hardly stand the thought of things like that, not for going on eight months now.  

The well-dressed man - sporting what his wife would’ve kindly described as an “interesting” haircut - had walked towards the bench, removing a pair of reflective-lens aviators, letting out a low whistle, eyeing him up and down.  

“Jesus. You’re eaten up with it.”

He’d shrugged, said that last part was true, but then informed his very last client there was no savior to be found here.

The client had laughed a little too hard. “Yeah, yeah, no God in the streets, no church in the wild, I got it.”

He’d assumed those statements referred to something but had no clue what, so he’d offered a tight-lipped trace of a smile in acknowledgment.  

A reply in the form of a sigh floated over as his visitor took a seat at the other end of the bench. “Always aaaall business with you,” the client commented, beginning to remove what he knew would be a fat envelope from the inside pocket of the pinstripe suit jacket. Then there was a pause - the arm extended in his direction, a finger raised. “You need a tune up first?  I can -–”

He’d interrupted, refused.  

The client’s eyes had grown dark and icy. “I’m not offering for your comfort. I have bosses to report to. I need to know the job’s gonna get done and you’re not gonna get all shaky, or go blind, or collapse. Get it?”

He could always tell from which faction of his clientele the dispatcher hailed, these messengers sent like clockwork every other Wednesday of every month to meet with him for around fifteen years now. The one down the bench was amongst those who dressed to the nines, walked with swagger, were more conversational and witty. The others tended to dress in a random array of seemingly whatever they could manage, had stiff gaits, impersonal to the point of being flat and rude.

So the shot across the bow was a little unexpected. Either way, he hadn’t ever been intimidated by any of them. This continued to be the case, especially now.

Call someone else then, he’d replied calmly.  And he’d held up his dominant hand. Steady as a rock.

The client nodded, handed over the envelope. It didn’t take long to relate the details. And then he watched as the client stood, re-buttoned the pristinely tailored jacket, adjusted a skinny tie, returned the shiny sunglasses to what always seemed to be a smirking face.  

Fidgety bastard, he’d thought as he watched the preening. Then he’d spoken one last time before his client zipped away. He wanted to know why the one standing before him - or another of the unique members making up the collective - weren’t handling it themselves. It seemed a little too simple. Too easy.

“It just may be. But they’d see me coming. Any of my kind. Or our partners. You? They won’t even notice.”

He supposed so, and shrugged his reply, because it was true - no one ever had.

A sly grin, a curt nod. “That’s why we like you, Buck. Might even miss you.”  

Now that was off-putting. The use of his nickname. No one outside of his wife - and his dearly departeds - should’ve known. None of his work associates, past nor present, ever knew this nickname.

His real name was something of an eye-roller, “old-timey” as his wife might’ve said. He thought it was cringe-worthy, never felt right on him. All the first-born boys in the family, back as far as they knew, had carried it. He - and everyone else up the line, at least back to his triple-great-granddaddy - had all had taken on nicknames. His own eldest was just called “Junior”.

He had been known in the family as simply “Buck” since he was born, and his father had become “Big Buck” following that day. Even after the man’s death that’s what everybody still called him, and he’d heard the story more than once. How, even as a kid, there was no tradition, no “that’s how we’ve always done things”, that Big Buck didn’t like to question. 

Bucking the system - that was the both of them, boiled down to a nutshell. His father had liked carrying that mantle, and so did he. Shame it wouldn’t be on his tombstone. 

And while he was pondering, just like that, the client was gone. Not that he’d have expected the truth, should he have made the inquiry. Not that it mattered anymore.

He made sure to switch over to his other self during the short walk to the truck and the drive back out to the house. Jovial and kind, kidding and chuckling with the bag boy at the supermarket. He was supposed to bring home a few things to complete supper later.

Most hunters didn’t bother with a ruse, but most hunters didn’t have families to consider like his always had. Like the legacy of the name, his line had all kept families. Defying the system as it were, long before the big and little Bucks came on the scene, marrying within their own community of like-minded folks and keeping up the family business. 

Which is how every last one of them had been wiped out.

He wasn’t going to make the same mistake. Married a sweet gal he’d met at a sock-hop and never looked back. Kept her and the boys in the dark for their own good.

She’d made too much for just the two of them, as usual. He’d still eat every bite served. He’d tried for awhile to reduce his girth, but his face got skinny and he thought his baseball caps didn’t sit the same way. His knees had felt better, and he’d briefly missed that barely-owned muscle car. 

All that was of no import now. Besides, his wife had been tickled pink that he’d gone back to second helpings of her comfort food. He wondered if he’d be able to recall her smile and her hugs and her kisses once he was gone. 

Junior was at a girlfriend’s house for dinner that evening, first time meeting the parents and such. He’d loaned the kid his church tie, even, so he knew his son must’ve really liked this one. The “kid” was out of his teens, and more than anxious to be out of the nest, though his mother was fighting it tooth and nail. Their youngest wouldn’t be home for awhile yet still; basketball practice always seemed to run long these days.

He looked through the mail while sitting at the table and smelling the fried chicken cooking. He’d have to feign some good-natured annoyance at the bills. He briefly thought on her reaction, if she’d be angry at the sizable chunk of money she’d have after he was gone. 

It’d be when she went to put the safety deposit boxes in just her name, likely dig through them while she was there. He’d made it seem like they had to survive on paltry Social Security and his equally dismal railroad pension. And of course, the bit of money from what she thought were under-the-table long-hauls he’d occasionally take on for the extra cash.  

Amongst the usual items, there was the annual Christmas card they’d consistently received, from that little girl they’d sold the Impala to several years back. She’d moved on from Kansas to Montana, with her new husband. The first card they’d gotten was just after the move - barely mentioned it, though, since it was filled up with apologies for selling the car. Neither he nor his wife cared. She was safe, and she was happy, and they were happy for her.

She’d gotten up to three kids now, according to the picture inside, looked to be that she’d had them back-to-back-to-back. Two boys and a girl. It actually gave him a genuine smile, before it hit him again: he’d never have grandbabies. Figured he’d give a go at pretending she was his daughter and those pretty, chubby-cheeked cherubs were his never-to-bes, maybe coax a dream when he tried to sleep.

That creepy sumbitch she’d been married to had actually come out from Dallas, tracked her all the way to Lubbock somehow. He’d already looked into who the dirtbag was, on a job that had taken him to that area. Later on, after good old-fashioned laziness caused an end to the jerk’s pursuit, he’d found the louse in a dive bar, just as he’d been promised.

It was the only favor he’d ever asked of his clients, asked it of one of the more drab contacts. The snotty ones would’ve wanted to make a deal of some sort for the information. They had, before, when his wife had gotten in a bad way. It’d been almost a decade prior. All the docs had given her six months. But he’d already let one of the messengers know, two jobs back, that his own ticket would likely be punched before his bill came due. They’d shrugged.

That business with the rescued girl was the only time he’d made an exception, taking care of something personal, something on the side. Something purely human. Not exactly his usual lot.

He’d taken care of it after the job, of course. Somehow wouldn’t have seemed appropriate not to. It never made the news, he’d checked. That pathetic excuse for a man only’d had one person to bother with him for awhile now, and she was in another life, long gone.

Marrying his wife, being a father, and looking out for that girl often seemed like the only noble things he’d done. Didn’t matter that perhaps these new sort of hunts were saving innocents on the back end. To him it was killing, and it had always been killing. 

It gave him a measure of peace, selling her the car for cheap. He’d slept like a baby for the rest of that summer. Til the next job came around, of course.

His assigned targets weren’t yet bumps in the night. His client had proven their eerily predictive skills to him. They’d given him several folks to watch over the course of a month, all those years ago, when he’d first been approached.

Down to the minute, they’d been right about when bites would occur, when the vengeance of unfinished business would begin. Reminded him how he’d been out of the game too long and was too old and out of shape to take on beasts. To prevent the transformations themselves. 

But perhaps he could still prevent the suffering of countless others by beating monsters to the punch with one long-distance shot. They’d shown him with those first few examples that his marks would be the most vicious. These were the sort who would wreak the most havoc upon their unholy conversions. 

He’d witnessed it. The first year, his employers had insisted he simply surveil, and these freshman nightcrawlers had indeed left miles of misery in their wake. Other hunters could take care of what got them that way, it was explained; the risk of these particular folks getting turned, whether today or tomorrow, was just too big a gamble any way you sliced it. 

It had somehow made for a twisted sort of logic at the time.

This last job was to happen in five days. A married couple. He’d taken care of women before, didn’t violate what sliver of a moral code he still possessed. The emotionless fellow who’d brought that first one to him had actually shown a touch of surprise when he didn’t even blink.  

He woke his wife and the boys just after dawn, kissing them all goodbye. He’d just be popping up to Kansas, he reminded them, be back in a few days. They understood - he’d made sure to do some extra complaining about the mortgage over the days prior, so it’d seem like sense, his making an exception to the no-out-of-state hauls rule. He’d pull extra cash from the box on his way back home to make the story stick.

“Bye, Pops,” the boys had mumbled with yawns and stretches.

“Love you, Buck, you be good,” his wife had sleepily said.

The tall, pretty blonde was out on the front porch putting up Christmas lights, then moving on to hanging a sparse wreath on the door. It looked homemade. The tail of one of the strings of lights fell and he could see her sigh as she pulled the little step stool back over and climbed up again. She moved slowly and carefully, that huge belly clearly impacting her balance.

His commissioners had neglected to mention this particular detail.

He kept watching as a shiny black Impala not unlike his old one pulled up right at sunset. The woman and God and everybody for a square mile had to have known about the arrival, that deep growl of an engine heralding the approach. She met her husband on the porch, gave as big a hug as her belly would allow, and she received an equally loving embrace right back, unwashed greased-stained hands be damned. She didn’t seem to care when some of it smudged off onto her cream-colored sweater when her belly got a rub.

He followed the strapping, jet-haired husband the next morning, sitting far enough away to go unnoticed but still close enough to watch through the garage’s open doors, drinking coffee from his beat up thermos, the one that, a lifetime ago, only held distilled water and a crucifix.  His targets were not far short of children in his eyes, this half just a boy - a kid not unlike Junior, he thought. But a hard worker, no doubt; whipped through four cars and had started on the fifth by the time lunch rolled around. Smiled and chatted with the other mechanics all along the way.

Then the engine whisperer sat on a nearby curb, eating a sack lunch the wife must’ve packed. Good time to leave, check on what she was up to. Wanted to give her enough time to ease into her day. He recalled the slow starts that came with being so close to giving birth. And he knew from experience how close she was; the baby would arrive before February rolled around, he’d bet money.

She left the house after lunch, looked like a friend had come to pick her up. Her eyebrows knit and her nose crinkled as she passed by her handiwork from the evening prior. That same ornery tail of tiny sparkles had come loose again, apparently not agreeing with the nail he’d watched her hammer into the front of the porch’s overhang.

The roof didn’t look all that good. He was curious as to whether she or her husband realized their desperate need for new shingles. Paint was chipping all over the exterior. He’d have a look around inside later, once he was sure she was occupied, but he suspected he’d find more of the same - they were young, they had a baby to plan for, and they hardly had anything but each other.

He remembered those days clear as a bell. His mind hadn’t gone yet. Curse or blessing, depending on your perspective.

She and the friend had gone to a little consignment shop. They browsed, he browsed. Looked like she purchased some bedding for the crib he imagined was ready to go inside their house, given her husband’s work ethic. Then they stopped by a garage sale. She bought an angel figurine. He found it both sweet and futile, all at the same time. All dicks, far as he’d been able to tell.

But resolved, both the unfeathered and the shark-eyed bastards alike. They’d send others to the modest house on Robintree; could be they already had. Maybe they’d be successful next time they tried. For now, they could go to hell.

Which is what he said aloud while he was driving back home. Just passed through Oklahoma City when the same messenger who’d delivered the assignment popped into the truck’s cab without warning. Looked more than simply irritated - seemed pretty beat down. Perhaps their little jaunts to come see him wore them out more than they’d let on.

Seeing as how he hadn't gotten his last hurrah, the warning he expected was issued. About a month left on the clock. The payment was returned - minus the chunk that now resided in the Impala's glove box, wrapped in a brief note that implied they should just accept they had their own secret Santa. There was a roll of darkened eyes, followed by as abrupt an exit as the arrival.

He made sure he was out of state again, staying in a dingy motel in a bad part of the random city he’d selected. And he thought hard on the couple he’d chosen to spare as he laid quietly atop the stained bedspread, eyes closed and smiling. Even when he heard the dogs begin to howl.

See Nash Write : Master  /  See Nash Write : Mobile

🏷️🏷️Wanna be tagged? Hit me up! 🏷️🏷️

[itsnelkabelka]

Speech: Britain and France: Past, Present and Future

It is a great pleasure to be here in Paris this morning, in this historic setting.

This is – to use a little English understatement - an important moment in the future of the relationship between our countries.

There have been many such moments in the long sweep of our history, and we know, without a doubt, that there will be many more in the decades to come.

What matters is what we decide to do with those moments.

Those decisions fall to each generation.

To plot their own course and determine their destiny and that of their countries.

What is unique about the relationship between Britain and France is the extent to which those decisions, those destinies, have been, are, and will be, entwined.

That long history has, as we all know, had…let me put it diplomatically… its high and its lows.

And it is a relationship of competition and cooperation, similarity and difference.

Indeed my view is that it is precisely that mix which gives it its strength – because we have made a choice – for nearly 200 years – to work together.

And it is my contention that the relationship between our countries – born of shared geography, history and culture, and forged through joint struggle and sacrifice, is as important today as it has ever been; that our fortunes are as bound together as they have ever been; and that the case for the closest possible partnership between Britain and France is as strong as it has ever been.

But how that partnership evolves depends on the decisions we make now.

So today I want to look at things in the round – to consider our past, our present and our future – the future that, yes does mean getting Brexit right, but which goes beyond that and will be for the next generation to build.

The Past

But I want to start with the past.

This week – of all weeks – our shared past has particular resonance and weight.

This Sunday, at 11 o’clock, it will be 100 years exactly since the guns fell silent on the Western front.

At the Arc de Triomphe here in Paris and at the Cenotaph in London, and in towns and villages across France and Britain, our countries will commemorate the end of the War.

Tomorrow, the French President and the British Prime Minister will be together in the battlefields of the Somme – scene of some of the bloodiest fighting.

They will remember our shared sacrifice. The British Army lost 20,000 dead in a single day on 1 July 1916. The Somme was our Verdun.

This was a war which changed our countries and our continent forever.

It was a war in which our destinies as nations were yoked together – in which we fought and bled side by side for over four years – and in which, in the end, we prevailed.

We sometimes forget that in the closing months of that war, the two million soldiers of the British Army fought under French command for the first time.

The British Prime Minister, David Lloyd George, said that Marshal Foch was the ‘only general in the field with the necessary decision and vision to plan out such a campaign’.

After the Armistice, Foch said ‘I am conscious of having served England as I served my own country’ – words carved in stone beneath his statue near Victoria Station in London.

But the victory that Franco-British cooperation made possible came at a terrible price.

Across France, 575,000 British and Commonwealth soldiers lie buried, alongside 1.4 million French comrades who fell alongside them.

Row after row of silent white headstones speak more eloquently than we ever could on the strength of our alliance, and the depth of our shared sacrifice.

I am fortunate to come from a generation which has never known such horror, and which has been blessed by the peace and friendship we have built with Germany, something we will also mark this weekend.

But if our shared history has taught us anything, it is surely to value peace – and never to take it for granted.

Of course, our history goes back much further than a hundred years.

Britain’s long and complex relationship with France is one of the most important that we have with any country in the world.

We are approaching 1,000 years since William the Conqueror landed near Hastings, and the Duke of Normandy became the King of England.

The Bayeux tapestry – which chronicles the story of William’s arrival in England – turns out to have been just the opening chapter in the Franco-British story.

If we brought the tapestry up to date, it would stretch all the way from Paris to London and back.

It would tell of our highs and our lows, our friendships and our enmities, our triumphs and our defeats.

That is why President Macron’s decision to lend the Bayeux tapestry to Britain – announced at the Sandhurst Summit earlier this year - so captured the public imagination on the other side of the Channel.

It represents – literally – the common thread of our shared history, going to the heart of both countries’ identity.

That sense of similarity and difference runs through the next nine centuries.

And it extends into the most recent period of our story during which – for nearly 200 years now - Britain and France have not only been at peace, but in alliance, standing together against danger and when, twice in a century, the very existence of our nations was threatened.

The Present

Why does all this matter?

Because it is not the stuff of books and museums.

It is the underpinning of the world we built – together.

And in that world our countries are as closely connected, our story is just as interwoven as it has ever been.

Geographical neighbours; separated by 33 kilometres of what Churchill called that ‘strip of salt water’, but joined now by a tunnel through which 57,000 pass every single day.

Hundreds of thousands of our fellow citizens choose to live in each others’ countries, where they make such a valued contribution.

I would like to take this opportunity to repeat the Prime Minister’s commitment to the French people in Britain – and all EU citizens - protecting their rights after we leave the EU. And I am sure that the same assurances will be offered to British citizens living here in France.

About 12 million Britons visited France last year - and more French people visited the UK than any other nationality.

It is a relationship that is underpinned by human ties of friendship.

And at a Governmental level, by the fact that Britain and France are both European nations with a global vocations, who share the same values, and who see the world in broadly the same way. We helped fashion the global order, and we share an interest in defending it.

We face the same terrorist threats, and we know that we must work hand in hand to defeat them.

We both know that sometimes to defend the peace, you need to be ready to use military force.

We know that the threats to European peace and security are more serious than they have been for a generation, and that as Europe’s only two major military powers, we need to confront those threats together.

We both believe in nuclear deterrence, and in maintaining our deterrents for our own defence and the defence of our allies.

That is why we so often form joint positions, including on the Security Council where we both have permanent seats, to deal with an increasingly unstable world.

That is why when our countries have been attacked by terrorists, there was such an outpouring of mutual solidarity.

We will never forget the moment after the Manchester attack when President Macron walked from the Elysee Palace to the British Embassy to express France’s solidarity, and the crowd at the Stade de France sang the British national anthem – nor, when, after the Bataclan attack the crowd at Wembley sang the Marseillaise.

That is why, after the chemical weapons attack in Salisbury in March, France rallied to the UK’s side, leading a robust European response, working together to expel scores of Russian diplomats from our continent.

And in April, British and French aircraft, with our US allies, acted together to strike chemical weapons installations in Syria, and to enforce the global ban on the use of chemical weapons which was itself born out of the suffering in the trenches 100 years ago.

That is why our defence cooperation – rooted in the Lancaster House accords – is so deep.

RAF Chinook helicopters are flying missions in the Sahel, transporting French troops as part of Operation Barkhane.

Together we have forged a combined joint expeditionary force, which will be combat capable by 2020.

This year our warships have both upheld freedom of navigation by sailing through the South China Sea.

And our cooperation extends far beyond the security domain to genomics, artificial intelligence, cyber and space.

The scale and breadth of cooperation is probably closer than it has ever been.

The Future

Which brings us back to Bayeux.

Now, as President Macron said at Sandhurst, we are weaving a new tapestry.

What path will it follow, what scenes will it depict?

Because we are at a moment of decision, and the answers we give in the coming weeks and months could determine the shape of Franco-British relations, and of relations between Britain and her European partners, for many years, perhaps decades to come.

Which brings me, of course, to Brexit.

And here our history is again relevant: for all our similarities, we are also different.

I understand that for so many in France that the outcome of the referendum result was disappointing.

I know that in France the Brexit vote is often seen as Britain pulling up the drawbridge, turning its back on Europe and reaching out for ‘le grand large’.

But that is not how we see it.

And this is where our peculiar mixture of similarity and difference is important.

France sees the EU as vital to its destiny, to the stability of the continent and above all to its relationship with Germany.

We recognise that. We understand it. We value it.

But Britain has never felt quite the same, for the simple reason that our experiences have been different.

Yes, we are similar in that we are both European countries who cherish our global role.

But we differ, I believe, in our view of the process and goals of EU integration. The reality is that our public has always been reluctant about the political character of the Union and uncertain about its ultimate destination.

That made the experience of the pooling of sovereignty which the EU entails uncomfortable for us – and I think that goes a long way to explaining the result of our referendum.

Indeed for most British people, their concept of Europe has never been synonymous with the European Union.

Whereas for so many people in France, I believe, the European Union is at the heart of their notion of Europe.

Why does this matter?

Because so far in our recent history we have been able to draw strengths from our similarities, but recognise and respect our differences in the choices we have made together.

And we have now reached another such moment of decision, and the decisions we take as Governments will have far-reaching consequences.

Our people have voted in a referendum to leave the EU and its decision-making bodies.

We must respect their democratic choice.

But we intend to remain a European power into the future, as we have always been in the past.

A European power, whose values remain European values.

A European power committed to the security of the European continent.

A European power with a European economic model, with universal public services and the highest standard of consumer and environment protection.

A European power, whose children continue to do exchanges with each other and get to know and treasure each others’ countries – as I did at the age of 7 in Angers, in France; whose students study together; whose scientists and researchers and Nobel Prize winners continue to push forward the frontiers of human knowledge together.

That is the strategic choice we have made in our approach to these negotiations. From our perspective we see no contradiction in wanting to continue to work together even as the institutional relationship changes.

And so?

What does this mean for our future, and for this negotiation, which is now entering its crucial endgame?

I would suggest three things.

First, our shared past, does not, of course mean that we do not remain two nations, each pursuing our national interests as we judge them, in the interests of the people we are elected to serve.

But, having thought deeply about these issues, my view is that just as our interest and choice is to remain close to Europe, the EU’s interest lies too in close cooperation – for our security, our economies and our peoples.

So I hope that we can redouble our efforts to reach an agreement.

Second, we each need to make a particular effort to understand the other’s perspective.

I know there are concerns that a deal which allows the UK to have the advantages of membership without the obligations, could lead to unfair competition and ultimately to the unravelling of the EU.

I want to be 100 percent clear. We have heard those concerns, and we believe that we can address them. Indeed that the only way to address them is for an ambitious agreement that provides the kind of guarantees necessary.

Remember this basic fact.

From 29 March next year, we will be on the outside, not the inside.

There will be no British Prime Minister turning up at European Council meetings, no Ministers deciding new legislation, no British MEPs, no British judges on the European Court of Justice.

So we are not, as is sometimes suggested, even occasionally here in France, trying to have our ‘cake and eat it’.

But we have offered a framework for our future relationship which should give you confidence that we are not going to pursue a race to the bottom, and which would allow our economic and security relationships to continue, not as they were before – but on a dependable basis on which we could continue to build in the years ahead.

A relationship in which the UK will be a third country – but would remain tied by bonds of friendship and commerce for decades to come.

The alternatives do not deliver that certainty. They make a choice for friction – at our border with queues at Dover and Calais, in the exchange of information between our security services and in greater divergence in our rules and regulation.

That choice would seem to me to be a mistake.

My last point is this.

This is not a dry, technical discussion, although sometimes it can seem that way – with all the talk of regulatory standards and implementation periods and the like.

At heart, it is about the destiny of our ancient nations - and of our ancient continent – and how best we shape our future as European nations.

About how we weave the next chapter of the tapestry and what story it will tell.

That is why I feel so passionately that we need to get this right, that we need to make the right choices in the weeks to come.

So that the generations who come after us and look across the Channel will see that in 2019 Britain left the European Union, and a chapter ended.

But the story of the European Union continued, and that the story of Britain’s friendship and alliance with Europe and above all with France not only endured, but grew in strength.

In other words the end of a chapter did not mean the end of the book. Far from it. It mean the beginning of a new chapter, in which we found new ways to work closely together.

Those future generations will see, I hope, that confronted with the common threats before us, and which are growing, we faced up to them together.

That together we defended the post-war international order and institutions that are today under threat.

That we together stayed true to our values and democratic principles that are being challenged – in practice and in theory – as never before in my lifetime.

That we together adapted to the challenges and opportunities that globalisation is posing to our economies and more importantly our societies.

I know it is not easy but that is my hope.

That is Britain’s hope.

I believe that is France’s hope, and that of our European partners.

Let’s find the political will – as friends, as allies, as partners – to turn that hope into reality.

from Announcements on GOV.UK https://ift.tt/2Dv2d2N via IFTTT

[jackcarson-foxfutureworks]

I HAVE AN ISSUE WITH | OVERWATCH (Critical Analysis)

A POOR COMMUNITY THAT DISINTEGRATES INTEGRAL COOPERATION AND A FLAWED SYSTEM THAT FAILS TO REWARD AND PUNISH ACCORDINGLY

There are many fantastic games out there that are near flawless, with little issues here and there, and many games that would be fantastic if not for some major issues, so what happens when there is a fantastic game but it also has one major issue?

I’ve had this experience quite often lately, not just with the game I will be talking about in this post, but during the last couple of years, where I game I believed to be of fantastic quality is impacted by one huge problem I just can’t shake. Now, don’t be taking my valuation of levels in “quality” as gospel. To understand my opinions on this matter I need to explain to you that although the major issue impacts the game, it does not affect my valuation nor the time and effort I invest in the game, because at the end of the day I want these games to be of the best quality they can possibly be and I feel that my ongoing support and constructive criticism will allow them to reach such heights.

And so welcome to “I Have An Issue With…”, and the first offering on the table is Overwatch on PC, more specifically, the competitive side of the game. Before we dive (comp) in, I must warn you, if you haven’t played Overwatch or don’t know much about it then I suggest avoiding this post since I will be condensing many things that might make more sense to a fan but is simply gibberish to an outsider.

I’d be lying if I didn’t say Overwatch is a fantastic game and one of my personal top ten games of the past year. The gameplay (when not impacted by the following issues) is incredibly fun and the world is full of interesting places and characters, add to that a bunch of intriguing in-game and outside lore that breathes new life during every new content drop and you’ve got a cracker of a hero based and team orientated shooter. However, this major issue I have with Overwatch isn’t the mechanics or characters (although I do have some concerns with them), but the community surrounding the game.

Now, it’s important to clarify that I am referring to the in-game community explicitly and that you differentiate between them and the fun, creative and amazing community you see outside the game creating brilliant content online, participating at conventions and being generally supportive of the game and its future. On the other hand, the in-game community is crawling with increasing numbers of negative players, and I don’t just mean these people claim to have had sexual intercourse with my mother, but their participation, in some way or another, is actively trying to hinder their team’s chances of winning.

Trash talking is the basic symptom of a negative player but it’s much deeper than that. Many of the issues I will be addressing aren’t even something new to the game, they’ve always been there, mostly infecting Quick Play but in recent seasons has managed to spread into the Competitive mode at an alarming and ever-increasing rate.

Firstly, I’m going to address the average “thrower”, a player who sabotages a team on purpose based on their actions. The average thrower that I’ve experienced is someone who will pick a hero, who might not be ideal for the situation the team is in and not only be completely useless to team while the rest of us do our share of the effort but they won’t change under any circumstance. It’s all well and good if you’re playing well as that hero, but these people need to understand that no matter how many wins you have with that hero or if you have their golden guns that sometimes a change of hero is necessary to aid the team progressing. They tend to solo queue and remain silent throughout the game and although this isn’t necessarily an immediate bad sign, as I don’t engage in the voice chat myself unless with a friend (because I believe it isn’t imperative to successful teamwork), but they won’t even use the text chat which I use with ease when not lending my voice. This creates an obvious barrier between the team and themselves, indicating to us that they clearly don’t care for teamwork.

Moving on up, it may evolve into a combination of not listening to team suggestions and trash-talking those who give the slightest critical feedback, and in some cases, they’ll even outright admit they are throwing. The biggest problem these players create is disruption within the team, leading to rare occurrences where another player may begin to throw the game because they don’t see any chance of winning with the original thrower so what’s the point they often ask. The situation worsens as the number of throwing players increases, and although a number higher than two is an incredibly rare problem at the moment I’m not quite sure how long that shall last.

It’s clear to me that “toxicity” in Overwatch is now at an all-time high and it seems to only get higher, but that’s just one part of the problem. Negative players can be found in every multiplayer game but never have I seen a more wretched hive of scum and villainy than Overwatch, especially when it affects someone’s enjoyment and/or Competitive rank.

So how does Blizzard combat negative players? Well, by having a report function of course…except that’s where things tend to go downhill again. It may be simple to just pull up the report screen, type in your issue and click send, feeling smug that you’ve exterminated one of the vermins but don’t be getting too ahead of yourself. As of Overwatch’s current game state, the report system does not give feedback, so there is no indication that any action was taken against the reported player nor does it seem like it has done anything to solve the amount of negativity. I do understand that Blizzard has recently announced upcoming changes that will attempt to fix the report system with more outcomes of increasing punishment for consistent negative players with valid reports against them, however, I don’t feel that will solve the frequency of them in the game overall, just for the Competitive scene. It’s (hopefully) a step in the right direction but I’d love to see the Overwatch of the early days which was far more friendly and had way more positive vibes upon loading the game up than whatever this cesspool of fun sucking vampires is where I’m praying to the Overwatch gods each night to be blessed with competent team members.

This might sound to some as being “salty” or being a crybaby but I’m sure those people might find similarities between the issues I’ve addressed and themselves. I’m also not the only one to voice my concern, otherwise, Blizzard wouldn’t be in the process of repairing the ongoing and potentially permanent damage that is being caused to their extremely popular game.

One last problem I would like to talk about before I wrap this up is the inclusion of what is known as a “meta” in Overwatch Competitive. Due to the ever-changing nature of the broad selection of heroes thanks to various buffs and nerfs there is a particular pocket of heroes every season who are seen as the “must pick”, or a meta in Overwatch terms. To sum it up, your chances of winning are undoubtedly increased if the heroes in the current season meta are picked. Is this sounding wrong to you? A game all about the freedom of picking a hero from over twenty drastically different heroes resorts to having a small pool of ideal picks that will have a substantial effect on your success rate in its most important mode. Now, it may seem contradictory for me to criticise the picking of heroes freely when I’m criticising the game for having a system in place that rewards precise selection but it actually adds more holes to the already gushing pipe of sewage. It’s starting to feel like you’re forced into a corner with several dilemmas in front of you. Do you stick to the meta, which will satisfy your team but you may not be comfortable with the hero required, or do you pick what you’re comfortable with, but at the potential cost of negativity towards you from your team? It should be pointed out that there’s every chance neither choice will be a positive one but it is beside the point. Your decision should not be affected by the changes Blizzard makes to their heroes and it should not affect the potential outcome of the game. Yes, you have the right to play whoever you want, you bought the damn game, but it is appreciated when you occasionally pick a hero who suits your team’s composition, counters the opposing team’s composition, or just fits the situation at hand.

I would continue to rant about the issue with season ranks and the confusion surrounding the lackluster rewards and brutal punishments obtained depending on the role you play, or the result of the match without considering your individual performance, but I believe that if the issues explained above are solved just the tiniest bit, then my concerns here would no longer be of note.

And with that, I want to thank you all for taking the time to read this, quite frankly, unimportant drivel when compared to the real world (IT MATTERS TO ME!), and hopefully, most of it made sense to you and didn’t sound like some spontaneous ramble in the middle of the night because that is exactly what this is. Feel free to leave your thoughts down below or anywhere you might find this post. I’m always interested to see what others think, but beware that I will be more accepting of you if you agree with me, because I won’t associate with any of you disgusting Hanzo mains.

Don’t worry about the score too much, it may seem silly when I’m not actually reviewing anything, but it’s just to give you an idea on a scale of one to five Xs (with five being the worst) on how much the major issue is negatively affecting the game in my opinion.

MY VERDICT

Overwatch is in dire need for an intervention as the negativity amongst the community grows larger and larger by the day like a virus without an immediate cure, because the reporting system feels about as effective as a bike with square wheels. That is without mentioning the consistently changing pool of ideal heroes for Competitive that amplifies every other issue. Luckily, a solution doesn’t seem too far on the horizon with Blizzard looking to address the reporting system in order to efficiently punish players who’ve had it a long time coming. There is hope for this special game.

Reviewed on PC

Until next time.

Stay inside. Play video games.

The optimal way to deal with negative players