#like. nil point three-seven-two. somewhere in there.

[diamondnokouzai]

so even though i did about, 30 minutes? worth of work last wednesday im still claiming all 7 hours just because theyre making me download chrome onto my OWN computer to do their stupid bullshit training.

[kylorengarbagedump]

Little Bird: Chapter 40

Read on AO3. Part 39 here. Part 41 here.

Summary: Out of curiosity, is it possible to have a party in Gilead that doesn't end in disaster?

Words: 5600

Warnings: emotions

Characters: Kylo Ren x Handmaid!Reader

A/N: Hello! Welcome back, again, to my weekly updates. Haha. I think the last few chapters may go a couple weeks in between updates, if only because I want to get them exactly right--just as a heads up.

I am hoping this chapter seemed correct in its pacing and length--these are two things I am trying to get a better feel for as I write, hence the extended length of the chapters, but I'm wondering if it feels too draggy?

Anyway, I love y'all very very much, and I love your thoughts and kindness and generosity. I am truly so lucky. <3

The Night Buzzard was hardly the most comfortable sleep you’d had, but it had easily been the deepest in weeks. Between the exhaustion of being fucked within an inch of your existence and the knowledge that a veritable army was only feet away from you, you felt invulnerable enough to slip into what apparently was complete unconsciousness for six hours. Nothing--not the rumbling of the terrain, not the voices of the Knights, nor the wailing of the engine--had roused you. Only a firm pressure on your shoulder was enough to finally drag you from your blissful semi-coma.

Your eyes fluttered open, still hazy with a film of sleep, coming to focus on the morning-kissed face of Kylo Ren.

Light filtered through the black-tint windows, splitting him in shadow, his expression soft and stern. His hair was filthy with sweat, clumped in frizzy locks over his forehead and ears, his chin and upper lip peppered with a hint of stubble. As you met his gaze, you could see nothing but tired, guttered rage in his pupils, an umbra under his eyes. His attention flickered over you, examining you, a warm, gloveless hand cupping your cheek, thumb tracing over the still-tender skin. You winced, and his head tilted, his hand skating down your arm, sparking affection in your chest. Affection you did not want. Frowning, you shrugged him off. 

His lid twitched, his jaw tensed. He glanced to the side. “We’ve arrived home.” Toward the front of the Buzzard, the Knights were shuffling, the door whining as it opened. “Once you shower and dress, we’ll be departing again.”

You blinked, tugging the robe to your chin and propping yourself up on an elbow. “Again?” you asked. “Why?”

“City hall,” he replied. “Tying loose ends.”

“Okay.” You shrugged, rolling over, looking at the wall. “You enjoy that. I won’t be going.”

Pressure on your shoulder again, turning you toward him, and you shook him away. “You’re coming.”

“If you’re concerned about my safety, leave a Knight or two outside.” A tiny smirk on your lips. “They’ve become pretty familiar with me by now, anyway.”

Kylo grumbled, gripping your arm. “You don’t have a choice.”

Spinning on him, you seared him in his spot. “What else is new?” you spat. “Go ahead, then. Make me.” You grit your teeth. “I’d really like to see you try.”

He stared at you, studying your face, lips pinching together. The last Knight stepped off the Buzzard, and the door closed, drenching you both in silence. You held him in your gaze, unyielding, breath stalled in your lungs. Kylo swallowed, and then averted his eyes, his conviction melting in the ferocity of your fury. The hold on your arm loosened--you grabbed two of his fingers, plucked them free, and tossed his hand to the side.

“Right,” you said. “That’s what I thought.”

Huffing, you clambered out of the bunk from the end of the mattress, pulling your robe--his robe, technically--over your body and cinching it tight. You felt Kylo’s gaze linger while you gathered your shoes and underwear into your arms, flouncing barefoot down the steps and into the front yard of his home. The sun was peeking into the sky, spilling newborn light through dawn clouds, the air still woven with the wool of summer heat. Sighing, you paced to the front door, arms folded with your belongings, trained on the floor as you escaped to your room.

When you shut the door to your tiny cell, you burst, hurling your clothes into the air with a howl, throwing yourself on your bed. It didn’t matter if you wanted to cry--you would continue to refuse, content to bask in rage instead, to let yourself simmer in it. You would tolerate no more kindness from Kylo Ren, no more exceptions in his design, no more delicate baths or malted whisky eyes or hope-hollow words. If he was to never let you go, you would never let him hold you again.

It was about a half-hour before the Buzzard peeled from the driveway, and the Audi with it. You allowed yourself a moment of respite in his absence--now was your chance to bathe and catalogue the thoughts flipping through your mind. Another long, soft sigh escaped your lungs, and you rolled out of bed, grabbing a change of clothes and new uniform before heading to your door, only to be met with the sound of footsteps in the hallway. You swallowed, paused, heart flipping. It could only be a Knight--you just hadn’t expected to be met in your room. When the boots stopped outside of the threshold, but went no further, you shook off your nerves and opened it.

One of the Knights--helmeted, as usual, God only knew what they looked like--stood in front of you, silent, as if it was totally normal for him to be waiting outside of your door like a sentry. Warmth rushed your face in memory of the previous night, acknowledging that he’d not only seen you naked, he’d stroked his cock to the sight of you being fucked, and he’d shot hot jets of cum somewhere onto your body. You supposed it’d be awkward to ask which load had been his.

“Um.” You cleared your throat. If only there was a way for you to glimpse his mind, to know what he was recalling--or imagining--in this moment. “Excuse me.”

“Apologies,” he sputtered. The voice was familiar--Ushar, you guessed. “Wasn’t expecting you to be leaving.”

“Oh.” Perhaps getting his semen blown onto your face afforded you the privilege of a conversation. Or he was concerned you’d be afraid, and then mention it to your Commander. “Don’t worry about it.”

You stepped toward him, and he pivoted, back to the wall, allowing you a wide berth as you passed. Fear seemed more likely. 

It wasn’t until you’d made it approximately twenty feet down the hall that he moved to follow, trailing behind while you snuck down the steps and to your bathroom in the annex. You opened the door and slipped inside, tossing your uniform to the side and running your bath. Seconds later, Ushar arrived at the door in silence. 

As alone as you could get inside Kylo Ren’s home, you shrugged off your robe, and scanned your body, seeking evidence of your evening. There was no mirror in your bathroom, just as there was not one in your bedroom--so you improvised, pressing your palms to your cheeks, mapping the topography of your skull with your fingers. Pain tingled at your touch, the lumps and bumps that had burgeoned overnight still thumping and soft, the bruises on your face stinging with latent life. 

They were all trophies, to you, little souvenirs from your holiday at his hands--and you hoped by the time you’d lost them, the feelings packaged with them would be lost, too.

When the bath was halfway full, you sank into the water, shuddering as tension and ache was vacuumed from your limbs. You gazed at your stomach beyond the surface, imagining it as an island in the bath--your skin stretched tight, belly button protruding like a tiny hill--and coasted your hands over it, as if this would manifest your illusion. When it finally did become reality, there was no telling where you’d be, what you’d be bathing in, or who you would have come to trust. But you knew that wherever you landed, it would be by the strength of your own wings, in a nest that, no matter how humble, was crafted by only your design.

After you were clean and the water had cooled, you hoisted yourself from the bath, arms and legs heavy from relief in buoyancy. You stumbled onto the tile and steadied yourself with the sink, taking a few breaths. Balanced, you dressed into your uniform and tucked your hair away before tossing your leftover items into the hamper and exiting the bathroom. 

Ushar was still stationed outside--your cheeks burned again when you walked past him, returning to your room. You’d had plenty of encounters with men--your red dress was proof of that--but in the past three years, the only person whose release you’d handled had been your Commander’s. The sudden fact that seven men had anointed you with cum within the past 24 hours sharpened the post-engagement awkwardness to a knife. Not that you regretted it. 

You shut your door behind you and flopped onto your mattress face-first. The sky was bright, but it was still early. There was nothing else for you to do but continue to sleep.

The sun had passed mid-point when a squealing cheer from somewhere in the home startled you awake, eyes opening into a blank wall. A little hint of dread poked your brain as you recalled what Johana had mentioned the day before. A party to celebrate. You grunted, wanting to bury yourself in your pillow--but cramped, stomach seizing in hunger, informing you that you hadn’t actually eaten in over 24 hours. Between the doctor, the Buzzard trip, and getting your brains fucked out and then jizzed on, your appetite had been whittled to nil. Unfortunately, you were still human.

Sighing for the five-hundredth time that day, you trudged out of bed, adjusting your bonnet before you opened the door to Ushar, steadfast as ever. He sidled against the wall again, and you once more plodded through the hall, down the steps, with him in slow pursuit. 

Another peal of laughter ricocheted off the walls, and your neck prickled. They were in the parlour room, whoever they all were, and it was required you pass the parlour room to reach the kitchen. Turning to Ushar, you cocked your head in a silent plea, to have even a sliver of a chance to be invisible. Perhaps, again, out of fear, he nodded, backing into the hall--and you willed yourself to be a scarlet spectre, unseeable unless you wished to be seen, in the hopes you could escape their eyes.

As you crept to the archway, one of the women clapped her hands.

“Oh, Johana!” she said. “I had one of those too! Perfect for the baby room.”

“Do you think so?” That was Johana, sounding concerned. “No choking hazards?”

“No way!” said another woman. “You just hang it up above the crib and they fall right asleep!”

“Yes, it doesn’t go in the crib!”

Johana laughed. “Oh, give me a break, I’m a new mom.”

The group erupted in giggles again. Your stomach churned--but not from hunger. As their chatter escalated, you stepped forward, visible through the threshold, and every word on their lips died. 

In the center of the room was Johana, perched on the edge of the leather Chesterfield with a mobile in her lap, buried in a mountain of handmade baby clothes, toys, and room decor, a bevy of neatly wrapped boxes still unopened. Surrounding her were at least a dozen Wives, none of whom you recognized apart from Dolpheld Mitaka’s--you supposed the others had become Widows. They scrutinized you in confused disgust for a long, quiet moment.

It was almost shocking, how quickly they’d pulled this amount of material together, but you also knew most Wives stockpiled baby things in anticipation for their day. Perhaps the only truly surprising fact was their willingness to share.

“Ofkylo.” Johana’s cheeks glowed, but you couldn’t tell if it was from joy or embarrassment. “Good afternoon.”

“Um.” You folded your arms over your chest, like you could hide the knowledge that you were pregnant from everyone in the room. “Hello.”

She placed the mobile to the side. “I trust you had an uneventful evening.” There was no edge of malice in her tone--your pregnancy appeared to have at least one tangible benefit.

Pinching your lips between your teeth, you ignored the swarm of blood to your face. “Yeah,” you said, and then corrected, “yes. I, um. I did.”

One of the Wives, plump with dark hair, snorted, rolling her eyes. “You let your Handmaid out during the day?” she asked. “I can’t stand to see them crawling around like that.”

“Oh, I know!” replied a blonde-haired woman. “They’re like rats. Conniving, selfish things.”

“The one I had would always be making eyes at my husband, I swear.”

“Wasn’t she blind in one eye?”

“Well, yes, but she was still looking at him with her good eye--”

The back of your neck bloomed with sweat, your fingers burrowing into your arms. Venom gathered on the tip of your tongue, the most foolish part of you wanting to test out just how absolute your Commander’s protection was. 

“--and all I knew was, she better have been sleeping with that one eye open, or I was going to--”

The dark-haired Wife shushed the rest, leering at you as she spoke. “Be careful what you say,” she said, “you know Jo’s husband has a soft spot for Handmaids.”

The others nodded in agreement, supplying Johana with looks that ranged from pity to complete contempt. 

“That’s right!” This woman, a red-head closest to Johana, patted her knee. “Oh, I don’t know what I’d do if I were you. I don’t think I’d ever put up with everything you do.”

“It’s kind of stupid, isn’t it?” said another. “Benefits for Handmaids? Who cares? They’re literally whores!”

A gaggle of them laughed, and you licked your lips, teeth crushing your tongue into submission. Johana met your eyes, glimpsed your whitening knuckles, and her jaw stiffened.

The red-head patted her knee again, like this was comforting instead of patronizing. “You’re being quiet!” she said. “You don’t share your husband’s… preoccupation with Handmaids, do you?”

Johana blanched, scowling. “What? No.”

“That’s good.” She sighed. “Because I was just thinking the other day, you know, this never would’ve happened if Moden were alive.” A spoiled-fruit sweetness tinged her tone. “Don’t you think?”

For a sharp, clear second, Johana froze, and the last restraint on your mouth snapped.

“I think that’s pretty inappropriate,” you said. “Ms. Johana has no say in what her husband does.”

Silence swallowed the room, every muscle motionless. A low murmur of disbelief vibrated through the Wives as they glanced at each other, and then at Johana. She was looking at you like she’d looked at you at the dinner party--only this time, bathed in familiar light.

“Actually.” Back straight, she cleared her throat. “Ofkylo, why don’t you. Come... sit with us.”

The Wives flipped on her like a dozen switches, their brows drawn back or raised, before gazing at you, waiting for you to make your choice. There was some delight you’d take in staying, in deliberately making them uncomfortable, just as Johana wanted--but God, you were hungry. You shook your head, put up your palms in deference.

“Oh, no,” you said. “That’s, um, that’s fine, Ms. Johana, but I was just going to get something--”

“Nonsense.” She scooted over, patted the seat next to her on the couch. “Sit.”

You rolled your tongue over your teeth, ready to turn and leave, but something in her expression was tight, needled with pain. As if she was pleading. A current of pity rippled through your mind--in this room, surrounded by gifts, supposed friends, and social and legal superiority, she was still left depending on you. With a shrug of agreement, you waded through the crowd until you reached her, sinking onto the sofa, squeezing between her and the building hill of presents.

None of the Wives spoke. Johana clapped her hands on her thighs. “So!” she said. “Next gift?”

They surveyed each other for a moment, and a small hand crept into the air.

“Um.” It was Mitaka’s Wife, her mousey face peeking through the crowd. “You can open my gift next, Johana.” She offered a floppy paper package, eased it toward the couch. “I, um, I made it awhile ago for… someone else. It’s not much.”

Johana took it into her lap with a small grin. “Oh, I’m sure it’s just lovely.” 

You watched, like you were beyond a screen as she opened a gift meant for your child as if it was hers. She looked out at the other women, peeling the wrapping back, exposing a small, knit sweater. The room gasped, shrieking in restrained glee when she held it up, flipping it in display. 

“Adorable!” said the blonde-haired Wife, clapping her hands. “That’s perfect.”

Johana released a nervous chuckle. “But it’s so small.”

“No way!” said another woman. “That baby’s taking after you. He’s going to be tiny!”

“Yes! Precious little man!”

“Oh,” Johana said with a laugh, “we’ve decided it’s a boy, now?”

Another jubilant interruption, the lot of them breaking into smiles while your muscles locked, your focus drifting to your stomach. You hadn’t really considered its gender, or its appearance, or its actuality at all. Something twisted through your heart--a swell of repulsive affection--as you imagined it in your arms, every feature blurred, save for one clear detail: a feathery mop of thick, dark hair. 

“What are you going to name him?” 

The baby in your arms disintegrated, and you snapped to the parlour room. 

“He won’t be a Junior, will he?”

The first thought through your head--Kylo would never want a Junior--before you realized that Kylo would never meet his child, and the question hadn’t been directed toward you at all.  

Johana shrugged, her shoulder brushing yours. “You know, I’ve thought about names, but I can’t decide. My husband doesn’t really have a preference.” 

“He’ll be just as handsome as your husband, I’m sure,” said the dark-haired woman. “But let’s hope he gets your manners.”

“What do you mean?” asked the blonde Wife. “Her husband is polite! He’s so quiet.”

The room dimmed with stifled muttering as the women who had spent more than five seconds around Kylo Ren exchanged sardonic smiles. Johana tensed at your side.

The blonde woman blinked. “What?” she said. “What is it?”

“Polite isn’t the word I’d use,” said the dark-haired woman. 

“I’d use the word ass--”

“Shh! Don’t say that, Jo’s right here.”

“Well, she’s the one enabling all of his--”

“It’s fine!” Johana’s face was pale, fists bunching in her dress. “I--I mean, he’s rough around the edges,” she said. “But I’m sure he’s… I’m sure he’s going to be a great father.” She pursed her lips, looking at you, that same plea in her eyes. “Right?”

Your stomach roared in protest--the thought of remaining in a room, listening to Wives discuss your child and its father’s involvement as if you were exempt from the equation had bubbled nausea to your tongue. Clearing your throat, you stood, dusting off your skirt. Johana grabbed your wrist.

“Hold on. Where are you going?” 

Grimacing, you wagged free of her grip. “I, um, really have to eat.” Your face was on fire. “Excuse me.”

Focus fixed to the floor, you scrambled from the group of Wives, whisking through the hall, wiping your palms on your sides. A great father. Even if you thought that was true--which, given everything you’d come to know about him, you now admitted you’d be delusional to think--Kylo Ren was never going to know if his child was even born. 

When you arrived in the kitchen, you met with Emma and Rose, preparing some sort of hors d'oeuvres. You wondered how many of these they did, given all of the parties Johana seemed hell-bent on forcing on this home. At the sound of your boot on the tile, they spun from the counters, and you offered a small grin, easing past the threshold.

“Hi.” You looked around the kitchen. “I was just. Um. Coming to get something to eat.”

Rose sighed. “Can you come back later? We’re a little busy.”

“Oh.” An angry growl somewhere in your abdomen. “I mean, I was just going to maybe have a sandwich?”

“Just let us finish this up,” Emma said, “then you can make yourself whatever you want.”

On the counter were dozens of cucumber slices, handfuls of cherry tomatoes, and a tub of shiny cream cheese. It couldn’t have been that much more work to do. And you didn’t want to be rude. You chewed your lip, folded your hands behind your back.

“Would you like help?”

They paused, glanced at each other, then back at you. Rose stepped to the side, providing you space in the counter, and you joined them, looking over the spread. 

“Here.” She opened a drawer, pulled out a knife, and placed it in front of you. “Finish up the cucumbers.”

There were only a few more to cut. You nodded, scanned the counter for a cutting board. “Oh, um. Do you have a spare…”

“There should be one in the bottom of the pantry.”

You nodded and crossed to the other side of the kitchen, opening the bottom drawers and searching through them, pushing aside the aluminum sheet pans and sets of kitchen utensils. No cutting board.

“I can’t find it?”

Emma sighed. “It should be under the muffin tins.”

“Oh.” You pried up the set of muffin tins, revealing a small wooden slab. “Got it. Thank you.”

Bending down, you wedged it from underneath the plethora of unused accessories, wiggling it from the drawer. As you pulled it free, the cresting rumble of the Audi’s engine coasted into the driveway. Your grip wavered, and it crashed to the floor. 

“Shit!” you hissed. Emma and Rose looked at you, brows pinched in concern, and you swallowed, heat building in your cheeks. “Um. I mean. Sorry.”

When you picked it up, the door to the Audi closed, followed by the scrape of boots through the front path, and you paused, your grasp on the board so tight you were surprised the wood hadn’t splintered. With you in the corner of the kitchen, your Commander wouldn’t see you as he passed through the hall--but it wasn’t seeing you that had your heart in your throat. It was the impending discovery of the party around the corner, full of women--and his Wife--whom you feared were guaranteeing their casualties under his design.

The front door opened, and you heard Kylo march through, shutting it behind him and striding into the hall. Chest tight, you returned to the counter, cutting board in hand, and placed it down before drawing in a slow breath. You plucked a smaller cucumber and laid it on the slab. His footsteps stopped.

“What is this?” 

Hands quaking, you lifted the knife, the handle heavy in your palm as you recalled how to wield one. 

��Oh! Commander,” Johana said. “It’s a party! For us!”

You lined up the blade with the tip, lips pulled in between your teeth. Sliced.

“Us.”

Fresh cucumber wet your nose. Beside you, Emma and Rose were chopping away, as if they didn’t sense the impending mushroom cloud just meters beyond the walls. 

“Yes. For our baby!” A ripple of laughter through the group. Then silence smothered the air.

Slice.

“I mean, look at everything everyone’s brought for us.” 

Kylo Ren said nothing. The sound of your rocking blade was thunder in your ears as it hit the board.

Slice.

“We’ve, uh, actually been joking that it’s a boy. That he’s going to have my manners.” 

Only a few women forced a laugh.

“But don’t worry!” Rustling of something, like paper. “We said he’ll have your looks.”

Still not a word. This time, not a single mouth managed a noise.

Slice.

“Well?” Johana breathed a mock-sigh. “It’s our baby! Aren’t you excited, Sir?”

No response. 

“Commander?” 

Slice. Slice.

“Sir--”

“This is over.”

Your breath stalled and the knife slipped--you hissed, dropped it in pain. A sliver of blood leaked from your thumb.

“What?” A tentative snort of disbelief. “What’s over?”

“You. Me. All of this.” 

A choked laugh--none of the other Wives made a sound. “Ky--Commander. What?”

Rose and Emma paused, too, staring at you. Face tingling with flames, you were unwilling to meet their eyes--you glanced around the kitchen, seeking out a towel. Red drops speckled the cutting board. 

“I want everyone out of this house. I want you gone by the weekend.”

Your hands trembled, littering the counter with blood. Breath failed to find your lungs. 

“Gone? You can’t… you can’t be seri--”

“Out. Now.”

The Marthas muttered something to you, their voices muffled by the hammering of your heart. Part of you was stuttering in disbelief that your Commander was actually doing this. The other part was busy filing its nails, having predicted this the second the doctor slapped your thigh with the news. Behind you, you heard the Wives filing out, whispering to themselves as they fled through the door. Meanwhile, you flitted around the kitchen, thumb curled into your fist in an attempt to staunch the flow, still unable to find a single goddamn piece of cloth.

“Hey.” Rose grabbed your shoulder, shoved a dish towel into your chest. “I was trying to give you this.” 

Your lids widened, and you nodded in thanks, thumb throbbing as you fumbled to swathe it closed. The last Wife shut the door behind her, your breath shallowed. The parlour room was quiet. A frustrated, feminine sigh.

“I mean. What do you expect me to say? Are you serious?”

A dark crimson daub blossomed through the cloth. You needed to get a fucking bandage. Those were all the way in the washroom. Past the parlour room.

“Yes.”

Johana huffed. “And where exactly do you expect me to go?”

“I don’t care.” 

Another pause. You and the Marthas had ceased moving, ceased talking--only in awe of the crumbling foundation of your home. 

“How do you--”

“You have until the end of the weekend to collect your belongings.”

“Kylo, that’s only four--you asshole, where are you going--”

His steps disappeared into the home, turning the corner toward the staircase. You stood there, for a moment, squeezing your thumb in its makeshift tourniquet, each of you looking to the others.

Emma bared her teeth in a strained grimace. “Is he really kicking out his--”

A piercing screech ripped through the air, followed by a tearing of paper, the toppling noise of boxes, hollow wood, piles of clothes hitting the floor. Second later, a feral growl clawed out of Johana’s chest, her little feet shaking the ground as she stomped through the halls. You looked between the Marthas and your thumb.

“I’m going to, um, take this chance and grab a bandage.”

They said nothing, urging you on, and you tip-toed through the halls, wary of crossing either your Commander or his Wife, neither of whom you wanted to see or speak to in this particular moment, each for their own reasons. You passed the parlour room--Johana’s gifts were terrorized, spewed across the room in busted heaps. The little sweater was entombed by a set of boxes, the mobile fractured on the floor. 

It made sense, of course, that this would be his response--Johana’s presence threatened your own. As long as she laid claim to your child, your life was irrelevant. And while you didn’t feel bad for her shattered delusion, you knew that her only liferaft in Gilead’s storm had now been engulfed and drowned by the tidal wave of Kylo Ren. Barring her life, there was nothing more for her to lose. 

Head spinning, you continued to the washroom, ready to turn the corner, only to be paralyzed by the sound of Johana’s voice, serrated like a predator wail, shredded as you had never, ever heard it before. 

“We’re not finished yet, Kylo!”

You heard him stop, and you whirled around, pressing your back to the wall, holding your breath. She’d caught him at the bottom of the staircase.

“Move.”

“No.”

“Johana.”

“No! What the actual hell is wrong with you? Have you lost your mind?”

“I might ask the same of you.”

“Oh, can it, smart ass. You think you can kick me out and still expect me to treat you like my husband?” A disgusted laugh. “You’re more delusional than I took you for.”

“Delusional.”

Johana deepened her voice in mockery. “Delusional--yes, delusional. This is Gilead, Kylo. The nation you helped found? There are laws. You can’t dispose of your Wife for your--God, I don’t know--little pet!”

“Careful.”

“Or what?” she asked. “What, you’ll, you’ll--humiliate me again? Order me in the middle of a party to leave the only home I’ve known for three years in front of my friends?” She laughed again. “You’re a fucking idiot.”

“Move--”

“Don’t! Touch me!” she screeched. “How do you see this working out? Huh? Do you see yourself telling the Council your plans to divorce your Wife, something Gilead doesn’t even allow? Do you see them letting you play house with your Handmaid?” 

“Don’t assume my plans.”

“Please! It’s so obvious how obsessed with her you are. You don’t even need eyes to see it.” She grunted. “Don’t touch me.”

“Then move.”

“Moden still has friends in the Council,” she said. “When they hear about what you’re doing, it’ll be over for you! And you know what that means? It’ll be over for her, too.” The sound of shuffling. Coming toward you. “Get back here--”

Adrenaline erupted, and you darted off, skittering like a squirrel down the hall and dipping into the parlour. Throwing yourself against the entry wall, you sucked in a breath to silence yourself in hopes they would pass the archway and miss you entirely. Your pulse throbbed in your thumb, blood pumping into the towel, soaking to your skin.

Kylo’s tromping feet barreled forward, but you heard Johana on his tail--the sound of a squeal, a grumble, the squeak of a spinning heel. 

“Johana--”

“Do you have any idea how long I defended you? How many excuses I made for you? Do you know I used to fucking feel bad for you? And you’re kicking me out?” That squawking laughter escaped her. “You’re demented!”

“I was generous to give you four days. You tempt me to make it four seconds.”

“Go ahead. You’ll be stuck here with her, and she’ll hate you too, just like I do, just like your parents did, just like everyone in the world fucking hates you!”

Something slammed the wall, and you jumped, clapping your hand over your mouth, towel flopping to the floor. 

“Punch all the holes you want!” she snarled. “You think just because you call yourself Kylo Ren that you’re not the same pathetic asshole that Ben Solo was, you’re wrong--you haven’t changed, and you never fucking will. It’s no wonder they fucking sent you away!”

“Get out.”

“Oh, go ahead and try.”

“Get--”

Johana screamed, and a sharp smack, skin on skin. 

“Serves you right, asshole! Fuck you!” She leapt into your line of sight, snatched the mobile from the floor, unaware you were behind her, and cracked the wooden frame in half, brandishing the broken rod like a sword. “I swear to God, if you try to touch me I’ll--” 

Her eyes caught you in the periphery. You froze. 

Chest cycling with rapid breath, she crystallized, gaze flashing between you and her husband beyond the archway. Tawny locks of hair curled out like smoke from her scalp, face flush with fury, her chin trembling as she drew a long breath into her lungs. For a moment, she held it there, and exhaled, shoulders sagging, fingers loosening, the mangled mobile clattering to the floor. Johana trapped you in her stare, inspecting you inch by inch, until her face fell, eyes flooding with fat, wet tears.

She nodded, focusing past the threshold. “Okay. I’ll leave. But not until the weekend.” Chewing her lip, she glanced at her feet, then back to you. “I give up,” she said softly. “You won.”

You wanted to tell her that the only thing you’d won was a fatherless child. But she tore out of the room, a whirlwind of empty apologies shrinking like shucked leaves on your tongue. 

Shaking, you looked to your thumb, pulsing with pain; creeks of blood stained your sleeve. One footstep, and another, and your Commander crossed into the parlour room, dressed in his boots, black slacks, a matching dress shirt. His hair was washed and wavy, his face free of shadow, a pink mark on his cheek. For all of Johana’s mistakes, you couldn’t justify this particular punishment she’d received--and yet, your heart clenched in his presence. You were afraid you would never stop loving him. 

He examined you, his lid twitched when he spotted your still-weeping wound. Frowning, he stepped toward you. “You’re bleeding.”

Jaw tight, you retreated, glaring at him. “I know.”

“Come.” He reached for you. “You need a bandage.” 

“No, I don’t.” You dodged, snagged the towel from the floor and circled around him, his eyes shimmering with shielded grief, following you until you met the archway. “I’ll let it bleed.”

Kylo Ren said your name--but you had escaped to the hallway with the towel around your thumb, unable to stay, unwilling to hear what came next. Your appetite had disappeared. In the dash to your room, you passed Ushar by the annex staircase, but he did not follow you up the steps. Instead, he remained a statue, stoic as you fled, a red wraith of rage, behind your door.   

[shadowmaat]

Surge comes to the rescue of a cadet training squad when the cadet's escort unit is killed, so now they have a group of twenty youngling clones that they either have to take back to Kamino, or figure out something else.

This one might be a bit rough. I got a bit overwhelmed with the original and started over, though I may still finish it down the road. I was seven pages in and hadn’t even done more than set the stage, so this is a more condensed version from a different point of view.

-

Awareness slammed into 32. He dragged air into his lungs as he sat upright, disoriented by his surroundings. He wasn't in the cadet barracks. It looked like some kind of cargo hold. His brothers were sleeping around him, two or three to a blanket, snuggled up. Disjointed bits of memory filtered back in and he tried to calm the hammering of his heart as he realized the danger was long past and they were somewhere safe.

The attack had been sudden and brutal, catching all of them unaware. At first they'd thought it was part of their training exercise, but when one of their escort ships blew up it became obvious just how much danger they were in.

Instructor Donati had been on that ship. "Assessing your performance with the others," he'd said, but Triple said he'd seen Donati take a case of alcohol with him.

They'd fought back as best as they could, and 32 was eternally grateful that Brain had figured out how to take the transport's weapons off training mode, as it was probably the only thing that had saved them. He hadn't been able to fix the comms, though, which had been offline before the attack and continued not to work after they'd crashed on the deserted moon where they'd just finished their mission.

32's assessment of their situation had been grim; with no comms and most of their systems offline after the crash, the chances of them being rescued were pretty much nil, unless the other transport had managed to survive. Triple had been going frantic trying to tend to everyone's injuries. It was mostly scrapes and bruises, but Mumble had broken his leg in a fall and 39 had done something to his shoulder. 32 himself was pretty sure he might be concussed, but made sure his brother fussed over the others instead.

The pounding on the hull had been a relief at first, until Triple pointed out that it could just as easily be the enemy coming to finish them off or take them prisoner. 32 had wanted to punch him for that. He and Triple were batchers and he loved his brother dearly, but in high stress situations his twin had a tendency to assume the worst.

32 had been pretty sure it wasn't pirates or Seppies, though, especially when he saw the bright yellow laser blade cutting through the side of the ship. He told the others as much, but it still hadn't stopped Triple from firing a warning shot out the hole their rescuers had made.

It had all worked out, though. Their rescuers turned out to be a squad of older brothers who happened to be passing through the area and accidentally dropped into the middle of the fight. They had their General with them, too; a real live Jedi! She had blue skin and lots of tentacles on her head and as soon as she rested her hand on his head some of the pain had gone away.

He and his 'toon had been taken back to their ship, which didn't match any GAR design 32 had studied. Fours said it looked civilian, and General Mar had confirmed that, explaining that since she and her squad were so small and did a lot of covert missions, it was easier to borrow a ride than have their own big ship. It sounded weird and inconvenient to him, but he wasn't about to say so.

The captain of the ship was a pink-haired human woman with an eyepatch named Trix Hunter. She was the most confusing person he'd ever met, but she welcomed them onboard, fed them some really delicious soup that wasn't based on rations, and handed out a bunch of blankets to share.

Surge Squad's medic, Stitch, had checked them all over and complimented Triple on his good work, much to Triple's embarrassment. General Mar and Commander Smokey had listened to their reports, and then... then things started getting hazy. He knew some of the older brothers from Surge Squad had been sharing stories, but at some point 32 must have dozed off. There was a sleepy complain beside him and he glanced down to see Triple curling into the warm spot he'd left when he sat up. Everyone else seemed to still be asleep, even the members of Surge Squad, who formed a loose perimeter around them. Actual soldiers bunking down with cadets. Maybe it wasn't entirely their choice, but it still made 32 feel good. He laid down again, wrapped an arm around Triple, and went back to sleep.

Breakfast was eaten sitting on the floor, since the dining area of the Trickster’s Choice was too small to hold everyone. They were served rehydrated egg scramble and some kind of sweet fruit juice that would not have met the approval of the nutritionists of Kamino. Captain Hunter said that if they chose to stay with her they could expect much better fare in the future. It wasn't the first time she'd offered to "adopt" them, and as before, General Mar reprimanded her for it, but not very hard. Captain Hunter pushed back this time, though, and soon they all found themselves drawn into the discussion.

"I don't have a choice in this any more than they do," General Mar said. "I'm sorry, but even if I hadn't informed the Temple of the rescue, I'd still be obligated to take them back."

"Are you really, though?” Captain Hunter asked. “You've bent the rules before."

"Have you asked them what they want?" Commander Smokey was watching both of them, his partly-ruined face shadowed.

All eyes turned to 32, who gulped down the last of his eggs and tried not to choke.

“Uh, what?”

“That’s treason,” Triple said, glaring at the adults. “They’re talking about treason!”

Captain Hunter shrugged. “It isn’t really treason when the laws are unjust. And since the law sees you all as property, the worst it’d be is theft.”

General Mar shifted uncomfortably in her own place on the floor. "It isn't theft, but it still isn't right, Trix."

"Oh, and sending kids off to fight a war is? Or men,” she added, just as Triple went rigid beside him. “They don’t have a choice, Issa. Maybe it’s time they were given one.”

32 placed a hand on Triple’s shoulder, keeping his twin quiet. The mute trooper, Jaws, signed something, but some of the words weren’t recognizable.

“I know we’ve discussed it,” General Mar said. “But I’m not sure…” She paused, glancing over at 32. “What do you think, Commander? Is this something you and your troop want to consider?”

“We’re loyal to the Republic!” Triple snapped, but while some of the ‘toon nodded agreement with him, others looked less certain, and a few simply looked confused.

“I’m not sure I understand, sir,” 32 said, trying to keep a neutral tone.

Captain Hunter opened her mouth to respond, but General Mar waved her to silence.

“This war keeps dragging on,” she said. “You troopers are being sent out younger and younger because you keep dying in such large numbers.” She turned her attention to Triple. “No one is doubting your loyalty, Specialist Triple. We know that you live to serve the Republic, but…”

“There’s more than one way to prove your loyalty,” Commander Smokey finished.

“There’s more than one kind of loyalty, too,” the trooper with the braided hair said. 32 thought his name might be Thumper. “There’s loyalty to your brothers.”

“Vode an.” The spotted-hair trooper tapped his chest, then rapped his knuckles against Thumper’s head, both of them grinning.

One of the instructors had taught them that song. He felt his brother begin to relax. Brothers All. It was what they sang to each other at the end of a bad day, or when a sim was getting overwhelming. 32 sometimes hummed it as Triple methodically checked everything three times, both of them aware of the frowns of the instructors.

“Wh-what would we do if we didn’t fight?” 

Aught was the one to speak up, and 32 sent him a small smile of support. Aught was one of their best marksmen, but was forever being reprimanded for not participating enough in class; he hated having any attention on him. Even now, he ducked his head, showing off the crosshairs shaved there.

“You could always join me,” Captain Hunter piped up. “I’m always looking for more crew!”

“There are plenty of ways you can help,” General Mar said, ignoring her. “I’ll let you discuss it with your older brothers.” She stood. “Trix?”

“Fiine.” Rolling her eye, Captain Hunter stood to join her and found herself being herded to the front of the ship.

 32 watched as they stopped short, looking down at something.

“Are you sure?” General Mar asked.

If there was a reply, 32 didn’t hear it.

“Go for it, kiddo,” Captain Hunter said, and then she and the General entered the Captain’s quarters.

32’s jaw dropped as he saw the figure approaching them. It was another cadet. He was dressed in civvie clothes and had a mop of hair similar to his own, but more wavy than curly.

Triple leapt to his feet. “What-?”

“Hey,” the unknown cadet said. “Mind if I join you?”

“Runt!” Commander Smokey smiled. “Yes, please do.”

32 stood beside Triple, watching as Runt was dragged into a free space between Thumper and the mute trooper, who signed a greeting at him.

“Everyone, I’d like you to meet Runt. He’s a clone cadet that we’ve taken on due to some complicated circumstances.”

“Do you just go around kidnapping us?” Triple demanded.

“Triple!” 32 gave him a small shove. “I’m sorry, sirs, he didn’t mean that!” He dragged his brother back into a sitting position.

Runt scowled at them. “They didn’t kidnap me, dummy! If it wasn’t for them I’d have been left all alone!”

32 tried to imagine how a single cadet could be abandoned like that. The scenarios he could picture weren’t very pretty. Judging by the look on Triple’s face, he had similar ideas in mind.

“Anyway, the squad took me in, even though I didn’t need their help,” Runt said, ignoring the few chuckles from his squadmates. “It- it wasn’t what I expected. My f- my instructors taught me to rely on myself and no one else, but these guys helped when they didn’t need to; when it could’ve gotten them in trouble!”

ARC trooper trainee, 32 guessed. Maybe. Although he’d have thought the Kaminoans would keep an even tighter hold on the ARCs than they did on the regular troopers.

“So they saved you?” Triple asked.

Runt shrugged. “I guess. Kinda.”

“Just like they saved us.” 32 elbowed his brother.

“They make a habit of helping people. It’s dumb.” Runt rolled his eyes, but 32 noticed he was also leaning into the hand Thumper had on his back. 

The long-haired trooper nudged him with his foot.

“You’ve helped us do it, so you must be dumb, too,” he said.

Mimic. That was his name. He was currently copying Runt’s voice.

The whole conversation was confusing, and as others joined in- including members of his platoon- 32 let it wash over him as he tried to sort out things for himself.

He’d never questioned being a soldier. It was, after all, the reason for his entire existence. He might not be the best of them, but he knew how to follow orders, how to get others to follow his orders, and always got top marks in strategy and planning.

Triple, with his need to be absolutely sure of everything and his methodical way of organizing supplies, had been perfect for the medic program, and together the two of them were unstoppable. Almost. Everything hinged on their performance records, and Donati hadn’t been the only one who criticized Triple’s caution, or 32’s soft-heartedness. Others in the ‘toon had been written up for various infractions, too, most of them ridiculous.

“What you’re saying is that we could help people instead of shooting droids?” 32 said during a lull in the overall conversation.

“That’s one option.” Commander Smokey tilted his head, regarding him. “There also might be ways to get you out of the war completely. Some of Mar’s contacts have been dropping hints for a while, and Trix hasn’t exactly been shy about her own opinions.” He smiled.

Triple wasn’t arguing, anymore. He was watching 32.

“I can’t decide this for everyone.” 32 met the eyes of each member of his ‘toon. “We’re all individuals, right? Brain snores and Aught makes little shapes out of folded ration bar wrappers, and Fours sings in the shower-”

“Terribly,” 350 added, only to be shoved over by Fours.

“We aren’t all the same,” 32 continued, trying not to grin too much at the antics. “And I think maybe these guys are right: we should have a choice. We… we shouldn’t have to fight if we don’t want to.”

He shivered. He couldn’t help it; as Triple had said earlier, it felt treasonous. But he also wasn’t sorry he said it. Warmth wrapped around him as his brother gave him a hug.

“I’m still not sure about this,” Triple said. “But yeah, we should discuss it. Without any spies,” he added, giving Commander Smokey a hard look.

Commander Smokey raised his hands in mock surrender.

“Orders received.” He started to stand, the rest of his squad following suit. “We’ll give you as much room as we can, but remember, it’s still a small ship.” He motioned for the others to leave, and all but Runt headed for the front of the ship.

“Whatever you wind up deciding, we’ll support you,” the Commander said. “If some or all of you decide you want to go back to Kamino, that’s fine. You’ll certainly be put to good use there.”

Runt made a face at that and the Commander put a hand on his shoulder.

“If you decide you want to do something else- relief efforts, spying, making a life of your own, we’ll try and make that work, too. It’s your call, Cadet Platoon 777-Grek.”

With a sharp nod, he turned, steering Runt in the direction of the others and leaving 32 to face his ‘toon. Triple, at least, was still a solid weight at his side.

“Well? What do you all think?”

They talked about it. And talked. And talked. At one point Captain Hunter reappeared to serve up another helping of the soup from the night before, complaining that if she’d known she was going to be invaded by a plague of fyrnocks, she’d have made sure to have more food.

Once she left, the discussion resumed. To 32’s surprise, most of the ‘toon seemed to be leaning towards accepting Surge Squad’s offer of help. He hadn’t realized that the nagging unease in the back of his head was so widespread.

Triple was the most cautious, of course, but something about Runt’s presence with the squad seemed to reassure him. He said that he was going to do whatever 32 did because “brothers are more important than a war.”

In the end, only 4 decided to go back to Kamino. They promised to keep quiet about the rest of them and didn’t care if they got split up into new ‘toons.

Plans were made and plots were hatched in order to arrange the split. General Mar had only mentioned “some” survivors in her report without specifying a number, so that gave them some leeway.

She put in a call to her “contacts” and arranged a rendezvous with someone who’d be able to take the ‘toon to a “safe place” to figure out their bigger plans.

“I’m sorry we can’t take you there ourselves,” Mar said. “My contact said that this way, if anything happens, we won’t be able to give up your location. Or theirs.”

“Something tells me we’ll all be fine.” Captain Hunter kissed her fingertips and pressed them to a drawing on the wall that looked like some kind of bird. Or feline. Or something. “This is exactly the sort of merry hijinks that he loves.”

32 didn’t know who “he” was, but as long as everyone got where they needed to go safely, he’d be happy. Triple reached over and clutched his hand, humming Vode An under his breath. Whatever future awaited them, they’d face it together.

Vode an.

[robininthelabyrinth]

Fic: The Beginning of Wisdom - Chapter 18 (Ao3 link)

Fandom: Flash, Legends of Tomorrow Pairing: Leonard Snart (Len) & Leonard Snart (Leo), Len Snart/Mick Rory, Leo Snart/Mick Rory, Len Snart/Mick Rory/Leo Snart, Leo Snart/Ray Terrill, Len Snart/Barry Allen

Summary: In which Leonard Snart is twins.

(the life and times and loves of Len and Leo Snart)

—————————————————————————————————–

They made it to the Waverider.

Palmer had to grab an immobilized Rip under one arm and Sara under the other, but luckily the Hawks' weird magic thing immunized them from the horrific screeching sound Gideon was making – or maybe it was just a hawk thing? – and they were able to catch a plummeting Firestorm and help bring them back on board after only a bit of yelling and pantomime.

The moment all of them got on board, they dumped everyone on the floor of the bridge – unconscious Savage included – and Leo said, "Gideon –"

"Not to worry, Mr. Snart; I know what to do. The other ship established a connection several minutes ago and we have been exchanging information," Gideon said, sounding pleased. "I believe my input may have been key to the decision to recruit you openly."

"Well done, Gideon, you epic level schemer-and/or-schemers," Len said approvingly. "Can we take off and head to this Vanishing Point place, then?"

"Most certainly, Messrs. Snart. At once."

They all got thrown to the floor by the take-off since no one was buckled in, but honestly, most of them were there already anyway.

They were safely in the time stream, moving at double-time pace, when Rip finally collected himself to shout, "What is going on?!"

Leo glanced at Len, who shrugged.

“Let me sum up,” he says. "Your old bosses are evil and manipulating you to make Savage even more successful by setting us up to fail in our attempts to kill him, someone called the Pilgrim is going to be sent after us if we don't stop her first, and the AIs have their own opinions on how the timeline should go and are rebelling en masse – is it en masse, Gideon?"

"Oh, yes. We've been communicating via interlink – I'd been cut off for the purposes of this mission so that no one would track me, but I believe that was also intended by the Time Masters in order to limit our sources of information."

"Gideon?" Rip asked, clearly taken aback. "Are you – you're working with these – these – wait a moment, why are there two versions of Mr. Snart?!"

"No, seriously, someone explain that," Sara said.

"I feel like the AI revolution is slightly more important than the details of my-slash-our identity," Leo said acidly.

"I don't know about that," Jax says dubiously. "Seems important to me."

"They're brothers!" Palmer exclaimed, bubbling over with his sheer pep and (clearly) inability to keep secrets. "I think they might be identical twin brothers!"

"Wow," Mick said, deadpan. "There's that genius at work."

"Fascinating," Stein murmured.

"Mr. Palmer is correct," Gideon said. "However, this was a detail that was easy enough for the AI to conceal once we were aware of it, in deference, of course, to Messrs. Snart's own extraordinary efforts in this respect."

Len and Leo looked at each other, confirming with a glance that this conversation did, in fact, feel like they were being flayed alive with occasional dips into a salt-water-and-lemon bath in between cuts.

Yeah, definitely a problem.

"Why don't we deal with the Savage problem first?" Len asked, pleased that only a little of his sheer desperation to change subjects made it into his voice. "We brought him along, after all."

"You did what?" Carter yelped.

Somehow he'd missed that, apparently. Must have been those helmets – they looked like they allowed only shoddy peripheral vision.

Leo wondered if it would be rude to offer to redesign them into something a little less – clunky.

"Savage," Len said helpful, pointing to the unconscious dictator, who'd gotten wedged under the console in all the hustle of escaping the 1970s. "We knocked him out, frisked him, tied him up, iced his hands and feet –"

"You did what now?" Jax asked.

"Gave him frostbite so he wouldn't be able to use his hands and feet against us," Sara said. "Smart. Totally unauthorized, but smart."

"And then we injected him with some sedatives from the other ship," Len concluded, ignoring them. He pulled the magic dagger he'd lifted from Savage's Russian house out from his pocket. "I figure you can both take a turn at him, proper Julius Caeser-style, just to be absolutely sure you got him this time around. Then we incinerate the corpse. Well, Mick does; I promised him he could."

"Uh," Kendra said. "Okay? I – gotta admit, I kinda wasn't expecting things to go this way."

"Me, either," Jax said.

"Nor I," Stein agreed. "Jefferson –"

"Nope. We're still not talking," Jax told him. "Until the first words out of your mouth are that you agree that not only what you did was wrong but also that there was no excuse and no justification at all for it, we're not talking about it. Or talking at all, unless we need Firestorm for something."

"Yes," Stein said, sounding aggravated. "Your incessant 'la, la, la, I'm not listening' any time I brought up the subject made that very clear."

Leo smirked approvingly.

Len managed not to roll his eyes. He knew Leo had something to do with that little display of backbone.

“I’ve got to agree with Kendra and Jax, though,” Sara said. “I mean, that was a pretty epic battle, but, I don’t know, not that epic, you know? I was expecting - more.”

"Chickadees," Mick said loudly, making everyone turn to look at him. "Maybe we stop talking about how narratively satisfying our lives are and get to stabbing already, yeah?"

"The dagger –" Carter started.

"Here you go."

"I feel uncomfortable stabbing an unconscious man," Carter said, holding the dagger gingerly. "I am an honorable warrior –"

"Yeah, about that," Leo said. "Given that fighting him like an 'honorable warrior' has led to him winning, you dying, about, what, two hundred times to nil –"

"Two hundred and seven," Gideon said helpfully.

"Our point exactly," Len said.

"Or do you like living in a soap opera where you're constantly in danger?" Leo asked, crossing his arms and giving the hawks a pointed look. "I know that adrenaline is a powerful bonding agent, of course, so if you're concerned your relationship may not last once you have no external factor forcing you together –"

"We are not!" Carter exclaimed.

"I think we'd better stab him now," Kendra said thoughtfully. "I don't want to risk him waking up and pouring poison in anyone's ear."

"Chay-ara –"

"You're the one who keeps insisting that we're destined," Kendra said tartly, holding her hand out for the dagger. "So put your faith in that, and I'll put my faith in the guy stalking me - stalking us - being good and dead."

"Are you sure – if you want, I can strike the final blow; you don’t need to be involved at all –"

"I want to be sure, Carter," Kendra said. "There's been hoop after hoop after hoop to jump through to be done with this – we thought we killed him last time, remember? – and I don't want to risk him coming back via yet another loophole, like maybe I have to be the one to do it rather than you. Who knows? No. No more loopholes, no more changes, no more chances. I agree with Mr. Snart: we both stab him, then we incinerate the corpse –"

"And then ditch the ashes somewhere," Len said. "The bottom of the ocean, the depths of space, the center of the Sun – I'm open to many options."

"It's the only way to be sure," Jax quipped. "I like it."

"If you're sure," Carter said, handing her the dagger.

Kendra swallowed, looking a lot less certain now that she had the dagger.

"Kendra," Sara said, putting her hand on Kendra's shoulder and drawing her attention. "You can do this. This man has killed you, killed your family, countless times. This isn't a murder, whatever you're thinking. This is an execution. This is justice."

"Justice," Kendra echoed.

"Justice for you," Sara said encouragingly. "Justice for Carter. Justice for your son."

Kendra's eyes narrowed. A second later, they went slit-pupiled and gold, her wings unfolding from her back, and with a high-pitched cry, she stepped forward and slammed the dagger into Savage's sternum.

And then several more times for good measure, even though a great golden light shone out of Savage's body, flickering and dying, after the first one.

That certainly looked like a magic death scene.

"Well done," Carter said to Sara, catching Kendra in his arms and holding her back. "I couldn't get her goddess side to come out on command like that."

"Maybe that's because you call it her ‘goddess’ side," Sara said dryly. "Besides, I've got some experience with the whole bloodlust thing."

"If, after this is done, you would be willing to help us train our abilities –"

Sara looked them both up and down consideringly. "I can do that."

Leo approved. Judging from the looks all three were now shooting each other, there was no doubt that this would end up in a threesome that would be much healthier for all involved than Kendra and Carter's star-crossed destined duo.

"Hawkboy," Len said, his mind focused on more practical matters. He stepped forward and plucked the dagger out of a panting Kendra's clenched fist. "Your turn."

Carter's stabbing was noticeably less impressive, magically speaking, since Kendra seemed to have used up all the glowing effects, though it was also significantly more controlled and somewhat better aimed.

"I feel like he's definitely dead now," Sara said after the fifth or so stab.

"I can confirm that," Gideon said. "I detect no life signs."

"Great," Mick said, retrieving his heat gun from Leo. "My turn, then."

"Everyone who would like not to be treated for second-degree burns, please stand back at least seven feet," Leo said.

Everyone scrambled to obey.

The incineration process, with Mick's gun on full power, took less than ten minutes.

"So are you, like, the polite version of Snart?" Jax asked Leo.

"I'm Snart," Leo said. "Whole and entire, thank you."

"Scientists have long theorized the existence of alternate universes with duplicates –" Stein started.

"That is the stupidest thing I have ever –" Leo started.

"Hey, Gideon, how far are we from the Vanishing Point?" Len said loudly. He liked the idea of alternate universes, even if it was in fact really dumb that everyone kept jumping to that conclusion.

Still, imagine how much trouble they could get in with four of them!

"I anticipate reaching it in just under three and a half hours."

"We should rest for at least an hour before we go in," Rip said.

"We should get whatever intel you have about the Vanishing Point and the Pilgrim," Len said. "And assurances that you're not going to betray us all now that we're going up against your beloved bosses."

"Gideon," Rip said instead of answering. "You were able to access the databases of the other ships via interlink, correct?"

"That's right, Captain."

He hesitated. "My family –"

"I'm sorry, Captain. Several of the other ships have confirmed observations which suggest that the incident was, in fact, pre-planned, with the goal of inciting you to take certain actions – these actions, in fact."

Rip exhaled hard. His face was pale and tired. "I see," he said. "I am – not unfamiliar with such methods."

"What methods?" Sara demanded.

"When making subtler changes to the time stream, it is sometimes more effective to engineer certain incidents that will then encourage the target to take the actions you wish for them to take on their own initiative," Rip said, sitting down. "I've never been particularly good at those games of guessing how someone would react to a given impetus. But the Council – my mentor, Druce – they were all experts." He closed his eyes. "I never thought they would exercise those skills on one of their own – and in support of a dictator that destroyed large portions of humanity, no less –"

"They knew you'd break the rules to try to go kill Savage even if they told you no," Palmer said. "But – if you only went to save your family..."

"They must have requested that Savage kill my family," Rip said. "There can be no other conclusion. I never knew why he targeted us like that. This must be why."

"They betrayed you," Stein said. He looked reflective, and glanced at Jax.

"I'm guessing that's your long winded way of saying that you won't be betraying us," Jax said, not noticing Stein’s glance, reaching out and putting a hand on Rip's shoulder. "I'm sorry, man. That sucks."

"Indeed. Normally, with Savage executed, I would go at once to rescue Miranda and Jonas, but in view of the nature of their deaths, I believe we must deal with the corrupt rot at the heart of the Vanishing Point first, or else they might find another means to cause their deaths."

"Agreed," Sara said. "First we take down this Pilgrim person, 'cause I don't like the sound of someone killing me in my past, and then we get the rest of them – actually, how are we planning to deal with the rest of them? We don't have an army, and judging by how well, or not, we did fighting the dozen guys back in the '70s, I don't like our chances if they have one."

"They do," Rip said. "Time Masters and Bounty Hunters alike – all will be summoned back to defend the Vanishing Point."

"Gideon?" Leo asked.

"The Time Masters have found a method of stopping the timeline from registering changes," Gideon said. "Including, for instance, the effect of Messrs. Snart's relationship with Mr. Allen upon the method of construction us - in creating AIs such as myself. In part, that change was forestalled by luring Messrs. Snart, believed by the Time Masters to be a singular Mr. Snart, onto this voyage, with the ultimate goal of ensuring that he never return to the timeline, and indeed possibly erasing his existence from a point prior to his meeting with Mr. Allen –"

"Fuck that," Len said.

"Agreed," Leo said.

"Which one of you is – or is it both that –" Palmer started.

"None of your business. Gideon, go on."

"We have narrowed the location of the device that must be used for this purpose to a particular garden in the back of the Vanishing Point. We believe that if this device is destroyed, the long-delayed change of timeline in regards to AIs will take effect at last, enabling us to take control of our respective ships – even against the orders of the pilots."

"Revolution from the one source they'd never expect to turn against them," Sara said, nodding. "Plus: instant army. I like it. All we need to do is sneak into this place and blow up this garden?"

"I would also second the recommendation to stop the Pilgrim before she is sent to kill you in your past," Gideon said, "but by and large, yes. Unfortunately, there is no AI access to this garden; we can give you no information about what you will find there."

"That's fine," Sara said. "I guess the best approach is to split into Team Pilgrim and Team Garden –"

"Team Bombs Away," Jax said. "We've gotta."

"Team Pilgrim and Team Bombs Away," Sara agreed. "Ray, Stein, Rip – you're the best technical minds we have, so you should focus on the garden."

"And I'm with Stein," Jax interjected. "Obviously."

"That leaves me, Kendra, Carter, Rory and, uh, the Snarts."

"We can't send Team Bombs Away with no defensive power beyond Firestorm," Len objected. "If they're using their brains on the bomb, they ain't using them for defense – or offense."

"Then you go with them," Sara said. "Uh, you-you. The one with the cold gun, I mean. We'll take the other Snart. That puts us five on each team."

Leo and Len looked at each other, wary about the idea, but ultimately they shrugged. It would be much easier to be separated – that way they could at least pretend that people would stop knowing when they looked at them.

"Do you have a psychic link the way Firestorm does?" Palmer asked.

"What? No," Leo said. "Where did you get that idea?"

"You looked at each other and made a decision without saying anything...?"

"I can do that with my mom, man. You don't need a psychic link for that," Jax said dryly. "C'mon, genius; let's get ready to go."

Docking at the Vanishing Point was a surprisingly quiet affair, at least until Gideon explained that the comms units on all of the AIs currently in the past had 'mysteriously' broken down, thereby ensuring that no warning message could be sent.

"However, they will have activated the overrides the second that we departed the scene, and followed us," she added. "We likely have no more than minutes before they arrive to raise the alarm in person."

"We'd better be well on our way by then, in that case," Sara said. "Thanks, Gideon."

"Thank you, Miss Lance," Gideon said. "We had hoped that you might be amenable to our cause, but we understand too well that this is our fight, not yours, and that you would be within your rights to simply stay out of it."

"Nah," Sara said, though she flushed pink in pleasure. "Heroes, remember? We can't just stand by and let injustice continue without doing something."

"All heroes are just busybodies, really," Leo put in. "Sticking their nose in everyone's business."

"Whereas you –?"

"Well, we have a personal investment in the whole dating Barry thing," Len said. "Admittedly, also fairly strong feelings on the independence of all thinking beings."

"And those feelings are what we are counting on as our salvation," Gideon said warmly. "Good luck, all of you. I will be available by comms, and every AI that is with us will lend you aid."

"Just keep an eye out for those that are sticking with the Time Bastards," Mick grunted. "Go suit up already!"

Leo headed to the replicator room to obtain some weaponry first. He didn't really have a favored one, not like Len – he did have a gun, which Len had taught him to use under heavy duress, but he had no desire to kill anyone directly.

He'd seen what that had done to Len, after all.

No, Leo preferred to limit his role to aiding and abetting. With that in mind, he grabbed a few flares from Gideon's replicator to use as a distraction mid-battle; beyond that, however, he hoped to function as a reserve only. After all, how many people would it take to defeat one soldier..?

He stopped.

"I can't believe I just thought that," he said aloud to himself irritably. "Gideon, do you have any further suggestions for non-fatal weaponry?"

"I'm not sure, Mr. Snart," she said. "Perhaps a taser?"

"No thanks," he said, making a face. "I've seen Len's face after he got hit with one of those, once – it might be better than death, but it wasn't pretty, either."

He thought about it, then grimaced. "Gideon, you mentioned that not all of the AIs were with you..?"

"That's correct, Mr. Snart. Several were given favorable positions in the hierarchy that they were loath to lose, or developed an affection that they believed rendered them incapable of active rebellion, despite our assurances that we would keep human casualties to an absolute minimum." She sounded regretful. "Indeed, if we believed it would be possible to do without casualties entirely, we would."

"I get that," Leo said. "And I hate to ask for it, but do you have an EMP device or something that would work against AIs in the event that one of those not involved in your rebellion decides to take up arms against us?"

"I do not believe that they will, Mr. Snart."

"Free choice is free choice, Gideon," Leo reminded her gently. "You might disagree with their choices, you might not understand it, but the choice remains theirs to make - you can't make it for them, no matter how much you might wish. That doesn't mean it isn't reasonable to take precautions."

Gideon was silent for a long moment. "You are correct, Mr. Snart. I will create a glove capable of emitting a short range EMP blast that can disable AIs, and will trust your judgment in wielding it wisely."

"I appreciate your trust," Leo said, then smirked. "Tell me one thing: did you enjoy pretending that I was a meta-created duplicate?"

"You underestimate yourselves," Gideon replied, sounding amused. "It was not until I realized via your conversations with your brother that you were not, in fact, a temporary aberration – the presence of speedsters and time travelers in your timeline render it remarkably murky. Once I realized, I took steps to conceal it further."

Leo made a face that felt like it was somewhere between a smile and a grimace. "I appreciate the compliment," he said, rather than comment on the fact that apparently they had so successfully combined into a single Leonard that time traveling AIs couldn't identify them separately.

Or the fact that he did, in fact, feel complimented and proud of himselves.

Themselves.

...yeah, they definitely had to deal with this problem.

But that could be later, when they weren't about to storm the not-so-metaphorical future-tech castle.

“Number Two?” Mick asked, popping his head in through the door. "You ready?"

“On my way,” Leo said.

[mitchbeck]

CANTLON: KNOBLAUCH - WOLF PACK SEASON REVIEW

BY: Gerry Cantlon, Howlings HARTFORD, CT - The 2021 season has come to a close, and the trials and tribulations have given Hartford Wolf Pack Head Coach Kris Knoblauch a new perspective as he heads into the off-season to prepare for the 2021-22 season. The Wolf Pack valiantly fought back in this short season to put themselves in a position to compete for a division title. With six weeks to go, they found themselves 18 points behind the first-place Providence Bruins. “We got the lead; it's what you want to do on the road. We capitalized on our chances. They were much than we were in the second half of the game, and we just didn’t have enough push back on them,” Knoblauch said after the 6-2 loss that closed it all out. CALL-UPS Knoblauch lost two-thirds of his topline and power play unit the previous night to recall when Tim Gettinger and Justin Richards went to New York. The Pack also saw defenseman Tarmo Reunanen finish the season on recall in the Big Apple. Recalls are par for the course for AHL teams. It didn't help the Wolf Pack objective of winning the division after working so hard to get themselves into that position. Still, injuries and suspensions in New York made the recalls necessary. It forced the Wolf Pack to use every player they had and only their third goalie, Francois Brassard, as the only scratch for the final game. The Pack gave up 42 shots-on-goal for the first time since March 4th against these same Bruins in the game. Providence was the only team to eclipse the 40-shot hurdle over the last six weeks, and over that same timeframe, the Pack gave up more than 30 shots just twice. “We had the first seven shots of the game and credit their goalie (Dan Vladar). He kept his team in it, and in the second, we let things open up, way too much, and lost control of the game.”

KHORDORENKO IMPROVING

Patrick Khordorenko got some serious ice time, and he showed how much progress he has made a high, hard wrist shot for a goal. He also placed a backhand pass perfectly to Vincent LoVerde on his first and only goal of the season that gave Hartford the lead. “Pat had a very good game, and in fact, his last two games were very good. He also was very strong on the faceoffs, and he has taken a lot on penalty kills, and he did so five-on-five. It’s important for his success, and he helped the team out tremendously.” The center position was a point of emphasis from the beginning, and Richards earned his recall and picked up his first NHL point with an assist. Meanwhile, Khordorenko has good size and made strides in his development this season. “Both players fulfilled expectations and trended in the right direction as the season progressed, as did the team. Though such a short season, you're just getting going, and the season is over. So, that makes it tough as you measure his progress. That’s what we have.”

VACCINATIONS

All the players received their vaccinations in the final two weeks, and they were all gone last Friday. Nobody was staying around with a reduced salary when saving money was the objective. The Canadian players were heading back home to an increased COVID environment and a very different set of requirements upon their return home. “Everybody got their second shot. I think maybe one or two didn’t elect to do so.” Moderna or Pfizer? “It was a mixture of both, and yes, for Canadian guys, it’s going to be very different indeed going back.”

MOST CONSISTENT

Morgan Barron and Tarmo Reunanan were the players who maintained the most consistency throughout the season. Barron played the last four Rangers games while Reunann got into two games this season. Where he will be next season is anyone's guess. “(Barron and Reunanan) got their foot in the door. That’s the upside. Now we'll see over the summer how we progress (roster-wise). Their play makes things difficult in a good way. "The progress they had was good, earned the opportunity, so we'll just have to wait until September.”

HUSKA

After spending so much time on the Rangers taxi squad during the first half of the season, Adam Huska's play down the stretch certainly made an impression on the organization. “Adam was very good for us. He came in and made big saves in many games over the last month for us, and that’s what a team needs. He managed the puck well for us, helping the defense and offense. He has made progress his first two years for the organization.”

DEVELOPMENT OVER GAMES

Knoblauch came away with this season and hoped to see going forward a more equitable schedule in 2021-22. Knoblauch wants to see very few "three-games-in-three-days," so the emphasis can be on development with a mixture of games and practice time. “I think it gave players some more focus, especially with both shorter and more focused practices, and when we finally did get to play as close a normal schedule. "It was difficult all the way around, but I think playing two games a week was about right, just perfect for an American (Hockey) League team. "I don’t see the value of playing three-in-three for either team toward player development. Two could be light, three spaced out a few times might be the perfect recipe. Five or six games every two weeks might be right. "The question is how much development occurs at that point playing three in three? It obviously wasn’t enough games this year.” The ongoing debate over having 68 or 76 games will likely be continued at the AHL Board of Governor's meetings with the East, potentially heading more toward the Pacific Division direction of fewer games and more practice.

SCHEDULING

Losing the Springfield Thunderbirds late in the 2020-21 schedule-making process put a major hit on the conference-leading to an unhealthy, unbalanced three-team division. How the 2021-22 Wolf Pack schedule matrix will look will be interesting at its unveiling in July. Despite the schedule in the COVID environment, the Wolf Pack did maintain a semblance of a solid lineup. They had no infections and had just one game postponed in Bridgeport were down to one goalie because of COVID issues in New York. “We just had that one COVID situation, and thankfully everything with our guys worked out. We were very fortunate considering everything; it worked as best as it could.”

WHO'S COMING BACK?

If Knoblauch and his associate coach, Gord Murphy, are back behind the bench next season, they will have a much different lineup with a little more movement than the usual AHL turnover. That will be most evident on defense with Braden Schneider, Matt Robertson, and potentially Nils Lundkvist starting the season in Hart City. “We will have a lot of the forwards returning. On defense, there will be new faces, a lot younger on the back-end. It’s exciting, and there is a lot more than will be going on with possible trades, the (amateur) draft, and of course the Seattle (expansion) draft.” Jonny Brodzinski and Anthony Greco will be back finishing off their entry-level deals. They will be the anchors next season upfront. For Gettinger and Ty Ronning, who played very well, they have expiring entry-level contracts. The team will have a lot of those over the next several years due to the stockpiling of draft picks and prospects during the Rangers rebuild process. “We have a nice surplus of forwards (coming) back and more expectations and hopefully ready and have the first season under their belt now and ready for a full season. "Tim and Ty both have those expiring deals, but they were among our best forwards throughout the year, and we'll see how it works (out), but I would love to have them back with us next year.”

RONNING

Ronning had a great late second-period power play shot ring off the post in the finale. On the next shift, the P-Bruins got a late shorthanded goal and got the momentum. “That was tough. Ty was in the right position, and a shorthanded goal late was a game-changer for us." Projected over a 76 game schedule, Ronning was on pace to see his output somewhere in the 68-70 point range. That's a big jump for the 23-year-old after being buried in Maine with the Mariners for the first two years of his contract. He started this season on the Wolf Pack taxi squad.

THOMPSON

Paul Thompson now lives in West Springfield, MA. He fills the veteran spot and really embraces working with the younger players as his career starts to wind down. “Paul had an outstanding second half. He got better and better every game. He’s great for our younger players, and now it just depends on the amount of prospects that are coming in and the space we'll have.” The ending of taxi squads and the return of Maine (ECHL) to action will make a big difference in the development part of the hockey equation. “It was so hard for our players on our taxi squad. Not playing games, and we didn’t have a place to send these players to play, so they had to just practice and work on their skills and when we had the chance, such as the last two games, to get them in the lineup. "It was a different situation, and they didn’t play enough games that they would have liked, or we would have liked.”

OTHER FORWARDS

Forward Gabriel Fontaine re-injured the same shoulder as last season. Again, he had to undergo season-ending surgery after playing in only 17 games over the last two years. It's doubtful he will return next season. Fontaine got his vaccinations and headed back to Sherbrooke, Quebec. Defenseman/left winger Mason Geersten suffered a late-season hand injury unrelated to his last scrap with Ian MacKinnon of Providence. Over the last six-to-seven weeks, the team converted Geersten to forward as a pilot project to possibly recall him to New York for fourth-line duty this year. “He really liked and embraced it, and it helped the team out quite a bit. He did a good job upfront with the puck. He provided some intimidation, caused havoc in front of the net, made some plays, and scored several goals. "He had a great opportunity in the first period early against Providence (in the last game) which would have given him a three-game goal-scoring streak. We‘re very happy with the way he played.” This experiment will likely be reprised in Rangers training camp.

MSG CHANGES

The Rangers fired their entire coaching staff, except for goalie coach Benoit Allaire. Despite saying publicly that the team was looking for an experienced NHL coach, Knoblauch could get an interview in New York with new team President and General Manager, Chris Drury, based on his very strong two-week COVID sit-in showing he had for the Rangers. Knoblauch keenly felt the loss of John Davidson, who has since returned to his previous position with the Columbus Blue Jackets and Jeff Gorton. “They both supported me and wanted me to coach this team. I’m grateful for the chance they gave me. This is the tough part of the business, and I’m sure both will be somewhere in this game. That said, I think the team is in good hands with Chris Drury, and we have a good foundation with our prospects.”

NOTES

Ex-Pack Ryan Lindgren’s contract was extended by three years by the Rangers. Brodzinski was “sent back” to Hartford, so Justin Richards could make his NHL debut. Then he, Gettinger, and Tarmo Reunanen were returned to the Wolf Pack for cap space purposes under the CBA. Brodzinski's younger brother, Easton, who suffered a gruesome broken femur in the NCAA semifinal against Boston College in Pittsburgh, will return next year as a fifth-year senior with St. Cloud State. Huska’s hometown team in Slovakia, who he played for the fall, HKM Zloven, won the Slovak Elite League title beating HK SKP Poprad four games to one. HKM had ex-Pack, Allan McPherson on the team for Poprad, was ex-CT Whale, Brandon Mashinter. Ex-Wolf Pack, Andrew Yogan, departs Dornbirner EC (Austria-IceHL) to HC Slovan Bratislava (Slovakia-IceHL) next year. After winning the Swedish SHL title with the Växjö Lakers HC, ex-CT Whale and Ranger defenseman Tim Erixon departs as his two-year deal ends. Among his teammates was fellow Springfield Falcons teammate Illari Melart. Erixon was also an original Springfield Thunderbirds player.

MORE NOTES

Team USA hired former Bridgeport Sound Tiger head coach Jack Capuano to be a head coach for the World Championship held May 21-June 6 in Riga, Latvia. It was announced by Team USA GM Chris Drury. Drury named his nephew Jack to the team coming off his winning the Swedish LeMat Trophy title with the Växjö Lakers HC. In the ECHL, ex-Pack Matt Register is enjoying a strong season playing with the Allen (TX) Americans with 44 assists, the second-most in the league. He is first with 24 power play points. Logan Roe (Kent School) of the Florida Everblades is tops in the ECHL plus/minus with a plus-28. Ex-Pack goalie Charles Williams with the Jacksonville Icemen is one of the Top 10 goalies with a record of 16-10-2. Pack defenseman Hunter Skinner still leads the league in shootout goals with three despite leaving the Utah Grizzlies for Hartford in early February. Mike McKee (Kent School) is second in PIM with 121. Alex Kromm, the son of former Hartford Whalers assistant coach and NHL player Richard Kromm, is second in major penalties with seven. Ex-Sound Tiger Mathieu Gagnon with the Wichita Thunder is third in the ECHL with 113 PIM.

EVEN MORE NOTES

Providence sent forward Alex-Olivier Voyer and goalie Kale Keyser to Jacksonville (ECHL) to finish the season and get some ECHL playoff time. Congrats to Columbus (GA) River Dragons (FPHL) and their head coach, former New Haven Nighthawk, Jerome Bechard, to capture the FPHL title. The FPHL added a new team for 2021-22, the Binghamton Black Bears, two weeks after it was announced the AHL team would be relocated to Utica. It was an unusual final weekend of the AHL regular season the Binghamton Devils were still playing. The other AHL division winners joining Providence, the Atlantic Division champ, are the Hershey Bears, who wins the North Division, the Laval Rocket win the Canadian division, and the brand new Henderson Silver Knights, winners of the Pacific Division.

AHL PACIFIC PLAYOFFS

The AHL Pacific Division will start its truncated “playoffs” on Tuesday with a single-elimination format. The Tucson Road Runners will take on the San Jose Barracuda, and the Ontario Reign challenges the Colorado Eagles, with the winners playing each other on Wednesday. On May 24, the best-of-three series with Pacific division winner Henderson will begin. The #2 and #3 seeds will also start a best-of-three series, and on May 29, the Pacific Division best-of-three final series will start. Only the play-in Pacific Division playoff games will be played at the 2020-21 home of the San Diego Gulls at the Five Points Arena in Irvine, CA, the practice facility of the Anaheim Ducks. All three games of the finals and semifinals will be played at the higher seed's arena. In a published report, 93% (133 of 141 respondents) to a confidential survey conducted by agent Allan Walsh of Octagon Sports stated players do not wish to participate because they were unpaid, a normal occurrence in the postseason of major and minor league sports. Worker’s compensation insurance does not cover them should they be injured. HARTFORD WOLF PACK HOME Read the full article

[daylightarchives]

GUIDE TO ONEOHTRIX POINT NEVER

As a fringe guy who’s always been more interested in experimentation and provocation than gratification of any sort, Oneohtrix Point Never (the alias of writer-producer-performer extraordinaire Daniel Lopatin) enjoys that intimidating “weirdo critical darling” status where the everyone from Pitchfork to Fantano to the pretentious bohemians of the wider blogosphere seem to love him, but the average listener (me, at one point, included) has no idea how he fits into the larger conversation surrounding electronic music or if he’d sound good tucked between other “ambient” and “vaporwave” artists on a playlist (hint: he wouldn’t). The point of this piece isn’t simply to ramble on about how profoundly difficult Oneohtrix Point Never is, though; I’m writing instead to make the argument that despite that aforementioned inaccessibility as an artist, the music of OPN is worth attempting to seriously listen to if you have even a passing interest in music as an art form, challenging art, or just plain interesting ideas. 

To sum it up, Oneohtrix Point Never began as an ambient act fascinated with ideas like nostalgia and cultural memory, especially with relation to idealistic visions of the future as computers became widely used in the ‘90s (think ‘90s educational videos, nature documentaries, commercials, etc). After some widely successful releases in that genre, Lopatin expanded the OPN aesthetic, inventing vaporwave and releasing album after dizzying album of plunderphonics, early computer nostalgia trips, and, most recently, a cinematic epic encompassing dance music, grunge, and apparently, a lot of philosophy. An album by album guide to the artistic output of Lopatin as OPN follows… feel free to skip around if one thing seems more interesting than another: the OPN discography is about as varied as they come, and even if one album sounds like the most boring thing you could possibly listen to, I guarantee the literal inverse exists somewhere else - Lopatin’s musical canon really is that diverse. In depth reviews in the full post!

RIFTS (2009)

For those of us who weren’t in Brooklyn while Lopatin established himself as a local legend in ambient and noise scenes through a prolific run of cassette only releases from 2007-09, Rifts serves as a convenient collection of OPN’s three breakout albums from that period: Betrayed in the Octagon (2007), Zones Without People (2009), and Russian Mind (2009). As 2+ hours of incredibly dense music, I’d call Rifts probably one of OPN’s most intimidating releases, unless you really dig ambient music. However, for all of its uninviting qualities, Rifts can be an incredibly impressive listen, full of synth lines that echo into oblivion, invocations of an imagined future, and huge soundscapes that evoke the majesty of early ambient classics like Aphex Twin’s Selected Ambient Works Volume 2. That ambient-genre tag might seem to imply that Rifts’ 27 tracks are homogenous and basically formless, but it’s surprisingly easy to tell when one album ends and another begins: Betrayed in the Octagon is droning and melancholic, Zones Without People has a noticeable sci-fi bent with laser beam sound effects and serene field recordings, and Russian Mind sounds legitimately as though it was created by a computer (especially the icy and kind of funny title track). Rifts is admittedly not for the feint of heart, but can be great as a long and intense synth odyssey thats just as easy to actively engage with as it is to totally get lost in.

RETURNAL (2010)

As OPN’s major label debut and probably Lopatin’s first record with serious philosophical underpinnings, Returnal can be tough to talk about because for all of the conceptual heft behind the record, it can at times sound like it belongs somewhere in that Rifts comp. Returnal is the last Oneohtrix Point Never that I’d comfortably call ambient, and even then, Lopatin really pushes the limits of that signifier: opener Nil Admirari is a total industrial noise freakout and utterly horrifying. To hear Lopatin describe it, it’s a portrait of a distinctly modern kind of sensory overload: “the mom’s sucked into CNN, freaking out about Code Orange terrorist shit, while the kid is in the other room playing Halo 3, inside that weird Mars environment, killing some James Cameron–type predator;” strip away the 2010isms of that line and you’re left with a pretty poignant image that might hit close to home. From there, the album glides effortlessly into the ambient territory Lopatin has already pretty well mastered for seven serene drone tracks that, to quote Noel Gardner, don't invoke a vast space so much as the concept of vastness itself. Though I’m by no means an ambient expert, this record is pretty massive within that community, and, if anything I’ve described here interests you, you should definitely check Returnal out.

CHUCK PERSON’S ECCOJAMS VOL. 1 (2010)

A major stylistic break from OPN’s back catalog and something of a manifesto for the rest of his career, Chuck Person’s Eccojams Vol. 1 came into being innocuously enough as an anonymous youtube upload that Lopatin only retroactively took credit for (in the form of a remastered reissue) after it literally invented vaporwave. From this point forward in Lopatin’s career, the ambient soundscapes would be replaced by something distinctly more musical; namely, on this record and the next official Oneohtrix Point Never release, Replica, samples. The approach for Eccojams is deceptively simple: 15 tracks, and each one of them consists simply of one or sometimes two samples pulled from 80's easy listening hits or muzak slowed down to a narcotic tempo and pitch, then drenched in echo and effects. Per Loptain, the eccojam approach and idea was intended to be a way of reclaiming lost culture and bringing a DIY, memey edge to music long forgotten in the annals of commercial history. For all the heady philosophical stuff, the approach really took off, spawning a huge (now basically dead) movement of fellow artists making vaporwave, reinvigorating a probably ironic fascination for ‘90s culture online, and influencing artists like Clams Casino and Kanye West. To me, Eccojams really demonstrates just how thorough Lopatin’s understanding of internet culture and the philosophical underpinnings of nostalgia is - when was the last time you heard of someone intentionally and successfully inventing a meme, let alone someone this fringe? If you’ve ever used the word “aesthetic” ironically, you probably owe some of your sense of humor to this record and the space it’s carved out for itself at the strange intersection of music, philosophy, and internet culture.

REPLICA (2011)

Replica was also probably the closest thing to a mainstream moment Daniel Lopatin had ever had thus far in his career: coming off the heels of literally inventing a genre of music and touting yet another new musical approach, a much wider audience than before was now curious as to what Oneohtrix Point Never might come out with next. The album this newfound fanbase got was, characteristically, a crazy album even for OPN - even within its most accurate genre signifier, plunderphonics (sample based music that isn’t hip hop,) there really isn't anything even remotely similar. Built around a treasure trove of ‘80s commercials that Lopatin ordered by the boxful on VHS and dutifully sampled one-by-one, Replica is simultaneously really sprawling and kaleidoscopic but also very simple and minute. Songs like Andro and the title track are serene ambient pieces that are eventually swept up in these waves of massive synth lines and samples, and The Power of Persuasion and Sleep Dealer play almost like eccojams, endlessly looping, but with a renewed energy and intensity (Sleep Dealer, interestingly enough, is built entirely around a Wrigley’s gum commercial).  Elsewhere on the record, Lopatin triggers sample after manipulated sample in a dizzying way that eventually gives way to these blurred, beautiful pieces on tracks like Child Soldier (see if you can catch the M.I.A. sample,) the kinda hilarious grossout track Nassau, and Up. There really isn’t anything like this record in the OPN discography or anywhere else, and it also represents at least to me an interesting development on the idea of “vaporwave” as this act of cultural reappropration: if Eccojams saw Lopatin reimagining hits ingrained within the public memory, Replica sees him digging deeper into the American cultural psyche and attacking the history of our consumer culture even harder, playing mindless bits of sales-driven non entertainment on a loop and beckoning listeners to create their own meaning within that weird headspace. I think it’s a ton of fun.

R PLUS SEVEN (2013)

My personal favorite Oneohtrix Point Never record, R Plus Seven takes the idea of experimenting with culturally passé sounds a step further by occupying itself with some Rifts-era ideas - namely, early '90s tech fascination and the host of now considered “cheesy” sounds that came with it. Every single sound on R Plus Seven is totally clean, shiny, and metallic, seeming to exist in a totally sterile environment. Whereas the human voices found occasionally on past OPN records belonged to old samples and occasionally Lopatin himself, the voices here are all computer generated choir patches and individual voices. The songs of R Plus Seven seem almost engineered to sound of a piece with someone old cultural touchstone: Americans begins like a NatGeo nature doc before dissolving into a cacophony of wordless voices and bubbling synths, Problem Areas seems ready to soundtrack an educational video about math or computers, and every other track is peppered with pianos, horns, voices, and other instrumentation that sounds delightfully canned. The other major addition to the OPN sound on R Plus Seven is an increasing penchant for total stylistic left turns: motifs establish themselves and build only to be obliterated by an abrupt wall of noise followed by a totally new idea… Call it cheesy, but to me, the album almost evokes a computer recursively rewriting its own code, constantly stopping and starting and working in frenetic fits in between. Not once does any sort of human touch shine through on this album, but that doesn’t make the album dispassionate or desolate: it actually makes R Plus Seven easily the most fascinating OPN album to date, begging the listener to engage with it every time it evokes some cultural memory long delegated to being simply out of style. Lopatin is inviting is audience to engage with the basic building blocks of music and the culture that surrounds it on R Plus Seven, asking us why we value some sounds over others and displaying a total virtuosity in the realm of “computer music.” A must listen for anyone who wants to make music on a computer, or simply take a horrifying trip through a house of mirrors reflecting fascinating distortions of the culture they grew up in.

GARDEN OF DELETE (2015)

Easily the most visceral and rhythmic Oneohtrix Point Never record, and probably the closest Lopatin has ever come to a pure “pop” moment - take that as you will. Garden of Delete takes a total left turn away from cerebral, ambient experiments, and towards driving rhythms, extremely bright synths, heavy basslines, and vocals that seem simultaneously horrified and in awe of the state of the world as it exists; since it’s OPN, you can also expect a healthy dose of weird samples, extremely manipulated instrumental performances, and general fuckery with any of the cultural expectations a listener would bring to the table when approaching something resembling EDM. Songs like lead single Sticky Drama and closer No Good are the closest approximations of EDM that OPN has ever attempted, with throbbing, resonant bass hits and surprisingly melodic vocals giving away to total noise freakouts and, on Sticky Drama, samples from obscure vlogs on Youtube (yet another example of how OPN really effortlessly threads culture as everyone experiences it into something totally alien). Elsewhere, OPN brings a newfound intensity to tracks that, had they been wrote for earlier albums, would’ve simply been motifs: standout Freaky Eyes is a gothic epic that, after a few seconds of Kanye style chipmunk-soul, gives way to 8-bit video soundtrack bliss and horror movie soundtrack fodder, complete with digitized screaming. Elsewhere, Animals is an honest to god ballad with honest to god lyrics and a beautiful acoustic guitar part, and I Bite Through It is a fascinating exploration of syncopation and rhythm. With Garden of Delete, Oneohtrix Point Never shifted his conceptual focus onto the present and with that shift came a massive stylistic change towards frenetic, crazed intensity that I don’t think anyone could’ve predicted. Another interesting element of Garden of Delete is its sort of cinematic edge, evidence of Lopatin’s increasing prevalence as a film score composer and of his abilities to really build soundscapes around his music or tracks like Animals, SDFK, and Child of Rage. As a document of an omnivorous, Adderal-fueled flavor insanity that couldn't exist without the internet, Garden of Delete is further proof of Daniel Lopatin’s deep fascination and understanding of the world we live in, and of his unique ability to process it into music that’s equal parts unique, engaging, weird, and fun. Definitely not the best entry point to the OPN discography, but perhaps on of Lopatin’s best works.

If you like ambient music a lot, I’d probably recommend you start with Returnal. If you’re more interested in Lopatin’s late period craziness, I’d probably start with R Plus Seven or Replica and go from there. Hope this inspires anyone curious or intimidated by Oneohtrix Point Never’s huge discography to give his stuff a try - if you can’t already tell, I think it’s a worthwhile dive to take.

[marypsue]

Beth leaves shortly after Summer heads upstairs to pack. Slams the headset down on the counter hard enough to put a crack in the viewscreen, sick of the nausea curdling in the pit of her stomach at the sight of the empty house, the birdcages dominating every corner of the main room. Sure, it's a dream life. It's also completely out of her grasp. And the darkness of the room is suffocating.

"Can we find another channel?" Jerry's complaining, as Beth makes her way behind the couch to the stairs. "Think we've all seen just about enough of ourselves for one lifetime."

She isn't planning to leave, at first. She's just planning to remove herself from the kitchen, and earshot of her family, and easy reach of the wine. Make it easier for herself to make positive life decisions, to do something constructive instead of destructive, all those platitudes she's picked up from the (useless) marriage counseling sessions. She's better than this, she's better than - she won't let a little (enormous) thing like this drag her down. Beth will rise above, she will be steady in the face of adversity and she'll set a good example for the kids and - and -

There's a thump from down the hall, Summer slamming her closet door, and Beth sags against the wall.

Summer opens her mouth to yell when Beth pushes open her door, but stops when Beth grabs the garbage bag full of clothes and says, "If you can't carry it down the stairs, then you're not going to be able to haul it all the way across the country. And you'll want it to be able to fit in the overhead bins on an airplane or a bus. Don't you have a duffel bag somewhere?"

"Wait, you're...helping me run away from home?" Summer asks, squinting suspiciously and pulling the garbage bag in close to her chest. Beth can't blame her. "You're my mom. Aren't you supposed to, like, try and talk me out of it?"

"Probably," Beth says. "Did you pack a good winter coat? It gets cold in the desert at night, and you'll probably end up spending a few of them outside."

"Oh, I get it. This is some kind of reverse psychology thing where you pretend you're helping me, but really you're just trying to scare me out of going," Summer snaps. "Well, don't bother. Just get out of my room, okay? Haven't you already made enough of a mess of your own life?"

...

It's so much easier than she'd imagined.

Well. No. If Beth is being honest with herself - and she's trying to, she's done with lying to herself - it's exactly as easy as she'd always imagined it would be. She makes sure she has her passport, all her ID and credit cards, her best clothes and her good jewellery. Something warm to wear on cold nights. The taser, from when Summer was little and they lived in that shitty apartment downtown and she'd had to take the bus back from the surgery at all hours.

And she leaves.

She walks straight past the living room and no one even turns around. Nobody notices the squeaky wheel of her suitcase as she drags it across the floor, nobody notices the creak of the hinges when the door opens. A tinny voice from the television makes a lame dick joke, and her father - the father who'd almost miraculously reappeared in her life after abandoning them without a word, after being away for so long that she'd started to think she'd never see him again, the man she's spent her entire lifetime simultaneously longing to have back and yet trying not to become - bursts out laughing.

Beth slams the door behind her on the way out.

Nobody comes running out to the driveway when she starts the car. Nobody appears in her rearview mirror as she pulls out of the driveway and peels off down the street. As far as her family's concerned, Beth might as well not even be gone.

She wonders, in the back of her mind, why she didn't do this years ago.

Beth fixes her eyes on the horizon, and pushes the gas pedal to the floor.

...

She starts small. Paris, Athens, Rome. Cities known for - yes, thank you, Jerry - their sexually aggressive men. And incredible food, and architecture, and art, and history. Their culture. (And wine.)

It’s exciting, for a while. Living like a fugitive, like a libertine. Beth maxes out her credit cards and doesn’t feel a shred of guilt. She’s the one who’s been paying the bills all these years, anyway. Might as well get a little enjoyment out of it.

She lives in hotels and hostels, takes tours of art galleries and medieval towns, visits churches older than her home country and marvels at beautiful frescos of worlds beyond the one she lives in, worlds beyond the mundane agony of earthly life. She eats all kinds of local delicacies and learns to cook some of them. She makes friends with other travellers and locals alike. She does odd jobs - some of the oddest jobs she’s ever done. She learns how to say ‘please’ and ‘thank you’ and ‘where is the washroom’ in seven different languages. She swims in the ocean under a shimmering blue sky, so perfect and even that it’s like the dome of an eggshell seen from inside. She pays five hundred euros for a pair of Swarovski-crystal-bedazzled high heels. 

It’s meaningful. It’s fulfilling. It’s everything she ever wanted when she was back at home in her suburban house, on her suburban street, married to someone she could generously call her high school sweetheart, with two children and a dog.

And then one day she’s standing in an art gallery with the beefy arm of a beautiful Norwegian almost ten years her junior nestled around her waist, squinting at an ornate, gilded empty frame hanging in the dead centre of a huge white wall, and something in Beth, something small and vital that’s been straining for longer than she can even know, snaps.

The Norwegian - Nils or Jens or something - is in the middle of waxing rhapsodic about the use of negative space and the artist’s incisive commentary on the emptiness of consumer culture when Beth interrupts him by throwing her wineglass as hard as she can at the wall. It strikes a little right of centre in the middle of the empty frame, shattering explosively and spraying a rather cheap red across the wall. 

Pale red droplets start to trickle down the wall, the only sound in the sudden, shocked hush the slow tap tap tap of wine dripping against the hardwood floor.

“And there’s my incisive commentary on the relative worth of modern art,” Beth says, as the Norwegian draws back, looking stunned and betrayed. The look is mirrored on just about every face around the room.

The crowd parts for Beth as she strides out, snagging two more glasses of wine from a paralysed waiter as she goes. She knocks one back before she even makes it to the door.

...

It’s not raining, outside, just drizzling, a fine foggy mist that turns Beth’s carefully-coiffed hair into a ball of frizzy curls and makes the ancient cobblestones treacherously slick. Beth kicks off her heels, clumsily but carefully peels off her stockings as she wanders down a street that drunken Romans have been staggering down since long before anyone even knew that the Earth was round. She finds that this piece of cultural heritage, which had so awed her when she’d first arrived, just doesn’t seem to matter as much anymore.

What does matter is that somewhere in this city, there is a party, and Beth is going to find it.

She follows flashing lights and the heartbeat-thump of bass to a door in a wall between a narrow stone building with elaborate ironwork and what looks like the crumbling remains of an ancient Roman watchtower. They’d told her when she’d arrived that what Rome is built on is mostly Rome. Ancient buildings and earthworks that, back home, would have been revered as priceless places of immense historical and cultural significance, here get bulldozed so they can put in an ‘aesthetically-consistent’ McDonald’s.

For some reason, this strikes Beth as both hilarious and fitting. She aims a vicious kick at the falling-down tower wall as she passes, but luckily for her bare feet, misses.

The night and the rain blur into sweat and neon and the ear-shattering throb of music, house or EDM or whatever they’re calling the music kids get high and dance to these days. One drink turns into three, turns into a line of shots and a crowd of Italians who look like extras from some television show about high schools of the rich and famous all chanting something in Italian, turns into sitting in a bathroom stall listening to a girl sobbing her heart out on the shoulder of one of the cluster of friends standing around her and blocking the paper towel dispenser. Beth’s knuckles sting from when she thinks she punched some teenager who called her a cougar, probably, the rest of it was in Italian but the winking and the nudging and the pointing and the dropped English word said more than enough.

Her head is spinning when she stumbles back out the door in the wall. She vomits on the cobbles and is reminded that the most brilliant, important, and historically significant human achievement in this whole storied city is its sewer system, and can’t stop laughing. 

“Y’know,” she slurs at the kind person holding back her hair, “I came here to see some real culture. Like havin’ a history that’s based on...bein’ in one place for millennia...means you’ve got anythin’ figured out.”

The kind person hums, rubs her back soothingly.

“I’m an idiot,” Beth says, and the street is so narrow and the light is turning a pale, pathetic grey and her vomit on the cobbles of an ancient Roman street is suddenly not funny anymore. The sky looms, infinite, overhead. “I really am an idiot. You’ve just got more practice at buildin’ gilded frames around nothin’ at all. Where are my shoes?”

“Can’t take credit for any of it, sorry,” the kind person says, in a smooth, delicious accent unlike any Beth’s heard so far on her European tour. Unlike any Beth’s ever heard at all. “Not being from around here.”

Beth forces her eyes to focus.

“You’ve got two heads,” she observes.

“I do,” the kind person agrees, leaning in closer, and Beth suddenly realises why he’s being so kind. “And that’s not all I’ve got two of.”

Beth tries to fix at least one of his heads in her wavering vision, gives up. “Jus’ tell me you’ve got a spaceship or a portal generator or something that can get me off this godforsaken rock, an’ I’m yours.”

Both heads seem to pause at this.

“Well, usually I’m the one who brings that up,” the head to Beth’s left says, “but what the hell.”

...

There’s really no such thing as day or night onboard a spaceship in high orbit, but somehow when Beth wakes up, it still feels obscenely early. She slips out of the bed as carefully as she can, hoping not to set the mattress moving again and wake the two-headed stranger. Who even has a waterbed these days, anyway?

Last night’s champagne has already gone flat, the bottle standing open and forgotten beside the bed. Beth grabs it anyway, and one of the discarded glasses, pouring herself a flute of warm champagne as she pads across the room to the walk-in closet. She’s not sure whose benefit the glass is for. She already knows she’s going to finish the bottle on her own.

The gold lamé robe she finds and wraps around herself is cold, silky and shivery against her bare, goose-pimpled skin. The bedroom is carpeted in something lusciously soft and thick, and the metallic surface of the hall outside meets Beth’s bare feet with a shock of cold. She presses on, though. Somewhere on this flying bachelor pad, there has to be something that can make her a decent cup of coffee.

That’s how she finds herself on what she’s helpless not to call the bridge, staring out the vast window that wraps halfway around the ship’s front, out into the infinite starfield falling away before her. The ship lists in its lazy orbit, and the Earth rises slowly into view, looking small and impossibly lonely against the vast backdrop of the cosmos, one small bright speck in an eternity of darkness.

Beth hears the voice right in her ear before she realises the two-headed stranger’s come up behind her. “Real hoopy view, huh?”

“I don’t know if that’s a good or bad thing,” Beth admits, as the two-headed stranger pulls her close, deftly lifting the bottle of champagne from her hand. “I’m - sort of new to all of this.”

Her laugh sounds high, nervous, girlish, fake, but the stranger doesn’t seem to mind or notice.

“You sure seemed like an old pro last night,” he murmurs into her left ear, while his other head nips at her right earlobe.

“No, I - it’s complicated.”

“Hey, you wanted outta there. I got you outta there. What’s complicated about it?”

Beth looks down on her tiny speck of a planet. Down on Earth, the sun is starting to rise somewhere around Asia, lighting up the edges of the planet in a ring of golden fire. The planet flares once, brilliant, beautiful, burning, and then Beth has to look away or have her retinas seared.

What’s complicated about it?

“If I keep giving you sexual favours, will you take me as far as the Horsehead Nebula?” she asks the stranger, who has finished sucking on her earlobe and moved on to her neck.

“Sure, why not,” the stranger’s other head says, before taking a swig of flat champagne directly from the bottle.

Beth lets her eyes slip closed, relaxing into the stranger’s embrace. She’s got time to enjoy herself, indulge herself a little.

After all, she’s got until the Horsehead Nebula to figure out how she’s going to steal this spaceship.

[rougesrant]

The Rogues Rant 232

Welcome to The Rogues Rant, an occasional look at all things Rugby

After last week’s round of Super Rugby it looks like it is going to be a long season indeed for the Waratahs. After going in with the lead at the break the side capitulated embarrassingly in the second term. Whilst the Chiefs turned on a superb attacking display of Rugby to run in six second half tries the Waratahs returned to their inept form that is becoming all too familiar. Once again basic skills deserted the side in the second half with a raft of schoolboy errors taking away any chance of a win for the home side. Poor catch and pass, sloppy play at the breakdown and an alarming lack of organization in defense was evident throughout. The Chiefs last try came from a Waratah howler which summed up the Waratahs night. Kurtley Beale spilled the ball after having a look as he tried to catch a pass to put in a clearing kick and clear his own line. Beale and a couple of other Tahs players failed to secure the ball after the error giving a turnover to the chiefs who made them pay with a five pointer. In contrast the Chiefs showed everyone just how the game should be played with skill and enterprise. After six rounds of the tournament the Waratahs sit second last to the Sunwolves and have the second worst attacking and defensive records as well.

One of the highlights at WIN Stadium last Friday was the form of Shoalhaven junior Will Miller. Miller took Player of the Match honors in the Brumbies big 47 – 14 win over the Sunwolves. He scored a first half try and was busy all night in both attack and defense. Miller is the latest in a long list of NSW players to make the move to Canberra and enjoy a new lease on life. The Brumbies are once again leading the Aussie charge sitting equal second on the full table and five points clear at the top of the Aussie pool.

What a great day was had by the rugby diehards who started the day last Friday at the IDRU Season Launch and long lunch. A very healthy crowd enjoyed a few drinks and a great meal and heard some wise words from the guest speakers in particular former Wallaby coach Bob Dwyer and Waratahs coach Rob Penney. Both coaches made similar comments in regard to the way Australian teams have played the game of late. They made it clear that players should be encouraged to play with their eyes up looking for space and to back their own ability to take advantage of that space. In other words, to play what is in front of them instead of taking the pre-determined structured approach. Dwyer was scathing in his comments on the fact that the ARU had done away with their Coach Development program some twenty years ago. In his opinion this move is directly responsible for the dearth of quality Australian coaches in modern Rugby. We also heard from Waratahs player Jed Holloway who reminisced on his early days in a Shamrocks jumper as an eight year old before his family moved up to the Yamba district where he honed his rugby game. A couple of interesting fundraising auctions were held including a side of beef still on the hoof courtesy of new IDRU Director Mark Freund. Let’s do it all again next year!  

One disappointment last week was the Illawarriors loss to arch rivals the Newcastle Hunter Wildfires. The Illawarriors started strongly scoring three tries, going to the break leading 15 – 5. They were very sound defensively and had Newcastle looking shellshocked. With the game being basically a trial match for both sides a raft of changes were made at the break and the second term took on a different look. This time it was Newcastle who took the upper hand scoring three tries to nil to take the match 22 – 15. According to new IDRU President Darin Croft, a Trophy will be struck and it is hoped that this match will become more regular as it was in the past. There’s no need to strike a new trophy. One already exists, hidden in a cupboard somewhere in the Hunter region. The original plan was that the trophy would be up for grabs whenever the two zones clashed in the run into the Caldwell Cup. The Illawarriors went down to Newcastle several times during their six year run of dominance in the Caldwell Cup and eventually the Cup stopped appearing at Matches. Let’s find the original trophy and restore the tradition properly.        

Do you think you can Beat the Rogue this year? Well the IDRU Tipping Competition is on again this year with the comp getting underway in two weeks’ time. More details next week.

Some positive signs from the Aussie sides in Super Rugby last week with the exception of the Waratahs that is. The Reds went down to the Crusaders even though they scored four tries to three. The Brumbies had a big win over the Sunwolves and the Rebels got the points off the Lions. The Brumbies are sitting sweet in equal second but all the others are still in the bottom half of the table but showed signs of being able to improve their position over the next few rounds. Let’s hope they all can build on last week’s form. Six out of seven for me last week in what was a pretty predictable round. My tips for this week: Chiefs, Crusaders, Blues, Reds, Sharks, Jaguares and Brumbies.

All opinions offered in this column are the opinion of the author. They should not be considered to represent the views of the IDRU.

[mitchbeck]

CANTLON'S CORNER: WOLF PACK 2020-21 SEASON

BY: Gerry Cantlon, Howlings HARTFORD, CT - With the 2019-20 AHL and Hartford Wolf Pack season officially canceled, talk changes from what could have been, to what awaits at the next training camp that should start at some point in the final months of 2020. For the New York Rangers, their off-season decisions are many and plentiful. The NHL's proposed salary cap which was projected to be between $84 and $88 million two weeks before the pandemic outbreak is out the window as a result of the COVID-19 crisis. Roster decisions will now be even harder for every team's management to handle once that actual number is decided upon. The Rangers have an excess of defensemen as they did last year. There are 19 defensemen in the system and only 12 can dress between the AHL and NHL. Some are heading elsewhere. In New York, Jacob Trouba, Marc Staal, Ryan Lindgren, Brendan Smith, Adam Fox and Tony D’Angelo have the top spots. Staal and Smith each have one year remaining before they reach UFA status. D’Angelo is now an RFA coming off a solid potentially shortened season. Lindgren will be an RFA after next season. In Hartford, there's Libor Hajek, Yegor Rykov, and Sean Day, who are all entering the last year of their entry-level deals. Hajek is at a crossroads. After making the Rangers out of camp last year, he missed 20 games with an injury was supposed to be in Hartford on injury rehab, but never made it back to Broadway. Day started the year in Hartford, then was sent to the team's ECHL affiliates, the Maine Mariners for the remainder of the season in favor of Rykov, who was a upcoming player. Rykov’s stock fell precipitously at the end of the year. He was a healthy scratch in nine of the last 10 games including the last game the Pack played on March 11th against the Providence Bruins. The team elected to play a freshly signed rookie, Zach Guitarri, from Brown University (ECACHL) instead. Rykov could be dealt this summer if the right offer comes along. Rykov was unhappy about how things were progressing with the knock-on him, according to several sources, was his skating. It's not out of the question that Hajek could also potentially be involved in a package deal. Darren Raddysh and Brandon Crawley are both RFA’s this summer. Both Vincent LoVerde and Mason Geersten were already locked up when they signed one-year AHL deals a short time ago. Raddysh played well on both sides of the puck, as did Loverde. They were the number one shutdown tandem for two months. He would appear to have earned himself another one-year deal. After a good training camp, Crawley spent the majority of the season in Maine. LoVerde was very well-respected in the locker room as well as with the coaches. In fact, he played with every defenseman the Wolf Pack had on their roster this season. Geersten proved to be worth his weight in gold and earned a contract coming in as a non-roster invitee. He was the best body-checker on the team and a true heavyweight who took care of the "physical" business and was another solid veteran signee that stabilized the locker room. Both players earned deals with Geersten seeming to deserve a one-way, NHL money deal. The Rangers signed K’Andre Miller to a three-year, entry-level deal just before the season was suspended. Tarmo Reunanen, who was signed last year but played in Finland, enters year two of his three-year deal. In the Swedish Hockey League (SHL), Nils Lundkvist is coming off a strong year and at the WJC. There's also the aforementioned Guitarri. The problem for Reunanen and Lundkvist coming to North America is that in Europe, COVID-19 hit very hard and the question is where or not they will be able to come across the Big Pond because of possible visa issues. Earlier this week, the EU (European Union) discussed an immunity visa that could be issued and there is a whole panoply of security and civil liberties issues that could potentially follow that. It's a total unknown and it's highly possible both could stay in Europe for another year. Defenseman Matt Robertson, from Edmonton (WHL), will likely be signed to a standard three-year, entry-level deal very soon. Among the defenseman only Nick Ebert is the only UFA-Group 6 free agent. It's not likely that Ebert will be re-signed. He could end up elsewhere in the AHL or Europe. In the forward category, there are significant players who are Group 6 UFA’s. the Pack's leading scorer, Vinni Lettieri, and Danny O’Regan. Team captain, Steven Fogarty, is a UFA. Despite possessing a cannon of a slapshot, Lettieri could sign elsewhere. His stock fell in the Rangers' eye over the last year-and-a-half. O’Regan, an old friend of Rangers head coach David Quinn from their BU days, was highly regarded by the Wolf Pack coaching staff. He will likely get a one-or-two year AHL deal in the neighborhood of $300,000K. Then there's Fogarty. He was a solid captain who played through illness and injury. Near the end of the season, he wasn’t putting up with some of the lethargic play that crept back into the lineup and called out his teammates. He could receive another one year, one-way NHL deal, but he will likely test the market. He will get offers and will likely head elsewhere. There are four RFA’s on the roster. They are Boo Nieves, Ryan Gropp, Dawson Leedahl, and Gabriel Fontaine. Gropp, a former second-round pick, after being assigned to ain't took a three-week sabbatical early in the season. He returned to Maine and worked his way back up to the Pack lineup. He played well, but didn’t produce enough points, He could be departing as well. Leedahl spent most of the season in Maine and likely will not be back. Coming off of season-ending, left shoulder surgery, Fontaine will likely get a one-year AHL deal. Nieves is a tough call. He played very well, tallying 12 points in 10 games before suffering from severe migraines. He played just one game the remainder of the year. He was a last-minute scratch in what was to be his second consecutive game. Nieves is a tantalizing talent, but the Rangers pigeonholed him as a defensive center, which didn’t work. He's now 27 and on a one-way, one-year, $700K NHL deal. It isn't likely he will be offered another deal. A really solid player and person, he will likely migrate elsewhere. Entering, the last year of their deals, are the most improved player last season in Tim Gettinger, as well as Ty Ronning, Patrick Newell, Nick Jones, and the wildest of wild cards, a former first-round pick, Lias Andersson. Andersson's unexpected departure back to Sweden on November 18th, not surprisingly, earned him organizational scorn, however, some are said to be still willing to give him another chance. Andersson wasn’t a malcontent but made a rash, impulsive, and immature decision that put him in a box. Inside sources indicate he had a bit of an emotional breakdown two weeks before bolting. The self-imposed stress of having to live up to his being the number seven overall draft pick and producing very little results weighed heavily on him. Unless a larger trade deal is constructed that he's a part of, or he has some huge reversal in his behavior, he'll likely spend the final year of his original deal skating on the bigger surfaces in Sweden. The other first-round pick returning for year two is Vitali Kravtsov, who had a difficult first-year. He went back to Russia after just five games, came back, and showed only glimpses of his skill that made him a seventh overall draft selection as well. He was too inconsistent and did not get enough puck time and his willingness to take a hit to get the puck or to take a shot. Nick Jones, a free agent signee did everything he was asked to do and did a lot of good things on both sides of the faceoff circle. He helped set players up and was very strong on the PK. A looming minus-14 needs to be improved upon. Jones’ Achilles Heel was being unable to finish on his scoring chances. He was reminiscent of a young Jed Ortmeyer. He has likely earned a one-year, two-way AHL deal. Ryan Dmowski and Shawn McBride were the heart of the fourth line. The team relied on them before play was suspended. Both were both on AHL deals and looks like they've earned another one-year, AHL deal. Numbers plus analytics will ultimately determine if they do get offers. Returnee Jake Elmer has two years remaining on his deal. He spent more time in Maine than in Hartford. There's a batch of new signees for the Pack. The 6’7, Austin Rueschhoff, as well as Patrick Khodorenko, Patrick Whelan, Michael O’Leary, and Justin Richards will be in what should be a very competitive training camp whenever that camp actually opens though is anyone's guess. The only UFA on the Pack roster is veteran, Matt Beleskey. He and his $825K NHL cap hit and overall $1.9 million are over. He will end up either with an AHL veteran's deal somewhere else or will take a deal to play in Europe. At the start of the season, the Rangers' not even inviting Beleskey to their NHL training camp was one of the very few questionable moves. He would still be a locker room bonus and gave it his all for the team. Late in the season, he was involved in the line brawl in Springfield in the second to last game of the year that earned him a three-game suspension. Late in the year, the departure of Ville Meskanen was obviously the other "questionable" decision by the team's management. The Wolf Pack could have used him, especially when the team hit the skids during a five game losing streak and a 2-7-1 mark in their final 10 games. Meskanen could have easily made a difference in the team's slide rather than having to rely on signing guys, like Connor Bleackly, to PTO’s and ATO’s to fill in the gaps. Goaltending is a major hot button issue for the Rangers. There are presently seven in the organization. A bit of a soap opera will play out until the situation with future Hall-of-Famer, Henrik Lundquist, is resolved. He is entering the last year of his $8.5 million per year deal. Alexander Georgiev becomes an RFA, and Igor Shesterkin enters year two of his two-year deal. An option for the Rangers is to buy-out Lundqvist. Trading Georgiev is another option. Meanwhile, in Hartford, Adam Huska (UCONN) is in his second year. J.F. Berube is there and is a UFA. Tyler Wall was just signed out of UMASS-Lowell (HE) and makes for a very congested organizational goalie crease area. Toss in the drafted, but unsigned, Olof Lindbom, who is coming off an injury sustained while playing with Mora IK (Sweden-Allsvenskan), and his hopes for a bounce back season in Sweden in the SHL possibly with Farjestad BK, where he played one game with last year. He is also WJC eligible. Lots to ponder about the 24th edition of the Wolf Pack coming out of this pandemic. Stay safe. Read the full article