#martyr intermission

[swaprandaljade]

juan. 😇

"I love juan."

[durge-marzio]

Meet my Tav, Marzio! Yes, another updated masterpost. I'm so sorry.

His pose is apart of the somatic motion for Sanctuary (if you wanted to know)~

Since my Marzio comic is going to take a lot longer to be produced than I planned, his story will be under the cut! You can read this if you like, or you can wait until I start releasing the comic.

Gender/Sexuality: Trans Man / Bi Age: 33-36, or however old Gortash is -> unsure due to memory loss Race: Mephistopheles Tiefling Origin: Haunted One (Dark Urge) Class: Monk / Cleric of Ilmater -> Duelclass (Open Hand / Life Domain)

Marzio has very little memories of his life before the Nautiloid. All he has left are his name, flashes of old names and training as his time as a painbearer for Ilmater.

Stats:

STR: 15 DEX: 12 CON: 13 INT: 8 WIS: 17 CHA: 10

Important Design Note:

Devil’s Hair listed here is Devil’s Daring Needles or Virgin’s Bower. I didn’t realize thar Devil’s Hair was a parasite twin plant? Correct me if I’m wrong.

His pants are usually white, but I went with blue here... for some reason.

His eyes probably change color during his urges to red or orange

SPOILERS BELOW CUT -> scroll all the way down for screenshots!

UPDATED Marzio Backstory can be read here Marzio's Story (SCRAPPED) TLDR: Marcio got sacrificed to Bhaal and was revived as the Dark Urge (now Marzio).

Life One:

Marcio was a cleric of Ilmater, a painbearer specifically. Marcio was trained to endure the worst pains a person could experience, all in the name of helping others—including but not limited to drowning, starvation, dehydration, extreme weather, and anything physically painful. Reading on Ilmater Painbearers, there's a lot of horrors between those lines.

Despite this, Marcio was satisfied with his life and the path he had chosen. He loves people, and Ilmater is actually pretty cool compared to a lot of the other gods. He was eventually almost made a martyr of when the Nautiloid came and took him away—taken rushing people to safety as the ship tore through Baldur's.

He met Gale after Shadowheart, and one could say the rest is history, but that's unfortunately, that's not how Marcio's story goes.

After a lot of self-sacrifice, Marcio developing an alarming savior/martyr complex, they finally reached Mystra's confrontation. I kid you not when I say that my save files stopped loading after that conversation. Gale had received all the help he needed from Marcio, but the moment Gale turned around to finally help Marcio in return, dead. Save gone.

So, why not take that opportunity to diverge from canon a little bit.

Intermission:

Remember that murder tribunal with Sarevok to Bhaal? Who would be a better replacement for Valeria than Marcio himself—a cleric to Ilmater makes a much better sacrifice than an uncaring investigator.

Gale, I imagine, was nooooot that happiest with this development. But what was done, was done. Can't revive Marcio now.

So, what does our completely sane and not at all unhinged wizard do? Why, he takes the Crown of Karsus to revive Marcio, of course! Somewhat becoming a god, and despite all warnings not to, half-god Gale reverses time with a wish spell. Wish spells though? They're a lot like a monkey's paw. He might have changed the timeline, but not everything came back how it should.

Life Two:

Marcio has been reborn in this timeline as Marzio. (Partially because I needed a way to differentiate the two, and partially the because that was how I meant to spell it in the first place. But I had two save files to experiment with classes, and I was afraid of overwriting something.)

Now here's where the timeline gets messed up.

I don't imagine this new Bhaal was very happy with a sacrifice to him literally being the cause of a new world with new life. No, in fact, it was probably another chance for him to try and destroy the world again. Taking that sacrifice Marcio made for Valeria, Marzio was born as the Dark Urge. Maybe this would direct his destruction on the winning path this time.

So, Marzio is the Dark Urge now. He's all blue, because he was a corpse literally wished to have a new life.

Currently:

Yeah, so that's Marzio!

He and Gale are Betty x Simon coded, and I'm crying in the club thinking about it.

I'm thinking maybe Gale is a tiefling too in this timeline (thanks to High Rollers for that imagery), solely for the fun of it. Who knows. I was this comic to be fun and worth the time it will take to create, but also worth y'all's time to read. Let me know what you think.

I have the dream guardian set as Marcio, so maybe that will change things in the comic for the Emperor? Who knows. I still have a bit of deciding to do with the writing.

OTHER FUN INFORMATION:

Romance Partner: Gortash; (ex-partner: Gale —> They’re friends! Don’t worry! Mutual break up!) Tattoos: Dandelion, Yarrow, Coltsfoot, Bishop's Lace & Devil's Hair (Virgin's Bower) Scars: Morning star scar on cheek; whip/scourge lashings on his back and some spilling onto his arms/shoulders, hips, and sides; rope burn scars (religious practice), vivisections scar from his collarbone down to his abdomen

Other Notable Details:

pierced ears

wears holy symbol ropes around his wrists for Ilmater as often as allowed

doesn’t have t-scars, because he’d prefer no one to know (magiced them away!)

Other Behaviors:

cat-like: purrs, trilling, tail movement (twitching, lashing, etc.), and sometimes other cat body-language (headcanon that all tiefling are somewhat cat-like)

Music Playlist (Spotify): Marcio Leles

Trivia:

Birthday: March 4th / Ches (the Claw of Sunsets) 3rd MBTI: tbd Personality: Shy with people he knows, bold with people he doesn't know, lovingly teasing, patient, self-sacrificing

Favorites:

Food: Potatoes (& anything potato adjacent) Drink: Dry Alcohols (usually ciders or wines) Color: Blue Weather: Slight Breeze, Slightly Cloudy, Sunny Flower: Dandelion Animal: Pigeon Activities: Gardening, Foraging, & Herbalism

Images:

You can thank my roommate for these once in a life time quality screenshots. My laptop does not let Marzio look this high res 👁️

[givemeanaccountalready]

Milgram Questions

Alright, I’m not dead, just tired but I do have a question that’s been bugging me for a while, and then a second question for Trial 3…

If we go back to the Milgram Timelines, there’s a conversation between Mahiru and Muu that’s been bugging me. I cannot, for the life of me, figure out where I saw this interpretation of the translation, but I do remember it. It was the July 13th 2020 timeline conversation and I can find it on the Milgram wiki but not the translator’s note I saw.

Note: contains speculation over injuries and potential character deaths and it was quite morbid

The translation I saw but cannot find said that the “it” that these two are talking about is their periods. Mahiru is assuring Muu that it might be the environment they’re in and its impact on their mental states causing them to miss their periods (stress can cause late or early or missing periods, I have had stress do all three to me).

If that translator’s note I thought I saw does exist somewhere that I just can’t find it, then now I’m curious if the supernatural side of Milgram is causing the female prisoners to stop their menstrual cycles, or if it’s just stress from being imprisoned causing them to miss theirs. I’m leaning towards the former, which brings me to my question.

If Milgram can prevent a biological cycle, could it also prevent a person from healing? I’m not trying to give Shidou an out, because I know the fandom is quite suspicious that Mahiru’s condition hasn’t improved at all and it really could be that Shidou’s established martyr complex is causing him to play God and sabotage her health to feel needed. But, now I’m curious if Milgram is somehow preventing Fuuta and Mahiru from healing from their wounds. I really have no basis for this theory, other than what may be a false memory and that time doesn’t seem to pass for inside Milgram. Are new cells just not forming and dead cells are not being broken down like they should be?

I am no doctor, but one of my major concerns is sepsis in Fuuta’s eye. It’s eye scream horror and it makes me shudder. The other is both Fuuta and Mahiru have spinal injuries, which makes me worry for their spinal cord and any complications that could arise from that. Neither one seems to be healing, but worsening mental health seems to be tied to Mahiru’s declining state rather than infection or complications.

Which leads me to my second question: if someone does die during the intermission between Trials 2 and 3, what happens to the body?

Like are the supernatural powers that be just going to disappear the body when everyone’s asleep? Or are they just going to leave the body there until the third trial is over?

I’m hoping it would be the first option, but Milgram is kind of a mind fuck to begin with, so I can picture the worst happening, in which that body is staying with the remaining prisoners until everything is done. If that happens, I don’t know which would be worse: if cells can’t die, then the dead look like they’re sleeping and could wake up at any moment, or if cells can die, the prisoners and Es having to deal with the resulting decaying of a corpse.

[atamascolily]

Walpurgisnacht as 'The Hanged Man'

Since the trailer for Walpurgis no Kaiten strongly suggests a tarot theme, I've been thinking about what other cards from the Major Arcana might play a role. Given that Walpurgisnacht is upside down, 'The Hanged Man' seems like a logical possibility.

'The Hanged Man' in the Rider-Waite-Smith Tarot deck, illustrated by Pamela Coleman Smith (1909).

'The Hanged Man' is an interesting card, because the pose itself was originally a mode of execution in medieval Italian city-states for traitors that was meant to be as degrading and humiliating as possible, but it has since shifted to be a kind of sacrificial holiness (often represented by saints, martyrs or other religious figures), embodying a kind of culmination of a spiritual path, where one descends into the land of the dead/the unconscious and returns with insights that are integrated into the psyche. This parallels the kind of mystical union or spiritual transmutation sought out by alchemists like Goethe's Faust (a major influence on PMMM as a whole).

The glowing halo around the figure's head is echoed by the mandala around Walpurgisnacht, which represents creation as well as destruction. The figure is also suspended from a living tree, which mirrors Walpurgisnacht's trees, although hers are (seemingly) dead.

In my own Tarot deck, the equivalent is "Intermission," featuring a magician wrapped in a chains and hanging upside down above a stage, which I think neatly summarizes this archetype. It's the nadir and seemingly lowest point, but it's not the end, it's the pause right before the dramatic and triumphant comeback. It's also fitting, because this card is the twelfth out of twenty-one cards in the Major Arcana, thus coming in at roughly the halfway point of the Fool's Journey.

My usual go-to for 'The Hanged Man' in PMMM is Mami, who models that same pose in the original series, but I can't deny there are also parallels with Walpurgisnacht. It will be interesting to see if Walpurgis no Kaiten uses them in any fashion, or if the creators will go in a different direction instead.

[butterflyintochains]

Of All They Survey

A sequel of sorts to 'The Power Couple Contest'. When last we left our four chaotic hockey men in that story, the team were first in the Metro division by a country mile, and fourth in the league overall. Partly because of four unhinged nutcases with a point to prove. So, naturally, they've made the playoffs! Having beaten Carolina in five in the first round, and gotten through Washington in the second.

We pick up the story in game six of the Eastern Conference Final. And, we go forward from there.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Today has been the longest day in the team's lives so far, and it's only eleven in the morning. They so wish they were at home so they could hang out at PPG Paints all day. But, they're in Toronto, sitting on a 3-2 series lead in the Eastern Conference Final, and desperate to just get on with this last game. Currently, the core are just back from a gym session, and are watching some footage in a media room at the practice rink they're using. Kris is taking notes like a college student, so is Sid. Erik watches his last shift with Marcus again to see how they pulled off an assist on Bunting's goal. ''Can we see that clip of Drew's goal too, Sid?'' Geno asks.

Sid nods, and scans through to that play. They take notes on that, spotting a breakdown in the communication between Beavillier and Acciari that led the Leafs to score the game winner. ''Ah, there it is, wondered how we let that last goal by us.'' Erik says.

Kris asks, turning his wedding ring on his finger. ''When do we start tonight?''

Sid checks the schedule on his phone. ''Half past six, six hours to go until we hit the ice.''

At loose ends as to what to do for the rest of the day, they grab lunch, and keep on strategising together with Sully and Quinn. Then, it's an hour of ice time with the boys. That takes them until three thirty. Sully orders his boys back to the hotel to sleep for the game, and no one refuses their coach. Kris and Erik lay out their suits, and collapse into bed together. ''You think we'll do this, sweetheart?'' Erik asks as they nod off.

Kris kisses his husband, a promise in it. ''I do, I'll get you your cup, darling, I promise.''

Erik chuckles, and lightly corrects his other half, the eternal martyr that he is. ''We will get us our cup, Kris.''

That evening, they're bussed down to Scotiabank, and suit up while chatting as a family. Sid has instated a 'no silence in the room' policy, it's screwed them over far too often. So, if there's no chatter, someone has to play music. If there's no music, everyone is to talk to each other - even if it's about something silly. Sid and Geno talk to Rusty about their pets. Kris and Erik discuss the latest Arsenal news. Completely ignoring the Prince of Wales trophy in the building somewhere.

The first period goes swimmingly by all measures. Ned performing his usual net magic to withstand the storm. Marner nets a late goal, but Rusty and Bunting keep them ahead 2-1 going into first intermission. Kris is acutely aware of their last Conference final, he can't not be, but, one look to Erik is all he needs to calm down. The second period also goes smoothly, the core taking over for this stage, Geno assisting Erik for a goal to put them up 3-1. Then, minutes later, Sid assists Kris for 4-1. Tavares notches a desperate breakaway to try and salvage the game.

In the third, Knies opens proceedings, and there's a ten minute goalless stint. But, a late one from Lars sends them into the cup final. Carolina, Washington, now Toronto - gone with their 5-3 win. The trophy is brought out, and presented to the core. Sid, as usual, lifts it. It's worked in the past, so why not now? Sid kisses Geno as soon as they're back in the room. Erik, into his first ever cup final, wraps his arms around Kris, shaking like a leaf. Kris presses his lips to Erik's neck, reminding himself that Erik isn't going anywhere. ''Well done, boys, but, the work has only started. We head back home tonight, then, get ready for either Colorado or Vancouver.'' Sully says.

The game puck goes into the board, Ned gets the helmet. And, after press, it's off to the airport.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

They're getting a Battle of Nova Scotia for the cup final. No doubt the media are salivating over this one, Probably the most demanded cup final since the old Colorado/Detroit days. But, the team aren't concerned with that, they're concerned with not having home ice advantage to open the series today, having had it all through this miracle run. To just about everyone's surprise, Erik is the calmest one of the core, newly granted an A on his jersey for the playoffs. He and Kris come in for training in Denver, hand in hand, deep in conversation about something to do with Le Mans. Something about how Ferrari bungled a strategy call. Sid and Geno share a look, whatever keeps them calm. ''How's it going, captain?'' Kris asks, putting his ring on its chain for training. ''Good, happy to be over the hump a bit.''

Erik asks his brother-in-law. ''Excited to face Nate?''

Sid shrugs, some part of him is, the other is just going to get on with it. ''It's just another game, Karl. That's what I'm telling myself.''

Lars asks. ''What's in the team notes for this game tonight?'' Sully says to his troops. ''I've heard that Bednar's starting their secondary goalie. So, I'm putting in Jars for tonight. The five of you are our powerplay and overtime unit as usual.''

With that, they head out for training. Working hard to get this first game under their belts tonight. They all know that if they don't, Colorado will run away with this series. Quinn puts them through endurance drills, they'll have to outskate the Avs as well as outscore them. ''Well, that sucked.'' Geno says, leaning on the boards.

Sid is catching his breath, resting his head on Geno's shoulder. ''Yeah, that sucked a lot.''

Kris downs some gatorade, and says. ''Now you know how Erik and I feel.''

Erik nods, and tosses his stick aside for a second. ''We've run those types of drills during summers since 2013 or 14.''

The game does indeed go their way that night. Not having Home Ice doesn't seem to affect them too much. Tristan performs daylight robbery on both Rantanen and Makar in the second period while they're leading 2-1. And, Rusty nets a pair of goals in the third to settle the game at 4-1 going into game two. ''Hope Flower saw that tonight.'' Tristan says as they board the bus back to their hotel.

Sid assures him, sitting himself down next to Geno. ''He did, he just texted me, actually: 'tell Jars I'm impressed with him.' He was watching.''

Tristan says, putting his head back. ''Thanks, Flower!'' Erik sits next to Kris, and says. ''Three more of those, please.''

Kris nods, and laughs, knowing full well the climb that awaits them. ''One game at a time, darling.'' The bus shuts up at that, Kris looks around, confused as hell. ''What'd I say this time?'' Erik laughs, and says to his husband. ''Well, sweetheart, I'd say the english nicknames are no longer secret.''

Acciari says. ''Oh, wow, that's cute. You two have petnames in english too?''

Erik says. ''Yeah, and now we've opened ourselves up to even more teasing!''

Ned proposes, in a way only a goalie can. ''Ooh, distraction tactic! Use them on ice!''

Kris, ever one for some scheming, especially with the recent Power Couple Contest, raises an eyebrow. ''Y'know, Ned? Good idea.'' The bus finally arrives back at the hotel. One down, three to go.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The series is sadly tied on return to Pittsburgh. The team have a couple of days off to recover from the jetlag of flying from the mountains to the east. As usual, the core get together at Sid and Geno's place for breakfast the morning of their return. That 3-2 overtime loss sucked, but, it's not over until it's over. No need to press the panic button yet. ''So... the petnames, huh?'' Geno asks, smirking over his coffee mug.

Erik rolls his eyes, they've not heard the end of that since they got on the plane last night. ''Geno... we told you that's between us.'' Sid flashes them a shit eating grin. ''No, tell us, come on.''

Kris says, resigned to having to tell his brothers yet another story they'll get all mushy over. ''The big ones, that's all you're getting, just the big ones we use all the time. Cool?'' Sid and Geno nod. Kris carries on. ''I think I started calling Erik 'mon amour' just after we became official in 2012. We were just on the phone, and it... slipped out.''

Erik smiles softly. ''As for me calling Kris 'hjartat mitt'... he got all insecure over himself when he saw me with Victor at some event, and that was my way of getting through to him.''

Sid and Geno have glossy eyes, Sid says, a big smile on his face. ''That's really sweet. And, like, seeing how happy you are to use them, and hear them, it's just... nice, y'know?'' Erik and Kris share a soft look, for all the roughness on ice, they're always soft for each other. ''Yeah, it is.'' Erik says.

Geno adds. ''How have you two been handling this run? New territory, right?''

Kris says, helping Sid tidy the table up. ''I think we're doing okay, just living one game at a time.''

After their breakfast, they head down to the arena. The glass cabinet where the team's five cups sit pride of place stare the captain and his three alternates in the face. Erik notices the melancholic look in Kris' eyes as he looks up at the 2017 cup, and silently holds his husband's hand. He'd give anything to rewrite that horrible night, kick his own ass and demand the old him apologise right away. But, they're here now, right where they belong. Kris takes a deep breath, and kisses his husband's cheek. ''Got lost for a second, amour.'' He says.

Erik smiles, and squeezes his hand. ''I know, and it's okay, hjartat.''

They go to a media room, and get on with some game study. Reviewing the first two games, taking notes, and discussing strategies for the home games ahead of them. Sid has is calculated in his head that they'll be in Colorado if this goes to seven. So, they must be ready for that. It's worked three times in the past, they've never won a cup at home.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Game three is at home, PPG Paints is full to the brim with home fans all clad in black and gold. The core arrive together, as they always do for home games, and walk in together. For most teams, this united front would be mostly for the optics, not in this city. Geno talks to Erik about a story from his days with Metallurg as they walk in. Sid and Kris talk about a big game they played against each other in their QMJHL days. Val D'Or beat Rimouski 6-5 in a massive overtime period. Once out of their suits, they split up into their stalls in the dressing room. They suit up to some music, and Sully gives the read before they head out.

Sid stares down against Nate on face off, Nate looks somewhat intimidated by the sea of black his team are surrounded by. Kris locks eyes with Makar. The kid's good, really good. Nate and Cale are good together, but they'll never be Sid and Kris. Sid wins the faceoff, and it's off to the races. Midway through the first period, Acciari gets them on the board 1-0, with a massive breakway goal. Just a couple of minutes later, Bunting gets a sneaky Michigan goal. ''Good job, boys! More of those!'' Sully shouts from behind the bench.

The second period is mostly Colorado. With Nate and Devon Toews getting two goals to level the game at 2-2 going into the second intermission. ''Alright, this game is very winnable, we stick together, stay calm, and take it one shift at a time. No panic buttons anymore, boys.'' Sully says.

The third period is crazy, Geno opening scoring right off the jump, Rantanen fighting back to tie it 3-3. ''Crosby unit, you're all up!'' The top unit take to the ice, and leap on the offensive right away. Drew putting them back ahead 4-3. However, late in the third, Nate scores a one-timer on the penalty kill to take them to overtime again. The overtime unit get to work right away. Lars gets the puck, and feeds it to Erik, who scans the play once, and says. ''Sweetheart, give them hell!''

Kris takes the puck, ignoring the urge to kiss Erik, he takes the shot, and ends the game 5-4. Then, he pulls his husband in for a kiss in front of the whole arena, who go absolutely crazy for it. ''Hey, get a room!'' Lehkonen chirps them. Not to be outdone in his own arena, Kris fires back. ''We have one, you're in it!''

After the game, a journalist asks Sid. ''Did Kris and Erik plan that kiss beforehand?''

Sid laughs, his best friend and brother-in-law are schemers, but not like that. ''No, I'd say that was very spur of the moment. Can't say I'm all that surprised, though, with how they are backstage.''

Erik shouts over from his media scrum. ''You love us, Croz!'' Sid shouts back. ''Yes, I do.''

Another journalist laughs, and asks. ''Are they down bad for each other?''

Sid nods, grinning ear to ear. ''Oh, yeah. You'd never know it's been over a decade since they got together, they're like teenagers.''

Once back in street clothes, dinner is served to the team at the arena. A 2-1 series lead, almost there, but it's not over until it's over. Sid, of all people, knows fine well what lies ahead of them with this series. A decade of friendship with Nate have taught him well what to expect. The core debrief while they eat. ''What did Lehky say to you two?'' Rusty asks Kris.

Kris chuckles. ''He told us to: 'get a room'. I told him: 'we have one, and you're in it'.'' The team burst out laughing.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Game four is another win for the Penguins, a simpler 3-1 home win with amazing goals from Rusty, Lars, and Jesse. They fly out this evening to Denver for what could be the cup winning game.The media are still ruminating over the ''Game Three Kiss'' - as it has been labelled. But, the defence power couple have mostly gotten on with it. But, during a final home skate before they fly out, Beauvillier says to them. ''Hey, why not do that for the next game too? Y'know, kiss to put the Avs off their game.''

Geno remarks. ''It worked then, might work now.'' Erik laughs, the contest still fresh in the team psyche, only now it's been inflicted upon their opposition. ''They'll be expecting it, Tito, we might bust out the nicknames, though.''

Bunting says, sounding excited. ''Oh, please do! I feel like we've heard one percent of the repertoire, and I'm fascinated now you say nicknames, plural.''

Kris smiles, and rolls his eyes. ''Thank you for opening Pandora's Box, mon tresor.''

Erik leans over to kiss his cheek. ''No problem, skatten mitt.'' They tidy up, and hit the showers. Then, it's into suits for the flight to the game that might just end all of this. It's almost too good to be true, one more game, and it's over. But, one thing at a time.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Game five is a bit of a clusterfuck, a dramatic 4-3 overtime loss to the Avalanche sends them home to Pittsburgh angry. No one is more pissed about this than Kris is. He's wanted to win a cup with the love of his life since he can remember. He promised Erik that they'd win this thing this year. And, the fucking Avalanche just had to ruin everything, didn't they? It takes Erik putting his hands on his shoulders as they get to their stalls at Cranberry, to bring him out of his head. ''Kris, sweetheart, talk to me. What's going on?''

Kris takes a deep, but ragged breath. ''Game five, Erik. I just want to get you a cup so much, and then, they had to fuck it all up for us. I'm just... pissed off.''

Erik nods, he knows Kris better than Kris knows himself. They even discussed this on their first night back home this season. So, he goes to the tactic he employs to calm Kris down. ''Okay, Kris, what facts do we have right now?''

Kris says, taking another deep breath. ''We're married. We're both Penguins. We're 3-2 up in the final. We're in this together, we love each other. And, we got here together.'' Erik nods, pressing a kiss to Kris' lips. ''Good, feel better now?'' Kris nods, leaning his forehead on Erik's. ''Jag alskar dig, alskad mitt.'' He says.

Erik says. ''Je t'aime aussi, mon coeur.''

The rest flood in, surprised at the sight of Erik calming Kris down from something. They don't pry, instead just get suited up for action. They could very well win the cup tomorrow evening, and nobody is going to be caught slacking off now.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Game six is a close affair, and a physical one at that. Geno getting the team's only goal late in the game, not that it salvages it any, they're forced into a game seven with a 2-1 loss. They've got three days off between game six and seven, Sully has them on rest orders for the first day off. Sid and Geno use the day to bake and relax with Sam and Maverick. Kris and Erik use it to re-watch some stuff from their four happy All Star Games, Tampa doesn't count. ''Forgot how good you looked that weekend.'' Erik says as they watch the 2016 All Star Game.

Kris runs his fingers through Erik's hair, finally at that length he loves it at. ''I prefer us with long hair, like in 2019.'' Erik laughs, and adjusts his head on Kris' shoulder. ''Me too.''

At the Crosby-Malkin house, Sid leaves a sheet of cookies to cool on the counter while Geno packs them up for the final flight to Denver. Sam is curled up on the couch, fast asleep in the sun. Maverick curled up with her. Geno comes down with their stuff. ''Done, could not find your Nova Scotia tie, found it in the sock drawer somehow?'' Sid kisses his husband. ''Great. We'll have loads of cookies for the flight too.''

They could so easily disobey Sully's rest orders, heaven knows the four of them are off their collective rockers, especially with a massive game seven looming large over their heads. But, Nate's boys flew home last night, they'll be tired too. Best to rest up for the long term. Over at the Letang-Karlsson house, they pack up for the flight, Buddha helping them wherever he can. Kris has promised Erik another dog at some point, hopefully a husky. ''Alright, darling, looks like we're set to go.''

Erik asks, an eyebrow raised. ''Did you remember your meds, sweetheart?''

Kris chuckles, and kisses his cheek. ''I remembered my meds, darling, yes.'' Someday, the boys will stop worrying about him, but he guesses that is a further flung time than he estimated.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The big day finally comes, the entire team arrive at the enemy arena wearing matching suits in black, white, and gold. An idea Kris and Erik proposed at the start of the series. If Sid is honest with himself, which is always, the idea was a stroke of genius from his brother and brother-in-law. This is cemented when they see some of the Avalanche guys arrive all in different suit colours. One team are in harmony, one are not. They get in, change and eat, and suit up. Sully gives the speech, the cup in this building somewhere going totally ignored. ''Alright boys, just like always, we go in together, we stay calm, we go in patient. This is just another game, ignore the noise.''

Mario gives the read. ''Up front we've got: O'Connor, Crosby, and Rust - Sid and the kids!'' The room applaud. ''On the blueline: Letang and Grzelyck.'' PO took over from Gravy as the third pair leader, the room cheers for them. ''In net: Jarry!''

The team file out to the corridor. Sid says in a quiet moment with the core. ''Wanna score a goal each tonight, boys?''

Erik nods, looking determined. ''Sounds great to me, captain.'' Geno smirks, and says. ''Da, davai.''

Kris takes a deep breath, focused on winning this for his husband. ''Let's fucking do this.''

They take to the ice for the game, just another game, and here they stand, all united against thousands tonight. The Penguins against the world, just as it used to be. Five minutes in, Nate takes a dumb penalty, and Sully deploys the Veterans Unit. Sid gets the puck, and shouts. ''Geno!'' Geno receives the pass, and fires a wrist shot past Georgiev's ear to put them up 1-0. ''Spasibo, Sid.'' Geno says, a beaming smile on his face.

That proves to be the only goal of the first period, the defence ticking like a clock and Jarry performing saves Flower would be very proud of. They get some music on during intermission.

The second is a bit more eventful. At six minutes in, Kris reads a play quickly, and says. ''Darling! Do it!'' Erik takes his pass, and hammers it home as soon as he gets it, 2-0 with goals from half the core. In the dying minutes of the period, Sid makes off with the puck from a scrum in the corner, and, catching Georgiev unawares, scores what could be the one to end this whole thing 3-0, with Kris' goal still to come.

Sully gives a very short address to the team during second intermission. ''Good job so far, boys, let's keep this going, the finish line is in sight, we keep blocking the noise out, they're not liking this, but that's okay.'' He turns to the captain. ''Sid, anything to add?''

Sid nods, and just says. ''Kris, mon frere, it's your turn to score next.'' Kris just smiles, that knot of doubt still lingering in his chest, slowly untying itself. Erik squeezes his husband's hand.

They get back to work, the crowd growing angrier with them as the period ticks down to its last half. Geno and Erik watch the final minutes from the bench, helpless while their favourite Canadians are on the ice. In a momentary lapse of focus, Lehkonen passes the puck to Kris. ''Davai, Legenda!'' Geno shouts.

Erik calls to his husband, in french, in the language he learned all those years ago for him and him alone. ''Allez, mon coeur! Allez!'' Kris is patient, skating end to end with the puck, waiting out Georgiev, and scoring a gorgeous goal. They're up 4-0 with a minute and a half left. For which Sully deploys the Veterans Unit. Sid between Geno and Lars, Kris and Erik side by side. The quintet patiently wait the last minute and a half out, before the bench goes empty.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The team mob each other, first in the Metro division thanks to four living legends creating a reality show for their teammates. Now, cup champions yet again, with just four remaining from the last time they were in this position. Sid pulls Geno down for a kiss in full view of Nate. Fighting through the crowd, Kris finds Erik, and wraps his arms around him. Erik cries into his husband's shoulder. Sixteen seasons, and his name will finally go on that cup. ''We did it, mon amour.'' Kris says. Erik kisses him. ''I love you, Kris.''

Kris kisses him back, and runs his fingers through Erik's damp hair. ''I love you too, Erik.''

The core celebrate with their team, before the two final trophies are brought out. Sid, to the surprise of absolutely nobody, is awarded the Conn Smythe. Then, the Stanley Cup. Which goes to Erik after the captain's lap, Kris is in tears at the sight of the love of his life with the Stanley Cup. ''Hjartat, you next!'' Erik passes it off to Kris with a kiss for his lap of the rink. After which Kris says. ''Geno, I'm coming in hot!'' He passes the cup up to Geno.

Once all of the quartet take their laps, they sit and watch the rest of their team take their laps. Sid and Geno are pulled up for a photo with the cup. Kris fishes his chain out, and removes it so he can put his wedding ring back on. Erik does the same. ''Kris, Erik - your turn.'' The photographer says.

They pose with the cup in their arms, their golden wedding rings proudly on display against the silver. Flashing triumphant smiles down the camera, over a decade, and they've finally won their cup together.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

They spend a couple of days resting off the game and their hangovers from the dressing room party. But, they have to go home at some point. They're up late in the morning, pack up for their evening flight, and get on the plane to Pittsburgh. The cup with them on the plane, safely kept in the seat next to Sully. Sid happily rests his head on Geno's shoulder, both glowing with the fourth cup win. Kris, radiant but tired, engages Lars in conversation about Denmark. Erik is also glowing, and texting Victor about the win. Kris' phone buzzes, he answers it on speaker. ''Bonjour, mon chum!'' The whole plane shuts up, Flower is calling them from wherever he is.

Flower says. ''Felicitations, mes amis!''

Sid says from his seat. ''Thank you, Flower!'' Flower asks Erik, the first time cup winner in the family. ''How does it feel, Karl?''

Erik beams from his seat next to Kris. ''Only finding Kris felt better, Flower, I've not stopped smiling for two days.''

Flower says, laughing. ''I can imagine. I'll let you guys sleep, I'm coming into town soon, so I'll see you all soon.'' Kris smiles, clearly missing his favourite goalie. ''You're staying with us, Erik and I will get the guest room ready for you.''

Flower says. ''Got it, I'll see you soon, boys!'' They hang up, and finally get to sleep. Geno has a feeling they're not going to be sleeping much for the next week or so. It's going to be chaos as soon as they get home, so, he wants to savour the flight home as much as he can.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Flower arrives in town the day before the parade. Retirement looking very good on him. He may not have retired with this team, or with this cup. But, he's etched into the fabric of this team. He immediately embraces his three brothers, and gives Erik a massive hug as well. Then, he says to the two goalies. ''You two are absolutely incredible, you know that, right?''

Tristan says. ''All because of your example, Flower.''

Flower asks the core. ''Thinking of joining me in retirement now?'' Sid shakes his head. ''Not even a little bit, no. We're nowhere near done yet. Our contracts are still active, so we'll play them out.''

Someone shouts over to the quartet. ''Captain and Alternates, the head car awaits!''

The core pile into the back of the lead truck, the cup and Conn Smythe sitting between them. Once everyone is situated, they roll out into the streets, lined in their home fans, decked out in team colours. The team have never won a cup at home, maybe that's for the best, no feeling beats coming home for the parade. Instead of sitting around waiting for it to happen. ''We did it, Sid.'' Geno says. Sid nods, that typical doe-eyed look in his face. ''We did it, G.''

Kris turns to Erik. ''Well, here we are at last, alskad mitt.'' Erik nods, and dries his eyes again. ''Here we are, mon coeur.''

Sid asks Erik. ''Was it everything you wanted it to be?'' Erik nods, fixing his hair again. ''Everything and more. When do we get our rings?''

Geno says. ''Start of next season.''

They proudly and triumphantly present all three trophies to their city. The speeches are made, and their jerseys are handed over to go to Toronto. After eight years of worrying whether they'd get back here, here they are again. The rulers of all they survey once again.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Summer is filled with parties, team events across two whole continents, and each of their cup days. A blur of celebrations gives way to much earned rest. The replica cups sit in the Letang-Karlsson house with the Masterton and Norrises as soon as they're home in Pittsburgh. They get their rings on their first visit to Toronto before camp begins. The person in charge of the rings hands them out by number. Erik opens his box first, and says to his husband. ''God, it's huge.''

Kris laughs, trying his on his right ring finger, his left is taken by a more important ring. ''Yeah, that never changes. Try it on.'' Erik slides it onto his right middle finger. ''Heavy too, wow.''

Kris asks, only to be cheeky. ''Which do you prefer? That ring, or your wedding ring?''

Erik cocks an eyebrow, a glint of something in his dark eyes. ''Sweetheart, my wedding ring, of course. This is the pride of my career, you are the pride of my life.''

Kris melts again, how the hell has one person softened him so much over the last fourteen years? ''You're the pride of my life too, darling.'' Acciari asks, coming back from calling someone. ''Are the defencemen being mushy again?''

Bunting corrects him. ''Still, Cookie, are they being mushy still? And, yes, they are.''

Sid jokingly steps in, he knows how that first cup rush feels all too well, doesn't matter whether you're two forwards in their early twenties, or two defencemen in their late thirties. ''I think they've earned it, Noel.''

Nobody argues with their captain on that, too happy to bask in their victory, too excited for the upcoming season. No one thought they'd win that final, every single journalist had them taken out back and shot, how wrong they were. Who put any hope in all of the core scoring in game seven? Carolina couldn't stop them, Washington and Toronto all fell by the wayside, and they conquered Colorado in enemy territory. They've also got 29 to raise up soon, so that's going to be fun.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Okay! I think 'Rival Captains In Love' might have been usurped at last! This might just be my magnum opus for my beloved defencemen so far. Didn't think I'd ever dethrone 'Rival Captains' but, here I am. Little note: I fiddled around with some trades, and kept PO on the team instead of Graves. That was for continuity purposes with 'The Power Couple Contest' - to which this is a sequel! The most self-indulgent thing I've written yet, but that's okay.

Enjoy!

Also, here's my series summary for those into data as I am. Colour coded as it is in my notebook (which literally carried this fic)

Pittsburgh Penguins vs Colorado Avalanche SCF

Game - Home Ice - Score - Winner

One - Colorado - 4-1 - PP Two - Colorado - 3-2(ot) - CA Three - Pittsburgh - 5-4(ot) - PP Four - Pittsburgh - 3-1 - PP Five - Colorado - 4-3(ot) - CA Six - Pittsburgh - 2-1 - CA Seven - Colorado - 4-0 - PP

[rhymeswithchronic]

Wait, what? Yeah, Don't Starve Together did not exist when I first wrote WTWHTO. The fifth character was my brother's OC, Nick, connected to his own fanfiction, and to be honest, he barely existed. He was so forgotten that a cover for the fic that my close friend drew didn't even include him. His sword, the Keeper's Blade, was the only thing that really came into relevance considering it was a sword that could absorb darkness. As my brother turned to writing original stories and took Nick with him, he asked that I replaced Nick in the story. I was lost. I considered Wormwood since they would fit the trend of 'odd one out', but their personality just... didn't fit the group. So, I asked my brother and my friend. They both automatically gave me the same answer: Winona. Her entire existence is new, so imagine my surprise to see the chemistry she had with the cast! Especially Wilbur.

Another fun thing: Nightmare, the main villain of the entire story, was not introduced...

Until

Chapter 98. That was the first time Nightmare ever appeared. Chapter 98. For reference, in the new version, the very first appearance of Nightmare is Chapter 16. That is *82* chapters before. That is longer than the average human being *lives* in years. Events follow roughly the same timeline, major plot points hitting at roughly the same chapters, up until Part 2, called Shipwrecked at the time and now called The One True Heir. Wilbur's character and introduction was entirely rehauled, and I went from writing Wilbur as a silly goofy comic relief minor villain turned good to the character we know and love him as now. Part 3, The King's Gambit, is unrecognizable from its roots barring the progression of worlds. Fun fact, this world progression was based on my brother's Adventure Mode playthrough: A Cold Reception, The Game is Afoot, The King of Winter, Two Worlds, Darkness.

You can see that I originally named the chapters after the world and the reason for that is because they were genuinely nothing more than that. Just general game progression: grab the things, build the Teleportato, leave. Any semblance of character growth and development was irrelevant and unnecessary. Comparing this to current chapters which are based *entirely* on these concepts that were left behind. The intermission chapters, as well, were not important to the plot. Instead, it followed Popsicle and Pyrite back on the mainland just vibing. These chapters were entirely weeded out and replaced with the Intermission chapters with WX-78, which is also why the chapter count dropped from 109 to 107, for any keen eyes that noticed that. Anything involving Alter, Constant, or Auraris is new. The creation myth of the world is new. Heck, the titles "The Martyr", "The Sibling", "The One True Heir", "The Young Heir", and "The Host" are all new. By extension, so is anything involving The Boy or the creation of Nightmare/Auraris. The most important thing, however, involves WX-78..... Them keeping the hole in their stomach is new. Thought it'd be funny lmao

SO I've mentioned several times now that What This World Has to Offer, as we know it now, is a rewrite of a story I wrote in middle school. But I was thinking about all the things that have changed between then and now and thought it'd be fun to share some of it with you guys! So here we are! Things that are brand new to this story, and things that have been fixed! First things first, the main characters. Of course, the main five characters of What This World Has to Offer! We've got some things to discuss about these particular blorbos. First off, Wilson. In the original draft, honestly, everything about Wilson kind of fell off after Wilbur was introduced. I'm not even joking, I basically threw him aside entirely. I had no backstory or development really planned for him, and some really weird hoop jumping in order to excuse his behavior as the story went on. He fell so far from relevancy that I rarely even considered him when thinking about the group. It was pretty much exclusively Webber, Wilbur, and WX-78. Speaking of Wilbur, why on earth did I choose him? The one character in the entire game with no personality traits or quirks, no story, no concept, really nothing except for the fact that he can vaguely say 'banana'. I was writing WTWHTO when Shipwrecked came out and I really wanted to add one of the characters to the story. I had never really planned on having five characters, and honestly the characters in SW I just felt didn't fit well. So, I, as a normal fanfiction writer, took the character I could have full creative control over. On top of that, I loved the idea of including each of the 'weird' characters from each section of the game, as well as the game's main character (Wilson). WX-78 represents Vanilla. Webber represents Reign of Giants. Naturally, Wilbur represents Shipwrecked. When originally writing WTWHTO, I didn't really have any backstory for Wilbur either. Instead, after I was finished, I started working on The One True Heir, a backstory for Wilbur that was made up on the spot. In the rewrite, I got to explore this backstory so much more considering it... actually existed. You know. Better than the original. I got the name Roselyn, Wilbur's mate, from the character Rosaline from Romeo and Juliet (which we were reading in English at the time) and Elizabeth, Wilbur's daughter, was named after my at-the-time best friend of the same name. Now for WX-78. At the time, I didn't realize people actually headcanoned that they held a soft spot for Webber. Somehow, it was just how their character grew as the story went on. Their relationship with Webber was left a bit more ambiguous, described simply as 'best friends', but as I got older I realized there were times it sounded almost queer-baity, so I decided to emphasize their bond as distinctly brotherly. I was posting exclusively to Fanfiction.net, which didn't have tags, so there wasn't any real way to say to the audience that shipping was not intended. If people wanna ship them, that's up to y'all, but it's not the story's intention. I am much happier with how they see each other in this version, and I feel it is more accurate to how I originally intended it to be. When I first started writing it, I did not intend to write Webber out of character. I simply... didn't know how to write characters that were soft and sweet. At this point, that boy's his own character lol Which leaves the fifth character- Nick!

[tamaotomoe]

so uh, here's a gigantic thing on tamafumi and arcana arcadia that i originally posted on twitter but decided to post here too and expand it by. a lot. please note that a lot of this is my personal interpretation of things.

Anyways.

you see tamao and fumi had seen each other as equals, fumi helping out tamao in exchange for a job and ponzu, like a mercenary i fucking guess, and then arcana arcadia happened and this sense of balance between seeing each other as equals got tilted into being more like a master/servant relationship.

tamao and fumi view the performance festival as a way to either revive what is dear to them at any cost possible (tamao) or to possibly live a promise that never was and could become (fumi)

tamao obviously took what kaoruko said to heart, and completely shut herself off to work on her own and maybe like interact with fumi and ichie. she puts her own life on the line in order to see this succeed.

but in doing so, she's completely ripped herself apart. if previously she worried so much that she couldn't focus on herself, she is so singlemindedly focused on one thing that... she still can't focus on herself. or moreover what she's doing to herself. she isn't frau platin, raised and tempered into a singular shining pinnacle and king for a kingdom, she isn't tendou maya, a thoroughbred born to be a stage girl that elevates others by challenging and ripping them apart (see: world intermission). tamao cannot reach the coldness of these two, but she wants to. she is trying. she is emulating them in hopes of gathering enough strength to revive the performance department.

but at tamao's core, she is loving, caring, selfless. these are things that she cannot simply shed. rinmeikan thrives because of these things, her fellow performers thrive and live because of these. she takes her loving, caring self and locks it away, sees them as weaknesses just like kaoruko said. starts imitating frau platin, tendou maya, stage girls of such high skill and incredible coldness, and most of all, the aloneness of it all. the singular king. the singular top star. she aims to bear it all herself. but it is not her. where past tamao martyred herself by caring way too much about others at the cost of either her health or improvement, now tamao martyrs herself by attempting to make herself bear a burden completely and utterly alone, at the cost of her everything.

ok! time to open the can of worms that's fumi

first, read temperance intermission! shit's goated with the fucking sauce. second, read temperance intermission. shit's goated with the fucking sauce. on the stage of the performance festival, fumi projects hardcore, the stage of frau platin onto tamao. she could not fulfill her promise with shiori. fumi as frau platin, shiori as frau saphir by her side. of course, she failed. all that she had worked for was rendered nothing by akira (and in some extension, michiru)

pre arcana arcadia, but post downfall, she had found a stage to be on again, somewhere to be reborn and perform with all her heart again. where she could be simply fumi yumeoji, not promise breaker yumeoji fumi, former frau jade fumi yumeoji. but during aa, she saw an opportunity. to show shiori that she still yet lives, that she is still worth something and she is still the cool older sister that shiori looked up to.

but here she does realize one thing. she can still never be frau platin. never be a king, never be at the pinnacle. at least, of siegfeld.

perhaps in guilt, she starts to project the frau platin she could not be onto tamao. and learning from akira's success, what does a king need to succeed, to ascend? a grand chancellor, apparently.

im just going to put michiru's dialogue from temperance intermission here because she just says everything i want to say in a whole lot less words.

and like tamao, this too, is not her. again im just gonna post from temperance intermission.

fumi at her core, is proud and impulsive, a knight that would kill a king to become a king. a knight that would kill the tamao that she is currently serving. in such shame and guilt for her past, and her current actions, she serves as frau saphir, grand chancellor to tamao, without fully understanding the amount of work and sacrifice that michiru had to enact to achieve her goal. no matter how much she tries, she cannot ever hope to emulate what michiru did. she is proud. she is a knight with the qualities of a king. she is no servant, no frau saphir, no grand chancellor. she cannot be one.

the veneer of a soulless, uncaring and warmonger shade of death and the subservient and unquestioning servant by its side is neither who tamao and fumi truly are.

they are equals, tamao who looks to fumi as a mentor and someone unafraid to criticize and question her when needed, and in return, she gives her a place to belong, her love and her care, and, like a job and ponzu i guess. payments for her services lmao.

and fumi who helps tamao with her revival of the performance department so she too, can have a stage where she can thrive and be reborn once more, and in return fumi teaches tamao, teaches the rest of the rinmeikan performance department, and becomes the rational and critical person that sets tamao straight.

tamao, who works to keep the rinmeikan performance department alive, and fumi, who helps tamao with her experience, tamao who works to keep them all alive...

it's a cycle that leads into eternity, in a way.

[quercusfloreal]

Le 3e Gédéon

I was hesitating to talk about it but here we go. May I introduce you to the manga "Le 3e Gédéon".

Warning long post

What it's about ?

Manga in 8 volumes, it tells the story of Gédéon Aymé who dreams of becoming a deputy to the Estates General to save the people from misery. George, the Duke of Loire and his former comrade, also seeks to change the system, but instead use violence to achieve his goal. This is going to be a story where the two characters will fight each other, one wanting peace and peaceful change, the other a radical and violent change.

What did I think of it ?

I found the story good. It manages to mix fiction and French revolution. It's full of inconsistencies but somehow it works. However I wouldn’t advise this manga to everyone. There is psychological and physical torture, gore and nudity. The images can sometimes be very crude.

What about historians characters ?

Well, we have the most badass portrayal of Louis I've ever seen in my life, he’s able to detect the slightest lie. Marie Antoinette may seem shallow, but she knows perfectly well how to play her charms to turn the tables in her favor. Their couple is interesting because each of them can't really love the other completely. Madame Roland is an ambitious woman who we learn had a daughter with Gédéon. Saint-Just is the slightly confused teenager who will eventually grow up and assert himself. Charles Philippe, the sociopathic Count of Artois, wants his brother's place and Elisabeth, the king's sister, wants Marie-Antoinette's place.

But what about Robespierre ?

I said in an old conversation that Maxime had daddy issues. Let me explain. One of the main themes of this manga is family and father figures. We learn that Gideon's father is the duke and he has exchanged his son's place with George so that Gédéon can be closer to the people. George has a real grudge against the duke because when Gédéon will be older, he should have become a servant again. But by trapping Gideon he kept his place.

Maxime has a real grudge against his father and George will use this information to manipulate him.

The first time we hear about Robespierre is in the first chapter. George is looking for easily manipulated men who can help him destroy the old system. Saint-Just, recruited by George, tells him that Max would be a potential candidate. Maxime is invited to George's house and has to save a former peasant, now a bandit, from the death penalty because he attacked George. Of course Maxime succeeds but it was a test. Of course, George can’t deny Maxime's skills but I believe it’s hearing the conversation between Maxime and Gédéon about Gédéon’s daughter that made him decide :

Robespierre : Shouldn’t you start trying to be a good family man ? You should leave the Assembly to single people like me !

We see Robespierre again later in a rather amusing scene with Gédéon. Gédéon, drunk, says Saint-Just's erotic writings told the boy is a virgin and is amused. And who is the virgin in the same bar as Gédéon? Boom Maxime !

Their following conversation will confirm that Louis XVI is the father of the kingdom.

Yeah, but when does George act ? Well, Gédéon sees Maxime again when the Estates General stagnate and there is a talk about creating a new assembly. Since Gideon is now part of the King's police force, Maxime asks him if he can meet the King discreetly to solve the problem. But without clearly knowing it, George is already starting to manipulate Maxime.

Keep in mind the puppet representation. It will be important for the next step. Because it’s present when Maxime's words contradict a part of his thoughs and when this thoughs takes controls.

After Gédeon refuses to join Saint-Just, Maxime explains to him, if Gédéon continues to hang out with the royal family, there will be repercussions. And if Gédéon tries to find his lost daughter and make politics at the same time, he will lose both. Because for Maxime, children are burden to their parents. Maxime explains his childhood, his dead mother and his father who left. He is resentful of himself because he believes it was his behavior as a child that made his father disappear, that he was a burden to him. This is why he doesn’t want children.

But underneath this justification, even if he pretends the opposite, he has hatred towards this father who abandoned him.

Gédéon : You have the right to hate your father.

Robespierre : In this case, I have the right to kill him, right ?

On the day of the meeting with the king, on the way to the palace, Maxime admits to Gédéon that his father sends him letters. In this letters, his father talks about his new family. Of course he knows that this is probably a trap, but we feel that it’s a sensitive subject for him.

Robespierre : Over my shoulder, I saw myself when I was ten years old.

Then comes one of my favorite scenes, a scene of tension between Louis XVI and Robespierre. Louis explains there are three locks on the table, if he thinks Maxime is lying, he will break one of them.

Robespierre : Since that time, I have always respected you as a father.

Louis XVI : One...You were warned, lies don't work. Either you don't respect us, or you don't respect the concept of a father.

After two, Maxime admits being one of the instigators of the problems at the Estates General and to make it stop, Necker must be dismissed because he makes promises that the nobility will never accept. Louis accept to think about it.

And here comes the chapter where I most wanted seeing George to lose and die painfully because his plan is totally twisted. Maxime receives a letter from his father who tells him that Henriette might not have died if he had been there, implying that it is Maxime's fault that he left. Then Maxime sees in front of his house a woman abused by a man. He threatens to take him to court but the guy explains that Maxime has nothing to say about the correction of a husband to his wife, named is Henriette...Oh boy !

The next day, Maxime proposes her to leave her husband, that he can help her by offering her a place in the convent of Arras. There, she would be safe. But she refuses because her husband will find her and she is unworthy of his help. Maxime feels unable to do anything. He remembers his dying sister. In the evening, another intermission, but this time Maxime decides to act. He intervenes until the girl confesses her father married her.

At this words, Maxime becomes mad and releases all the hatred he has accumulated towards his father. George's plan to make him forget any peaceful method succeeded

Robespierre now lets his hate guide him. If Louis is the father of the kingdom and the father of his subjects, then he must pay too. He goes to see Necker, tells him to accept his resignation to become a martyr and harangues the assembly to join the people and take up arms. He explains the first attack will be at the Invalides, then the people need to take care of the Bastille afterwards, because it is a royal symbol.

Camille : Maxime notice me !

Gédéon doesn’t agree with Robespierre, he thinks it’s necessary to think of a more peaceful method because it risks having deaths. He no longer recognizes his friend

Robespierre : I assure you Gédéon, I haven’t changed. Gentlemen ! Listen up ! We've been trying to find a resolution through dialogue for a long time! Alas, all our efforts have been in vain...a pure waste of time...and why !?

Robespierre : You too, Gédéon, I bet you've seen abused children love their fathers so much that they fall apart. Gédéon: Yes...

We see him again only after the march of the women on Versailles. Gédéon tells him that George is the one who sent him the letters and played on his dislike for his father to kill the king. He wants to find the wise and peaceful Robespierre.

Gédéon : And this other one love his father.

But Maxime does not believe him. His hatred is still too strong. When another lawyer asks Maxime to save a man, Maxime takes time to think, because the man looks like his father. It’s the words of Saint-Just that convince him to give up this man because he had previously seen the damage caused by the Duke of Loire on his sons George and Gédéon.

Robespierre : He’s a complete stranger, there is no doubt about it !! Saint-Just : Wouldn't it be better if he were really your father? If he were condemned to death, you would be delivered from him.

Saint-Just : Destroying everything to build a new order, that's what I think revolution is !

Finally, Maxime is released when the king died. Gédéon has found the death certificate of his father, confirming Maxime has sent an innocent man to death. Maxime seems to be happy on the day of the king's death but when he saw George and reconised him as the girl he tried to save, everything gets destroyed. He cries because after all he has done, he cannot go back.

Saint-Just embraces Maxime who he’s crying : I will always remain at your side, until death separates us.

The last time we see him is when marie-Antoinette curses him and other revolutionaries at her execution;

I reconize Saint-Just, Robespierre, Desmoulins, Marat ? (right middle), Danton, Hébert, Mme Roland, Augustin ? (bottom right)

[swaprandaljade]

thoughts on the goblin? (Gingi)

"Not interested, it thought I liked EGG-LAYING. No, that's far past abysmal. I've kicked them out of the bank numerous times, and I would again."

"WE'RE GONNA BURN THE CITY TO THE GROUND, BLEU FEZZY!!!11111"

"... I can't say n-no to 6 NIPPLES!"

[clowndamned]

dumping thoughts onto a post of my own since im continuing to ponder that last reblog

"absolving terezi of consequences" may be the wrong way to put it, with ""consequences"" in homestuck's context being so practically meaningless. moreso i would've actually cared for terezi's (pre-retcon) arc if gamzee's inclusion was Scrapped (atleast. [vague gesturing] this form of it] and terezi's Intermission scenes exclusively took the direction of untangling her various forms of guilt surrounding vriska while acknowledging the context of the scourge sisters (tm) + their on-and-off codependency

whether terezi was "the better one" of the duo or not, her larp persona was that of the Government-Backed Vigilante legislacerator. how closely that actually resembles redglare is subjective (considering that whatever scraps of devotion she held for the signless most likely did not make it into historical records that would be accessible to terezi OR vriska. and the reader hardly learns much of redglare as it is) but ultimately inconsequential. moreso just Dramatically Ironic insult to injury if you choose to interpret redglare as holding beliefs similar to... tyzias friendsim. ie some strain of revolutionary

but the point is, terezi has become some kind of martyr in the community's eyes. and Fanon/Canon Alike waving off pre-sgrub's (scourge sisters) effect on her (beyond just the barest acknowledgement that yes, it was unhealthy for everyone involved,) and then proceeding to invent a more "straightforward"(m/f domestic violence), fetishized, caricaturized abusive relationship for her to suffer from, which subsequently further demonizes another character whom is also a survivor* of abuse... let's just say it's difficult to reconcile with the rest of her character. i can't take her pre-retcon arc as an abuse survivor to heart when canon is, for lack of a better word, piling on the Terezi Apologism at the clowns' expense. i can't help but be bitter about the whole thing (and then post/dubious canon, fittingly, made it Somehow far far worse)

[garnishwithnightshade]

alright time for another incredibly niche post.

fwcu + how they feel about homestuck.

mike wheeler probably would have gotten really into homestuck, like it would have a lasting impact on him (for better & for worse). his favorite kid is definitely john egbert. his favorite troll is karkat vantas. can't explain why, he just gives off those vibes. he especially enjoys the broadway karkat songs "MARTYR ✝ C9mplex" and "I'm Still Here".

richie tozier skipped all the intermissions and barely kept up with the updates after the gigapause. the whole comic is a fever dream to him. that being said, he, like mike, also likes karkat. definitely the kind of person to accidentally sing the lyrics to "karkalicious" when fergalicious comes on the radio. likes SB&HJ.

boris pavlikovsky is a gamzee apologist and ships gamtav. his favorite kids are rose lalonde and dave strider. he probably tried to translate homestuck into russian and then gave up on that project like, halfway through the first act.

miles fairchild probably wouldn't have been super invested and yet, wouldn't have skipped the intermissions- in fact, his favorite parts are the intermissions. he thinks problem sleuth is superior to homestuck. he doesn't ship anyone at all, and is definitely also a gamzee apologist, despite his favorite troll being nepeta leijon (who is a big shippurr and gets murdered by gamzee).

ziggy katz gives off the vibes of someone who heard about homestuck but never read it and never wants to read it. he doesn't even know if it's a webcomic or an anime. he doesn't want to know.

[chiseler]

Maxwell Bodenheim

In Letters from Bohemia, Ben Hecht declares his friend Maxwell Bodenheim “more disliked, derided, denounced, beaten up, and kicked down more flights of stairs than any poet of whom I have heard or read.” In his lifetime Bodenheim was at least as well known for his drunk and dissolute behavior as for his writing. Today he’s mostly remembered for the tawdry way he died.

He grew up poor and Jewish in smalltown Mississippi. He was bright but viciously boorish, physically handsome yet repulsively slovenly, and argumentative to a fault, with a genius for the insult that could end any discussion, usually with his being punched in the mouth. As young men Bodenheim and Hecht were the pranksters of the Chicago Renaissance. According to Allen Churchill’s The Improper Bohemians, they once filled a hall for a literary debate on the topic “Resolved: That People Who Attend Literary Debates Are Imbeciles.”

Hecht strode center-stage to announce that he would take the affirmative. Then he stated, “The affirmative rests.” Bodenheim shambled forward, scrutinized his confident opponent, and said, “You win.”

Bodenheim – Bogie to his long-suffering friends – was twenty-two when he blew into Greenwich Village with other Chicago émigrés in 1915, and instantly made a name for himself in the neighborhood as a poet of promise. Reading his facile, gaudy verses now, it’s easy to think that it was the brute force of his sociopathic presence, rather than his poetry, that convinced the best poets in the Village at the time that he was one of them, potentially even the greatest of them:

You have a morning-glory face

Whose edges are sensitive to light

And curl in beneath the burden of a smile.

Remembered silence returns to the morning-glory

And lattices its curves

With shades of golden reverberations.

Then the morning-glory’s heart careens to loves

Whose scent beats on the sky-walls of your soul.

Tellingly, those not directly in his orbit seem not to have been fooled by the clever romance-novel sham of such verses – and neither, apparently, was Bodenheim himself, though he would go on roaring about his genius for decades. Hecht records that after entering 223 poetry contests and failing to win a single one, he took to signing his letters to editors “Maxwell Bodenheim, 224th ranking U.S.A. poet.”

He did have a real talent for scandal, easy enough to generate during Greenwich Village’s prolonged drunken orgy in the Prohibition years. His haughty, insulting demeanor, and his habit of trying to steal other men’s women right under their noses, got him regularly socked on the jaw and thrown out of bars, soirees and the fauxhemian revels at Webster Hall.

Turning from poetry to prose, through the 1920s he wrote a string of best-selling, sensational potboilers like Replenishing Jessica, about a free-loving bohemian, Georgie May, about a fallen prostitute, and Naked on Roller Skates, about a middle-aged “onetime hobo, circus-pegger, doughboy, sailor, anarchist, con man, all-time sensationalist and wanderer of the world” who leaves a small town with a much younger woman who “wanted to try everything at least once.” They sound better than they read. Hecht called them “hack work with flashes of tenderness, wit, and truth in them.” When the Society for the Suppression of Vice brought Bodenheim to trial in 1925 on an obscenity charge for Replenishing Jessica, his defense lawyer used a familiar tactic of demanding that the prosecutor read the entire text aloud to prove his case. Judge, jury and the reporters covering the trial dozed as the prosecutor droned on and on, and the unaroused jury voted Bodenheim not guilty. Mayor Jimmy Walker agreed with the verdict. “No girl was ever seduced by a book,” he quipped.

For a bohemian poet, commercial success and celebrity could bring on a full-blown personality crisis (as it would do Jackson Pollock, Jack Kerouac and Kurt Cobain). Bodenheim squandered the money he made from his novels on drink and gambling, as though he couldn’t throw it away fast enough. He preferred to demand loans and cadge drinks from everyone around him, like a true bohemian poet should. Meanwhile, his reputation in these years as a daring, risqué writer attracted a cloud of what we’d call groupies today, many of them the sort of teenagers from the outer boroughs and the hinterlands who flocked to the Village in the 1920s to throw off the shackles of mainstream morality and abandon themselves to the neighborhood’s non-stop pagan revels.

He took his pick. One was Gladys Loeb, 18, from the Bronx. In 1928, he ended a brief fling with her, adding that her poetry was doggerel. Her landlady soon found her with her head in the gas oven, barely clinging to life, and to Bodenheim’s portrait. A few weeks later he did the same thing to twenty-two-year-old Virginia Drew, who threw herself into the Hudson and succeeded where Gladys had failed. When police went to question Bodenheim about Drew’s suicide, he’d slipped off to stay with fellow Villager Harry Kemp in Provincetown. Gladys, having recovered from her own suicide attempt, followed him there – trailing her irate father, cops and reporters. Bodenheim talked his way out of their clutches, but not out of the newspapers all over the country, which had a field day with lurid tales about the Greenwich Village Lothario.

Then came Aimee Cortez, widely feted as “the Mayoress of Greenwich Village.” She earned the title by stripping naked at private parties and Webster Hall shindigs and gyrating a wildly erotic dance. According to Churchill, this display sometimes ended with her going off with some lucky male, but other times she’d stop abruptly, with a look of terror and confusion, and run off. In a later era she’d be prescribed a drug for this clearly disturbed behavior, but in the Village of the late 1920s, where “a hideous lust… pervaded the air” as Bodenheim’s My Life and Loves in Greenwich Village put it, she was merely celebrated as the queen of the modern-day bacchantes. Not long after Gladys and Virginia made the papers, Aimee was found with her head in her own oven, also clutching Bodenheim’s portrait. She was dead at nineteen.

Bodenheim was indirectly implicated in the sad end of another lover, a teenager from the outer boroughs with the improbable name Dorothy Dear. When she wasn’t with him in his MacDougal Street apartment, he wrote her love letters that she carried in her purse. One afternoon she was aboard a rush hour subway train heading from Times Square to the Village when it derailed at a faulty switch, killing sixteen passengers, including Dorothy. Bodenheim’s love letters were found scattered around the wreckage.

By the end of the 1920s Bodenheim was a wreck himself. From the 1930s until his death he was a fixture on the streets and in the bars of the Village, by turns annoying and sad-making, decaying before his old friends’ eyes into a stinking, toothless ghost, “tottering drunkenly to sleep on flophouse floors, shabby and gaunt as any Bowery bum,” as Hecht put it. Still, Hecht gallantly added, “Bogie hugged his undiminished riches – his poet’s vocabulary and his genius for winning arguments. He won nothing else.” He cranked out more cheap novels, drank the money, and stooped to hawking his poems to tourists in Washington Square for a quarter each. Wiseacres in the bars fed him gin and laughed at his drunken mumblings and rants, which sometimes yielded a famous line like “Greenwich Village is the Coney Island of the soul.”

Poets were the main entertainment at Max Gordon’s Village Vanguard in the mid-1930s. Gordon couldn’t afford to pay them; they performed for whatever change the patrons tossed at their feet. Poet Eli Siegel, later founder of the Aesthetic Realism movement, was the emcee in the early years, but the crowd really came to see three ghosts of the Village Past – Joe Gould, Harry Kemp and Maxwell Bodenheim. They hung out there because Gordon tolerated them and his patrons were easy marks for a few free drinks. In his memoir Live at the Village Gate, Gordon describes how Siegel would call Gould out of the crowd with the cry, “Ladies and gentlemen, the Harvard terrier and boulevardier, Joseph Ferdinand Gould!�� Gould would shuffle up to the spotlight and do his schtick, while Bodenheim, tall and imperious, would stalk the shadows at the back, “point his finger, and shout, ‘Eli Siegel! I hate you, Eli Siegel. You rat!’” Gordon continues:

Eli would wait for Bodenheim to shape up so he could call on him to recite. But it was no use. Bodenheim, swirling crazily, eyes glazed, arms outstretched, would suddenly stop and point his finger at a frightened girl who had refused him a dance during intermission. “Rat!” he’d shout at her.

Despite the frightening deterioration of his physical and mental hygiene, Bodenheim still attracted a certain type of desperate woman, usually in decline herself. He met the last of them in 1951 when Ruth Fagan bought a poem from him with her last quarter. She was thirty-two, he was a fifty-nine-year-old derelict, and within a couple of weeks they were going around as Mr. and Mrs. Bodenheim, though it’s not clear they ever bothered to make it official. They decayed together for the next couple of years, chronically broke and drunk, descending from cheap rooming houses to flophouses to sleeping in hallways and doorways. She turned tricks when she could, and he beat her when he found out. In 1952 they made a horrific spectacle of themselves at a fancy reunion for surviving members of the original Chicago Renaissance group, where he panhandled the guests while she propositioned them.

If the Bodenheim of the early 1950s was a disgusting or amusing clown to the tourists, and an embarrassment and bother to his old friends, he was something of a martyred saint to the generation of bohemians who came to the Village after World War Two. In his headlong descent into the abyss, his lust for the extremes of degradation, his lust for lust itself, he was like a dark archangel of negative capability for them, representing the ultimate rejection of bourgeois virtue and mainstream values, even to the point of total self-destruction. He comes up several times in the published diaries of Judith Malina, co-founder of the Living Theatre, from this period. One night in 1951 she and her husband Julian Beck were in the San Remo, the dark and smoky bar at Bleecker and MacDougal Streets that Bodenheim often haunted:

A ragged drunk approaches our table. In terrible shape. Ash blond hair askew. He lurches forward, his hands resting on the table. Directly to Julian: “What’s your name?”

“My name is Julian Beck.”

“My name is Maxwell Bodenheim. I’m an idiotic poet.”

And he turns and moves off before we can speak.

The late Roy Metcalf, who was a young newspaper reporter in the early 1950s, also encountered Bodenheim in the San Remo. “Bodenheim had a great face, an alcohol-ravaged face,” he recalled. “Once a guy from uptown wanted to see Greenwich Village, so we went down to the San Remo. There was Bodenheim. He said, 'Bring him over, let’s buy him a drink.’ He expected Bodenheim to say something. Bodenheim by that time was so paralyzed by alcohol that all he could do was bray, 'Aaaaargh.’”

In 1953 Malina went into the Waldorf Cafeteria on Sixth Avenue, where artists hung out. The food was lousy, the lighting made people look so bad they nicknamed it the Waxworks, and the other patrons tended to be bums, drug addicts, tough guys and cops. The staff was not particularly welcoming to arty boho types. So naturally that’s where Bodenheim and Ruth went to celebrate his birthday. Malina writes that a friend stole a pumpkin pie from the counter as a present for Bodenheim. “A cop sees him, but is somehow content with my explanation that Maxwell Bodenheim is a great poet and that his birthday should be celebrated. The counterman is not so generous: 'I ain’t doin’ this for love.’ We all eat. Ruth Bodenheim curses the cafeteria. Some junkies come and tell horrible tales of hospitals and arrests. One taps his eye with a knife to show us that it’s glass. Ruth Bodenheim smiles in an aristocratic manner: 'I’d never have believed it wasn’t real,’ as if she were consoling the owner of false jewels.”

“Do we not idolize Maxwell Bodenheim although we are sometimes loath to talk to him and always ashamed of our condescension to him?” Malina wonders in another entry. “What we admire is Bodenheim’s refusal to resist. We fight all the time, resisting temptation. We admire those who don’t. Even if it’s suicidal.” And later: “Even self-contempt when fierce enough is magnificent. The virtue of the extreme is its extremity. Nature loves extremes as much as she loathes a vacuum.”

In 1953, Ruth took up with a violent, mentally unstable dishwasher named Harold Weinberg. One night in the winter of 1954 the three of them wound up in Weinberg’s room off the Bowery. Bodenheim roused himself from a drunken stupor to see Ruth and Weinberg having sex. He attacked Weinberg, who pulled out a .22 and shot him through the heart. Then Weinberg stabbed Ruth in the chest. The last photos of Bodenheim show him and Ruth lying dead in the squalid room.

“The hideous death of Bodenheim blankets the Village in a funereal spirit,” Malina wrote. “Who dares confess to the wrenching excitement of seeing a companion’s mauled corpse on the front page of every newspaper, and all of us knowing that the worst has again triumphed?”

Cops picked up Weinberg a few days later. At his trial he called his victims Commie rats and shouted that he “did the world a favor” by getting rid of them. He sang “The Star-Spangled Banner” as he was led out of the courtroom and off to Bellevue.

Today, Bodenheim is remembered more for this tabloid end than for any other achievement. Even his memoir was a dispiriting sham. My Life and Loves in Greenwich Village, published posthumously in 1954, was ghostwritten by a hack who, like everyone else in the Village, had bought him drinks to listen to his drunken ramblings. It’s a loose collection of vignettes, anecdotes, and racy gossip that was already antique when the book appeared. His old friend Hecht, who sent a check for $50 to help pay for Bodenheim’s cheapjack funeral, based his 1958 Off-Broadway play Winkelberg on him. (“There was never a man as irritating as Winkelberg.”) It ran for a month at the Renata Theatre on Bleecker Street, then sank into oblivion along with much of Bodenheim’s own writing.

by John Strausbaugh

[lumiereswig]

hey all so i just saw ‘hadestown’ and feel duty bound to tell you fools everything about it because i, too, remember what it is to be lonely and on the internet and too poor to see some snazzy broadway shit

there’s no fanfare or anything. the show opens with all the cast coming on—and obviously the audience is going buckwild, especially with amber gray. (u can tell there’s a lot of great comet fans in the audience.) only once everybody is settled does hermes really TAKE THE STAGE.

and boy does he take it. sassy lil shit knows he owns it and just stands there taking in his audience, before flipping his jacket back with dramatic flare (to show his SNAZZY-ASS SILVER THREADED VEST) and starting to sing. (cue noisy wah-wah trombone.)

the setting is p. clearly a bar; orpheus p. clearly works there. he’s like being artsy with the napkins and shit, blossoming them into roses. eurydice is a traveler; she carries with her, wrapped in brown silk, an alter candle that she lights. (after sassing hermes into giving her a match to light it with.) eurydice balances her candle with the paper rose orpheus later makes and gives to her.

orpheus is pretty childlike and dreaming in this version. (not the cocky boy from the off broadway production.) he comes off as kind of lanky and awkward and not quite there; naive is definitely a defining adjective for him. everything about him is soft and gentle and in a dreaming world.

eurydice is kind of a classic tough girl but she’s got a strand of helplessness to her. she puts on a show of not being impressed by orpheus until he sings her the song he’s working on, and manages to bring a rose into his palm.

environmental collapse is a HUGE theme thru this—bigger than i thought it would be. eurydice’s first lines are about how there’s no spring or autumn anymore; everything is winter or summer, too hot or cold to live. the fates sing of the winds—the fates sort of torment her throughout this—but climate change looms as a dread through the show. orpheus hopes his song will bring back summer, put the seasons back in tune.

anyway, everyone’s hanging out at a new orleans style bar. even hades and persephone are there, though above it all in a balcony of their own

did i mention bradley king is a god among lighting designers?

because that will come back a lot

anyway hermes is sort of an uncle figure to orpheus; he was friends with orpheus’s mother, a muse. as soon as orpheus sees eurydice he wants to talk to her, and hermes advices him not to ‘come on too strong’—

and well that plan goes immediately out the window : ‘come home with me!’ [eurydice: ’what?’]

orpheus is just intensely awkward. skinny pale child doesn’t know how to interact with the world

they have kind of an argumentative relationship from the start—they don’t face each other very often; there’s a push and pull as he longs for her and she, kneejerk tough girl, tries not to go for this. but the rose from his palm enchants her, and she holds on to it. ‘you have to finish your song.’

GODDDD AMBER GRAY IS JUST LIIIIIIIFE. her persephone is a total lush and frequently staggers through act 1. she also has a fabulous white coat that gradients to green at the sleeves. when she dances you can’t tell if she’s about to pass out or float up to the ceiling.

when orpheus gives the toast he’s just so awkward it’s appalling

(and everyone toasts except eurydice)

hades wears sunglasses when he comes to the world above to bring persephone back to the world below. he descends from his balcony to get her, and brings her to the center of the stage—and then, oh, SHIT, there’s a fucking perfect round trap door right where they’re standing, and they descend below. (amber gray looking up to the slowly disappearing sky with the face of a martyr who’s used to the gig.)

winter’s hard. eurydice has to bust back out her old ass coat (instead of the winsome black slip thing and brown vest thing she was wearing), and the Fates, bitches as they be, try to fuckin rip it off her. (and succeed. the choreography looks like wind! also chairs and tables looked like they were floating earlier but i forgot to mention that.)

eurydice is trying to get ORPHEUS’S FUCKIN ATTENTION bout the fact they got no food and, uh, three bitchy old ladies dressed all in gray just took her coat, but he’s submerged in writing his song to bring back the weather. and while this is all going on, hades and persephone are having their age-old argument about how hell is too hot and too loud and IT AIN’T RIGHT, IT AIN’T NATURAL.

because, get this, after descending to hell they descended /back up/ into it, and u can tell cuz the lighting is fuckin genius. i’ll explain later except i won’t.

orpheus is just OUT OF IT and not hearing anything at all eurydice is tryin to fuckin say. (the tune keeps going wrong.) hades is sick of persephone not being with his electric shiny no-good shittiness and lays his eyes on eurydice as easy prey.

he puts on his sunglasses again and u know it’s bad news.

he talks her over and gives her her ‘ticket’—two silver coins that she momentarily holds up over her eyes as she looks at us, letting us know that this is some death imagery. she holds both hades’ coins and orpheus’s flower—and, making up her mind, calls out orpheus’s name one last time and descends into the underworld through that same miraculous trap.

and then, fuck me, the trap comes back up but just the red flower is on it. fuuuuuck meeeeeeee i may have wept.

orpheus finishes his damn song and hermes lets him know that hE FUCKED UP HIS WHOLE DAMN LIFE SHE GONE, BITCH, and orpheus sees the flower on the trap door and then he’s weeping, too.

and then we get to ‘wait for me’ and holy shit, y’all, i never been so fully into something in my life? it was so physically intoxicating i almost wanted to throw up. like, wonder as a liquid beverage. tHE LIGHTING? ? i fuckin felt awe on this earth today, i saw god and he’s lit by bradley king.

because! hades’ workers bring on these industrial metal lamps, and they hook them to the wires in the ceiling, and they SEND THEM SWINGING OUT INTO THE FUCKIGN AUDIENCE. they fuckin—they—they they they!—they fucking did! that! sent them swinging out in perfect rhythm and time, fully lit, swinging around orpheus and into the audience. and tHEN! THE FUCKIN SET! BEGINS TO GROW!!!

remember the first time u saw the nutcracker as a child and the growing christmas tree fuckin ripped ur world apart? it’s like that except times ten thousand

like it felt like. like the fuckin world was coming apart. the bar set is slowly ripping open and golden light is just searing into your eyeballs and the golden lamps are still swinging around orpheus and it literally felt like god had opened up a cold one and was just singing something horrible into being. it was wonder. i want to see it again.

like. stagecraft, babyyy

and u think act 1 will end on that because why would it nOT but no, we get ‘why we build the wall,’ which is a sort of chilling propoganda thing where everybody is facing forward and just telling back to hades whatever he’s yelling about, and persephone is there and i’m not sure why (like does she believe this? is she the unwilling consort? what’s the deal?)

and at the end eurydice comes in, and sort of picks up on the gestures everybody is doing—in that way everyone does when they come into a room and they want to vaguely pass as with it so they try to sync in to the general vibe. ‘uhh sure everyone’s waving their hands and talkin about walls so i guess i will too’, that kind of thing

hades shows her up to his office (the balcony door) to sign the papers. as soon as he’s gone, amber gray whips round to face the audience. ‘anybody want a drink?’

it’s intermission and i’m still trying to catch up on all the gasp-crying i started during ‘wait for me’

we also get an overpriced hadestown cup cuz get while the getting’s good, right?

back in act 2 and it’s our lady of the underground, ie amber gray in her exact outfit from above except instead of lurid green it’s savage black. (and instead of a bouncy curly brown wig it’s a black sparkly snood.) she dances and pivots and rivets her way through it, introducing the band, being winsome savage bite-your-face-off-and-offer-to-share-it-with-you amber gray. she’s got a neat little ring-shaped silver flask that hangs from her hand like a purse, and i want one.

eurydice emerges from the office dressed in the same overalls as the other workers—though she looks sexy af in them, ngl—and sings ‘flowers,’ and talks about how nobody down here looks at her, and how it’s like they don’t even see her. the underworld is not what she thought it would be. she wants to go home but can’t. she can’t remember orpheus’s name.

uNTIL HE SHOWS UP! Punk ass bitch made it, somehow, and stumbles onto the stage with guitar in hand. she knows his name immediately. but she can’t leave, because she signed her soul away.

u knew all this. it’s classic myth. did i mention patrick page as hades sounds like the combined harmonics of every rumbling truck on the george washington bridge every time he decides to sing?

orpheus has A Moment™ where it’s like, if this is what the world is, if people sign their names up for shit and i can’t save them, i guess i’ll just go home. but he talks himself out of it (apparently his magic vocal cords work on him, too), and actually talks himself (and the stone workers of the underworld!) into activism.

amber gray and patrick page share a duet i’ve never heard before, and it’s fine, and i think it still needs fine tuning cuz im not sure exactly how persephone feels about hades in this bit. it’s fine. what matters is that at the end of it, hades is FUCKED because rebellion is brewing.

he gets orpheus to sing his song. and holy shit, is it a doozy. holy shit, but were we all crying. hooooolyyy shiiiiiit.

holy shit.

when hades sings the refrain at the end, amber gray looks like she’s experiencing the most visceral, exquisite, heartfelt, heartbroken pain of her life. she literally bends as if she’s felt this pain in her stomach—this pain, this anguish over the song she hasn’t heard for so long from this one man she loved so well.

and when a rose blossoms from hades’s palm, persephone is both crying and laughing. it’s like the old times have bloomed again.

and then they dance.

also, should have mentioned earlier, it’s implied it’s not an og song orpheus is singing; he’s actually stumbled on an ancient one, perhaps one hades used to sing, and THAT’S why it’s so devastating—not just his talent and voice, but the memory of it, the memories it brings back. it’s an ancient song, almost a spell, that can heal the seasons.

hades and persephone hold each other close, nuzzling almost, and eurydice faces orpheus, and for a second u think it’s going to be ok because eurydice is so joyful and persephone and hades have healed. o & e  think they’re gonna leave. they think everybody can leave.

but nope, hades can’t have that. damned if he does, damned if he don’t—so he sets the test for orpheus, but u really get the sense that he’s not doing it from a sense of cruelty any more. it almost pains him to do this shit. but the rivet of steel in his character won’t let himself become king of nothing.

hermes presents the challenge: ‘ive got good news, and bad.’ orpheus keeps asking hermes if it’s a trick; hermes keeps saying it’s a test, a trial. (it’s really a TRAGEDY.)

persephone is wooed by the fact that hades even let them try.

ugh, doubt comes in is. devastating. every single person in the audience audibly gasped—u FELT the air leave the room—when he turned around. we all genuinely believed it would end differently this time. we thought it would. i knew it was coming and i still was DEVASTATED.

eurydice is, too. she started as the doubter, and she had so much BELIEF they were gonna get out of this. ‘it’s you—it’s me—’ she says. she’s already sinking through the trap. fuckin hell, they were on the last few steps. i’m still fuckin emotional about it

orpheus just crashes to the edge of the trap, staring down into the abyss. hermes is singing, softly, about how it’s an old song—it’s an old tale—it’s a tragedy. and then he roars—in a way that cheers me up—WE’RE GONNA SING IT AGAIN.

because that’s the power of it! it happened, it was horrible, but we’re going to SING about it—and maybe change the ending this time—the way orpheus tried to, when he sang his way to hades and sang his way to the stones. it’s the singing of the event that matters, that might matter.

and eurydice is back at the bar, wanting matches—orpheus is back at the bar, seeing her for the first time across the room—and the story goes on, like the seasons .fuckin incredible. everybody in the auditiorium now is tear-stained.

APPLAUSE APPLAUSE APPLAUSE

lasted for like.....seven minutes?? it took ages and the actors were just soaking it up, looking exhausted, because DAMN it is exhausting to chart anguish and joy and victory and determination and love in two hours and 25 minutes

and then hermes shushes the house—because of course he does—and amber gray leads the final toast. it’s acoustic—it sounded to me like she wasn’t even using her microphone? it wasn’t brash at all, just raw—and a simple, honest, kind of homespun way to end the show. and it finally ended, and we cheered one last time, and then we went home sobbing and shaking and wanting to do the whole damn thing again

it was great and the stagecraft was some of the best i’ve ever seen and i’ve literally felt maybe only 3 productions like this, where this emotional shit is actually sitting in your lungs, and u should go, the end

[berlysbandcamp]

Mazouni - A Dandy In Exile - 1969/1982

1958, in the middle of the liberation war. While the rattle of machine guns could be heard in the maquis, in the city, the population listened at low volume to Algerian patriotic songs broadcast by the powerful Egyptian radio: "The Voice of the Arabs". These artists all belonged to a troupe created by the self-proclaimed management of the National Liberation Front (FLN), based in Tunis and claiming to gather a "representative" sample of the Algerian musical movement of the time.

1960, cafe terraces were crowded and glasses of anisette kept coming with metronomic regularity, despite the alarming music of police sirens heard at intervals and the silhouettes of soldiers marching in the streets. The mood was good, united by a tune escaping from everywhere: balconies, where laundry was finishing drying, windows wide open from apartments or restaurants serving the famous Algiers shrimps along with copious rosé wine. Couples spontaneously joined the party upon hearing "Ya Mustafa", punctuated by improvised choirs screaming "Chérie je t’aime, chérie je t’adore". The song, as played by Sétif-born Alberto Staïffi, was a phenomenal success, to the point that even FLN fighters adopted it unanimously. Hence an unfortunate misunderstanding that would trick colonial authorities into believing Mustafa was an ode to the glory of Fellaghas. 

1961, Cheikh Raymond Leyris, a Jewish grand master of ma’luf (one of Algeria’s three Andalusian waves) who was Enrico Macias’ professor, was killed in Constantine, making him the first victim of a terrorist wave that would catch up with Algeria at the dawn of the 1990s by attacking anything that thought, wrote or sang.

Mohamed Mazouni, born January 4, 1940 in Blida – “The City of Roses" both known for its beautiful ‘Blueberry Square’ (saht ettout) in the middle of which a majestic bandstand took center stage, and its brothels – had just turned twenty. He was rather handsome and his memory dragged around a lot of catchy refrains by Rabah Driassa and Abderrahmane Aziz, also natives of Blida, or by 'asri (modern music) masters Bentir or Lamari. He would make good use of all these influences and many others stemming from the Algerian heritage. The young Mohamed was certainly aware of his vocal limits, as he used to underline them: "I had a small voice, I came to terms with it!". But it didn’t lack charm nor authenticity, and it was to improve with age. He began his singing career in those years, chosing bedoui as a style (a Saharan genre popularized among others by the great Khelifi Ahmed). 

1962, the last French soldiers were preparing their pack. A jubilant crowd was proclaiming its joy of an independent Algeria. Remembering the impact of popular music to galvanize the "working classes", the new authorities in office rewarded the former members of the FLN troupe by appointing them at the head of national orchestras. In widespread euphoria, the government encouraged odes to the recovered independence, and refrains to the glory of "restored dignity" sprung from everywhere. Abderrahmane Aziz, a star of 'asri (Algiers’ yé-yé) was a favorite with Mabrouk Alik ("Congratulations, Mohamed / Algeria came back to you"); Blaoui Houari, a precursor of Raï music, praised the courage of Zabana the hero; Kamel Hamadi recalled in Kabyle the experience of Amirouche the chahid (martyr), and even the venerable Remitti had her own song for the Children of Algeria. All this under the benevolent eye (and ear) of the regime led by Ahmed Ben Bella, the herald of the single party and vigilant guardian of the "Arab-Islamic values" established as a code of conduct. Singers were praised the Egyptian model, as well as Andalusian art intended for a nascent petty bourgeoisie and decreed a "national classic"; some did not hesitate to sell out. These Khobzists – an Algerian humorous term mocking those who put “putting-food-on-the-table” reasons forward to justify their allegiance to the system – were to monopolize all programs and stages, while on the fringes, popular music settled for animating wedding or circumcision celebrations. Its absence in the media further strengthened its regionalization: each genre (chaâbi, chaouï, Kabyle, Oranian...) stayed confined within its local boundaries, and its "national representatives" were those whose tunes didn’t bother anyone. The first criticisms would emanate from France, where many Algerian artists went to tackle other styles. During the Kabyle-expression time slot on Radio Paris, Slimane Azem – once accused of "collaboration" – sang, evoking animals, the first political lines denouncing the dictatorship and preconceived thinking prevailing in his country. The reaction was swift: under pressure from the Algerian government, the Kabyle minute was cancelled. Even in Algeria, Ahmed Baghdadi aka Saber, an idol for fans of Raï music (still called "Oranian folklore"), was imprisoned for denouncing the bureaucracy of El Khedma (work).

For his part, Mazouni was to be noticed through a very committed song: Rebtouh Fel Mechnak (“They tied him to the guillotine”). But above all, the general public discovered him through a performance at the Ibn Khaldoun Theater (formerly Pierre Bordes Theater, in the heart of Algiers), broadcast by the Algerian Radio Broadcasting, later renamed ENTV. This would enable him to integrate the Algerian National Theater’s artistic troupe. Then, to pay tribute to independence, he sang “Farewell France, Hello Algeria”. 1965: Boumediene's coup only made matters worse. Algeria adopted a Soviet-style profile where everything was planned, even music. Associations devoted to Arab-Andalusian music proliferated and some sycophantic music movement emerged, in charge of spreading the message about "fundamental options". Not so far from the real-fake lyricism epitomized by Djamel Amrani, the poet who evoked a “woman as beautiful as a self-managed farm". The power glorified itself through cultural weeks abroad or official events, summoning troubadours rallied to its cause. On the other hand, popular music kept surviving through wedding, banquets and 45s recorded for private companies, undergoing censorship and increased surveillance from the military.

As for Mazouni, he followed his path, recording a few popular tunes, but he also was in the mood for traveling beyond the Mediterranean: "In 1969 I left Algeria to settle in France. I wanted to get a change of air, to discover new artistic worlds". He, then, had no idea that he was about to become an idolized star within the immigrant community. During the 1950s and 1960s, when parents were hugging the walls, almost apologizing for existing, a few Maghrebi artists assumed Western names to hide their origins. This was the case of Laïd Hamani, an Algerian from Kabylia, better known as Victor Leed, a rocker from the Golf Drouot’s heyday, or of Moroccan Berber Abdelghafour Mociane, the self-proclaimed “Vigon”, a hack of a r&b voice. Others, far more numerous, made careers in the shadow of cafes run by their compatriots, performing on makeshift stages: a few chairs around a table with two or three microphones on it, with terrible feedback occasionally interfering. Their names were Ahmed Wahby or Dahmane El Harrachi. Between the Bastille, Nation, Saint-Michel, Belleville and Barbès districts, an exclusively communitarian, generally male audience previously informed by a few words written on a slate, came to applaud the announced singers. It happened on Friday and Saturday nights, plus on extra Sunday afternoons.

In a nostalgia-clouded atmosphere heated by draft beers, customers – from this isolated population, a part of the French people nevertheless – hung on the words of these musicians who resembled them so much. Like many of them, they worked hard all week, impatiently waiting for the weekend to get intoxicated with some tunes from the village. Sometimes, they spent Saturday afternoons at movie theaters such as the Delta or the Louxor, with extra mini-concerts during intermissions, dreaming, eyes open, to the sound of Abdel Halim Hafez’ voice whispering melancholic songs or Indian laments made in Bombay on full screen. And the radio or records were also there for people to be touched to the rhythm of Oum Kalsoum’s songs, and scopitones as well to watch one’s favorite star’s videos again and again.

Dumbfounded, Mohamed received this atmosphere of culture of exile and much more in the face. Fully immersed in it, he soaked up the songs of Dahmane El Harrachi (the creator of Ya Rayah), Slimane Azem, Akli Yahiaten or Cheikh El Hasnaoui, but also those from the crazy years of twist and rock’n’roll as embodied by Johnny Hallyday, Les Chaussettes Noires or Les Chats Sauvages, not to mention Elvis Presley and the triumphant beginnings of Anglo-Saxon pop music. Between 1970 and 1990, he had a series of hits such bearing such titles as “Miniskirt”, “Darling Lady”, “20 years in France”, “Faded Blue”, Clichy, Daag Dagui, “Comrade”, “Tell me it’s not true” or “I’m the Chaoui”, some kind of unifying anthem for all regions of Algeria, as he explained: "I sang for people who, like me, experienced exile. I was and have always remained very attached to my country, Algeria. To me, it’s not about people from Constantine, Oran or Algiers, it’s just about Algerians. I sing in classical or dialectal Arabic as much as in French and Kabyle”.

Mazouni, a dandy shattered by his century and always all spruced up who barely performed on stage, had greatly benefited from the impact of scopitones, the ancestors of music videos – those image and sound machines inevitably found in many bars held by immigrants. His strength lay in Arabic lyrics all his compatriots could understand, and catchy melodies accompanied by violin, goblet drum, qanun, tar (a small tambourine with jingles), lute, and sometimes electric guitar on yé-yé compositions. Like a politician, Mazouni drew on all themes knowing that he would nail it each time. This earned him the nickname "Polaroid singer" – let’s add "kaleidoscope" to it. Both a conformist (his lectures on infidelity or mixed-race marriage) and disturbing singer (his lyrics about the agitation upon seeing a mini-skirt or being on the make in high school…), Mohamed Mazouni crossed the 1960s and 1970s with his dark humor and unifying mix of local styles. Besides his trivial topics, he also denounced racism and the appalling condition of immigrant workers. However, his way of telling of high school girls, cars and pleasure places earned him the favors of France’s young migrant zazous.

But by casting his net too wide, he made a mistake in 1991, during the interactive Gulf War, supporting Saddam Hussein’s position through his provocative title Zadam Ya Saddam (“Go Saddam”). He was banned from residing in France for five years, only returning in 2013 for a concert at the Arab World Institute where he appeared dressed as the Bedouin of his beginnings.

At the end of the 1990s, the very wide distribution of Michèle Collery and Anaïs Prosaïc's documentary on Arabic and Berber scopitones, highlighted Mazouni’s important role, giving new impetus to his career.  

Living in Algeria, Mohamed Mazouni did not stop singing and even had a few local hits, always driven by a “wide targeting” ambition. This compilation, the first one dedicated to him, includes all of his never-reissued “hits” with, as a bonus, unobtainable songs such as L’amour Maâk, Bleu Délavé or Daag Dagui.

[chaniters]

Second Thoughts

FH Fanfic 2

A continuation of the last short fanfic, spoilers as well this time, no action scenes but some angst!

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Second Thoughts

You can’t but feel a great weight lifted from your shoulders. Mama Ortega is safe. The Cartel is ruthless and violent but is also the most powerful organization on both sides of the Mexican border since the great quake. And they think she’s part of the family.

Since they switched their focus from crime to dealing with the hero-drugs and boosts they’ve gained one of the greatest super-powered armies in the continent, and the farm can’t compete with that without the aid of the Army. And they’d never admit their precious experiments escaped and are wreaking havoc.

“I don’t like this” Ortega says at last. He’s been behind the wheel driving your jeep for 30 minutes trough hidden roads on your way back and not a word until now.

“It’s for the best. She’ll be safe here.”

“I know… it’s just… I don’t like leaving her here with all these criminals”

“You’ve got to have laws in the first place to have criminals. And the Cartel is the law here since the collapse. No one can mess with them, nor the Mexican government nor the West Coast Government. I’m not even sure the army could stop them now without a full-scale war”

“All those unstable mods… almost everything in there would be illegal outside this patch of insanity”

“You can visit anytime you want. They think you’ a cousin too”

“Fabulous. Being part of the Cartel. What I always wanted. Maybe they’ll invite me the next time they want to canoodle with the Catastrofiend.”

“You know what we're up against Ricardo.” You reply with your arms crossed. “This is the only way to make sure she’s safe”

“Yeah…” there’s a bitterness in his voice. You feel your heart sink.

It’s been rough these past weeks. Ever since the farm attacked and Ortega found out the whole picture you’ve been on the run. Temporary bases, hideouts. Charge’s reputation was obviously ruined when the media saw him and Retribution fighting together against the brotherhood. The Rangers got a lot of flak about that too.

Your main concern was Ortega’s mother tough. You always knew what they were capable of and she would be a perfect target to get to the both of you.

“I just can’t figure out why didn’t you tell me back then. We could have helped you know?”

“I didn’t know whom to trust. And it would have just made your targets back then”

“Yes, and all the lying worked out so well in the end, didn’t it?”

“I’m sorry” You look down biting your lip. “You know… we can put an end to this Ricardo.”

“Oh for the love of… not this again” he rolls his eyes

“I’m serious. You hand me over to the authorities, say I controlled your mind and forced you to do all this crap. You’ll be a hero again”

“Yeah right play the martyr… Like they’d even believe something like that. I’m immune to telepathy remember ?” He glares at you

"Yes, but I’m well beyond alpha level. They can’t tell what i can or cannot do!

He grumbles, exasperated "I already told you that’s not going to happen!

“Bu…”

“End of discussion!” he yells at you.

You stay silent for a few moments, but you can’t help bring it up again “But this wasn’t supposed to happen! This is my fight. I don’t see why you have to suffer for it. I already did enough damage as Retribution.”

He doesn’t answer and instead just keeps driving, stepping harder on the accelerator. The rest of the trip is silent. You don’t need to be a telepath to realize he’s probably in the foulest mood you’ve ever seen since you first met him.

-a few hours later-

After 20 minutes you finish your scan of the motel. You're taking no chances, and need to be thorough.

“It’s safe,” you say at last.

Ortega nods, and you both get off the jeep with your bags and do the check-in. It’ll be a long way back from Sinaloa back to Los Angeles. Should be about 22 hours drive, but in the state of disrepair the roads have been since the quakes made the area a complete nightmare and your need for unmonitored paths, it’s tricky telling how many days on the road you’ll need.

Only a double bed is available which would have made you blush in the path, but it’s nothing special right now. Ortega has been distant, silent and grumpier lately.

He just puts his bags on the side as he enters the room first and goes straight for the bathroom. You hear the shower going a moment after.

You fall on the bed and make yourself as small as possible feeling like shit while you wait your turn to shower. At least you both agreed from the beginning on who’s to blame about the whole situation.

The last few days have been so exhausting. You keep using your powers at every turn to make sure you're safe. All your plans have been altered since you need to include two for everything now. And Ortega’s not used to being a runaway which is a constant danger. But at least you don’t have to worry about Eden or Ortega’s mother too now.

You’ve gone overboard to ensure their safety but you know there’s no such thing. No, not really. And the price isn’t even yet paid in full.

The little voice creeps its way into your mind once more. It’s sweet but tastes of blood. " You’ve just handed his mom to the cartel you know? How could he ever forgive you?" and the punchlines don’t take long “It’d be better if you weren’t around”. “Maybe you should just hand yourself over. Wait until you can be sure he’s in the clear and get it all over with. Restore things to what they were and leave it all behind”

Misery and self-pity are interrupted however as Ortega emerges from a cloud of vapor from the bathroom, wearing only a towel. You sigh, stand up and walk past him with your own towel, again not a word. You can’t even look at him, the guilt is like a bag of bricks on your stomach.

The water runs hot. Very Hot, but you don’t change the temperature. Ortega was obsessed about your Tattoos at first which made you feel an awkward panic sensation every time he looked at them. It’s gotten to the point where you can tolerate it, but him seeing them now that he also happens to be mad at you is beyond your worst nightmares. You always expected anyone who saw them jump at your neck for being a filthy re-gene or a pathetic human-wannabee, but having an actual angry human see them is just too much…

You dry yourself without looking at the mirror, then slide onto your pajamas covering most of the tattoos. Obviously, he knows they're still there, but him not actually seeing them is a bit less scary.

Lights are out when you walk out of the bathroom and he’s in bed already. Fine… this is even better, you don’t want to argue and upset him again. Maybe if you just keep your mouth shut he’ll wake up in a better mood.

You enter the bed, and can’t help touching him lightly, but quickly move to your side trying not to intrude on his. He doesn’t seem to wake up. You gaze at him, with his closed eyes for a moment, then close yours as well.

If you don’t get some sleep you won’t be able to drive tomorrow and it’s your turn. You let your mind drift…

—intermission—

Cold metal in your mouth. His eyes tell you to do it and you can’t resist. Then… he… it…. turns… turns into Ortega… Ortega looks at you with disapproval and nods. He wants you to do it as well. His glare is so cold He won’t stop you from doing it this time. In fact, he'd be glad if you did. It’s time. You pull the trigger. You hear the sound of your gun go off… You are falling. Falling down the window again. You see the ground closing up. Hopefully, it will put an end to everything.

----Intermission—

“Hey. Hey Cyrus. Can you hear me?”

You struggle and gasp for air. As you open your eyes you notice Ortega right next to you staring intensely. He’s… concerned?

You notice your body is shivering uncontrollably. But he has a warm arm wrapped around you tightly. He’s very close. So close.

“Are you ok? It’s just a dream. You're safe”.

You gaze back at him, still shivering. You realize he’s touching you. Touching your skin. Without nanomesh or costumes. That just makes you shiver even more.

“Hey… hey, it’s ok. I’m here. Nothing’s wrong”

It does work. You manage to look back at him and your body seems to regain some sort of composure.

“I’m sorry Ricardo. For all of it. I’m a piece of shit. It's my fault that all of this is happening. I swear I’ll make it right. I’ll make it right!” Your eyes are full of tears.

“Cyrus stop apologizing already. I’m the one who chose to come with you remember ?” He takes a deep breath. “I’m just mad at all that’s happening. I’m mad at the government, I’m mad at myself, I’m mad about having to leave my mom there, and I’m mad at those homicidal freaks you call brothers and sisters, and yes I’m also mad at YOU because YOU are a pathological liar”

“I’m sorry” you whimper pathetically

“Stop. Apologizing” He says with a serious tone. “I’m not an idiot. I knew you had a secret, and I knew it would probably be horrible when you revealed it. We’ve been a team for a long time, it was obvious something was cooking up. I’m just… Look I had a lot of scenarios in my mind and none of this is what I expected.”

You just nod. Yes, who could blame him for not expecting his crush not to be human?

“But… I understand it now that you’ve come clean. I can’t even begin to figure out all the crap you’ve been through Cyrus. And I realize you're saving me a lot of the worse details. And I understand why you’ doing this, and that’s why I joined you ok?” he adds “I’m not going to tell you I’m happy about any of this. I keep feeling like I’m going to lose it. But we are going to keep it together, and YOU are not going to fall apart, ok?”

You listen to every word and nod slowly in the end.

“Now get some sleep, will you? We need to get a lot of stuff done and we won’t get to it if we can’t make a good time to Los Diablo and I haven’t forgotten It’s your turn to drive.”

You manage a weak smile. He notices and returns a smile of his own.

You pull in closer. He holds you tighter. You both kiss. You close your eyes You feel safe. Uncomfortable but safe, sleeping this close together is too hot and not pleasant at all, you wonder how they do it in the movies. But you are both too tired and fall asleep anyways. Cramps and sweat will be a problem for your future selves

The rest of the night you spend in a strange new dream you’ve never had before. You are looking for something or someone in a strange labyrinth full of turns and doors. When you finally find a center there turns out to be a mirror there, but you can’t see your reflection on it. No one can.

Meanwhile, Ortega couldn't sleep at all, his mind still racing with questions about you. 

.................................

My Fanfics: https://chaniters.tumblr.com/post/181692759294/my-fanfiction-for-fallen-hero

Previous chapter: https://chaniters.tumblr.com/post/180182784039/fh-fanfic-mc-ortega

Next chapter: https://chaniters.tumblr.com/post/180367791684/fanfic-3-fallen-hero-chargestep

DISCLAIMER: This is a work of fan fiction using characters and the setting of the Fallen Hero: Rebirth and upcoming Fallen Hero: Retribution games written by Malin Riden. I do not claim ownership of any characters from the Fallen Hero wold. These stories are a work of my imagination, and I do not ascribe them to the official story canon. These works are intended for entertainment outside the official storyline owned by the author. I am not profiting financially from the creation of these stories, and thank the author for her wonderful game/s, without which these works would not exist.

[gdelgiproducer]

What did you think of Rent Live?

My main focus was on how shitty the (in my opinion, unnecessary) book editing turned out to be. Granted, I think the book did need some editing, but not what it got.

Granted, no one likes a back seat driver, but I’d have pushed for the following book changes were I the director:

A question of timeline. I don’t know about anyone else, but 1991/92 seemed like kind of an arbitrary choice. In fact, I daresay that I suspect the only reason they picked 1991 was that when they picked 1989 in the movie, everyone screamed that Thelma and Louise hadn’t come out in 1989 but in 1991, so how could Angel reference it? 1991, the movie’s out, they’re safe… or so they thought. The show is kind of an anachronism stew anyway – yes, Angel does a Thelma and Louise shout-out and Maureen pretty directly references the 1995 Oklahoma City bombing (“yellow rental truck packed in with fertilizer and fuel oil” was Timothy McVeigh’s weapon), but there’s still alarms to remind people to take their AZT every four hours. This phenomenon was already dead by 1992, when a new form of AZT came out that could be taken every 12 hours – no need for beepers. (Indeed, part of me suspects the alarms were the reason they picked 1989 in the movie, but we’ve already covered what a mistake that was.) On balance, leaving the beepers out of the picture for a second, if we need to pick a realistic time-frame for Rent, 1994/95 (or, at the latest, 1995/96) makes the most sense.

A question of non-linear timeline. Pre-Broadway, post-workshop, there was briefly a revision (oddly enough, this choice was reflected in the 10th anniversary concert) that opened with “Seasons of Love” and part of “Halloween,” and told the story of Rent as a flashback from Angel’s funeral that then caught up to current events. I feel that going back to that choice would make the script much stronger and help with the structural problems Jonathan never got to fix; if the show really is “single frames from one magic night […] on the 3D IMAX of my mind,” it makes more sense that the story is so fragmented in Act II as Mark self-edits some of the bad stuff, montages things, etc. In my version, much as in the film (although there is no formal intermission in the film), Act II would open with “Seasons of Love B” to cue the audience back in to the story and remind us of how much has changed since the events of Act I, that this story is a flashback, before returning to Mark’s memories that bring us up to the “present.” In fact, once you know this bit of info, you can kind of read between the lines that Jonathan hadn’t finished revising the remnants of that structure out of Act II.

The most heard question: “WHY DON’T THE CHEAP ASS-HATS JUST FUCKING PAY RENT???” There is an answer, believe it or not, and it’s not (necessarily) that they’re merely self-absorbed entitled twats. Rent fans familiar with the bootleg of the 1994 NYTW workshop will recall that Mark’s mom signs off her voice mail not with consolation over Mark’s breakup with Maureen, but with this cold dismissal: “Oh, and Mark / Your father got a call from Chemical Bank / I don’t know how they got our number / but we meant it when we said that you’re cut off / …love Mom.” Additionally, a message from “Dave” at the top of the show consists of firing Roger, who has “left [him] without a bartender for the last time.” Put that info back in the show, to some extent (I mean, it’s sorta still implied; Mark’s mom suggests discord between Mark and his dad in one of her second act voicemails), and Benny’s rescinding his “rent-free” offer clearly can’t have come at a worse time. It’s one thing if it’s just them having unrealistic expectations, but add in that Mark’s family has cut the umbilical cord, and Roger lost his job (we’re even allowed to sympathize – must suck to go back to being a bartender after six months of rehab, not sure I’d be able to avoid triggers in that environment), and there’s no time or resources to scrape together a payment to ward him off, and suddenly rather than being a selfish gesture we’re meant to interpret as gutsy, “How we gonna pay last year’s rent?” becomes a cry of panic. Everything falling apart at once for young adults struggling with independence after having made some really big mistakes is much more sympathetic, and the best part is, it’s not a reach, you’d be pulling from Jonathan’s own writing to do it. (Shit, it’d turn the “#RentLive” Twitter feed of people admitting they sympathize more with Benny right the fuck around when they recognize themselves in Mark and Roger’s situation…) I honestly feel like Jonathan would have figured that out and re-included the material had he lived. He may have been a suburban kid from White Plains, but he wasn’t that out of touch.

The most divisive question: “Should Mimi live?” …no. No she shouldn’t. At least not if I held the reins. Having Mimi come back is thoroughly awful; it goes against all sense, feels like a cheap grab at a happy ending, and is an appalling betrayal of the “No day but today” message. “The show is about life, not death” is just not a valid excuse, and Jonathan Larson can haunt me about it all he wants. The argument that it goes against his message of “living with […] not dying from disease” falls apart when you consider that loads of people are living with HIV – and grappling with it, and facing the challenges – and not dying from it in the show. Even if Mimi dies, a positive (if layered) outlook on the fact that one can live with HIV is still shown in the lives of Roger, Collins, people in the support group, none of whom are martyrs. Do their journeys somehow not matter? Everybody has their share of hardships, but they work through them with the help of their friends and each other. The same point is made. In 2019, it is no longer commercially necessary, as it was at the time, to kill the LGBT character and let the straight character live because audiences prefer a happy ending; if one dies, they both die. (Indeed, I’ve always resented the unspoken implication when I have the argument about Mimi’s death that it’s okay that Angel dies. Here we are debating whether or not Mimi surviving “changed the conversation,” when Angel was no one’s definition of a victim or a martyr, and lived for each moment as much as anyone else.) And, dramaturgically speaking, if one is careful and smart about positioning dialogue and using staging appropriately, one can stick to the text and score as written and still have Mimi die without damaging the show at all. Of the four things I suggest, I’m almost positive this is the one Larson’s family would have the most trouble with, but I stand by it.