#maybe I oughta think about this in the context of

[sherbertilluminated]

Of all the titles in Songs for Pierre Chuvin, "Their Gods Do Not Have Surgeons" is the most strikingly melancholy. It's not just that Darnielle's voice sounds muted and plaintive, that the chorus is one request, over and over again:

Restore the temple of Isis at Memphis

It's not even that the singer wants something so simple. It's that he wants something that the listeners believe is good.

The title of this one is a reference to Chapter 8 of A Chronicle of the Last Pagans, where a Christian mob destroys a number of statues honoring Egyptian deities, breaking off their limbs and shouting "their gods do not have surgeons." Which is conspicuously wrong in the song, because one of the most famous stories to survive from Egyptian religion is one where a deity performs a reconstructive operation.

I doubt my USAmerican upbringing offered me a nuanced look at ancient Egyptian religious belief, but even as a child I was familiar with the story of how the god Set dismembered his brother Osiris, and how his sister/wife Isis (almost) put him back together to conceive a son. This myth is present in the lyrics of Their Gods Do Not Have Surgeons—the Christians are compared to "beasts" with "pawprints" in a way that matches Set's quasi-canine depictions and I'm pretty sure the line "return the peace you took from me" is a homophone/pun on the missing "piece" of Osiris' body which prevented his complete resurrection—and relevant to its rhetorical situation.

The "they" and the "you" of the song are Christians of the (reunited?) Roman Empire in Egypt, people familiar with Jesus' comparison of his own body to the temple in Jerusalem and his assertion that it will be destroyed and reconstructed. When Darnielle sings "you who come demanding proof/let your God rebuild this roof," it's especially poignant because's he's arguing that if only the singer were offered a chance, ie if only he were allowed to worship the surgeon-goddess Isis in her temple, he could demonstrate that Christianity is not the only religious tradition to believe in a resurrection.

The reason for the pathos of the chorus becomes clear at the end of the second verse, with the request "show us the goodwill you were shown/or leave us alone." The poignancy of that plea comes from the recognition that if the people oppressing you would only listen to you, they would realize you love similar stories, that they won't listen to you, that religion will not prevent people with imperial support from acting imperialistically, and that you're desperate enough to ask anyway.

The other tracks on Songs for Pierre Chuvin showcase a range of reactions to the Christianization of the Roman Empire, from violent resistance in "Aulon Raid" to syncretism and covert hope in "Exegetic Chains." But "Their Gods Do Not Have Surgeons" is special to me for the raw pain it depicts and the way it frames that pain as a product of hypocrisy and religious myopia.

[letters-to-rosie]

You said last month that it's not Ekko if he's not involved in activism, anarchism, just actively doing shit to make a change. I absolutely agree. But you also said you "come out of a particular background and that means [you] have certain thoughts and approaches to social change that leave out things that others do and are involved in". Would you please elaborate further on that? Not just for writing Ekko, but for the sake of knowing and maybe applying to real life. You made me curious.

So I sat on this for a while not because I didn't want to answer it but because I wanted to answer it thoughtfully, and I've typed out some things that didn't feel right, but I'm going to try again now.

I tried to find the exact context for where I said that and I failed lol so I am working off memory, but again I will try.

So in terms of background, I'm a Black American. When I was young, I pretty much assumed that my family history would be depressing and I didn't want to look into it. And some of that is there: family trees that get lost once you hit enslavement, dysfunction you can pretty much trace right back to that period, having to explain to people that your family is on the light side not because of consensual relationships but because you're from one of those states that exported slaves, you get the deal. A byproduct of this is that by the time I was an adult and wanted to dig into it and found that there was actually a lot to learn, many of the elders I wanted to learn from had passed on.

That, mixed in with me trying to understand my... financially turbulent?? life led me to engage with black radical thinkers as an adult. And that led into left-wing politics in general. So that's like half of it.

The other half is I've always been the type of person who likes a hands-on problem. My approach to social change has always just been "find a problem and throw myself at it." And that translated into a social service background. Even now, to pay for my classes, I work in social services at my university, still throwing myself at a problem that's sort of followed me around for a decade or so now. I'm not in love with the conditions of trying to fight a problem within the walls of an institution that helps perpetuate them, but for me, the immediacy of people's needs supersedes any need I feel for ideological consistency.

On top of that, I study race. And media. So imagine my excitement when I see Ekko!

I don't know that I've ever encountered a character who checked so many boxes. He sees problems and throws himself at them. He practices radical compassion with people struggling with substance use. AND their victims. And even though he's fighting Silco, he knows that the problems in the city go straight to the top (I oughta write a fic someday where he does make it across the bridge and gets to yell at the council because he so deserves that).

He grieves. I've said before that grief is the emotion that has most defined my adult life. I feel like I'm always grieving. And Ekko models how you do that and keep moving. Rather than giving into the hopelessness of the setting, he creates a place where people can heal and be their best selves. AND HE HAS NATURAL HAIR!!! My natural hair journey is another story but it's honestly tied up in all of this lol.

He's like a treasure trove of things that matter to me, honestly. I'm not even sure how much I realized it at first. But as time passed, I'd keep going back to this character and thinking. His revolutionary spirit is truly to be admired. And I think that evolution in how I've thought about him comes through pretty clearly in my writing, as I come to fully embrace a bottom-up style of conceptualizing revolutionary thought and practice. I know I'll grow and change as I get older, learn more, and do more, but at this particular moment, I think Ekko has a lot of value for me.

So what am I not interested in? Off the top of my head...

versions of the character that leave out that political dimension. I'm not inserting politics into the show. The division between what is political and isn't is a false one. If the politics aren't registering, that's because they're close to the politics of the status quo

which is not to say I think everybody has to write him with politics fully foregrounded, but I wish more people would, you know?

and speaking of the politics, not really interested in ones that aren't radical. Not trying to pass a certain purity test, but we can keep in mind that Misfit Toys shows Scar beating up a dummy Enforcer, in gear. Which they probably got by fighting them. Fun!

another thing I think is key and I would like to see engaged with more is that Ekko doesn't view people using shimmer as enemies. I honestly wonder whether the Firelights know as much as they do about Silco's stuff because they have members who formally worked in the syndicate.

and I bring that up because another thing that the show as a whole and Ekko's interactions with Jinx invite us to think about is not viewing anyone as too far gone. I think in the rush to clearly delineate good and evil, we make too many lines and ignore the material conditions that motivate and contextualize people's actions.

and on that note, I don't like to make Ekko a paragon. I think casting him as a pure soul who is working tirelessly for his people ignores his indignation at the situation around him and how he is actively choosing, every day to do the things he does. I like to keep agency foregrounded.

To close, I wanna share some quotes, because y'all know I love reading revolutionaries.

“It is necessary that the weakness of the powerless is transformed into a force capable of announcing justice. For this to happen, a total denouncement of fatalism is necessary. We are transformative beings and not beings for accommodation.” —Paulo Freire, Pedagogy of the Oppressed

“We have chosen a different path to achieve better results. We have chosen to establish new techniques. We have chosen to seek forms of organization that are better adapted to our civilization, abruptly and once and for all rejecting all kinds of outside diktats, so that we can create the conditions for a dignity in keeping with our ambitions. We refuse simple survival. We want to ease the pressures, to free our countryside from medieval stagnation or regression. We want to democratize our society, to open up our minds to a universe of collective responsibility, so that we may be bold enough to invent the future. We want to change the administration and reconstruct it with a different kind of civil servant. We want to get our army involved with the people in productive work and remind it constantly that, without patriotic training, a soldier is only a criminal with power. That is our political programme.” —Thomas Sankara, Speech before the General Assembly of the United Nations

“Let me just say: Peace to you, if you're willing to fight for it.” —Fred Hampton

[omahasnakes]

1996: It gets Better. Or in some cases, retroactively worse.

I really honestly referred to 1996’s chart as a “palate cleanser”! Not “an absolute emotional minefield”? Not “you’re going to be crying in your car while listening to ‘Name’ by The Goo Goo Dolls”?!

I was excited when I wrote up to 2022 chart to report that fully 10% of the top 100 that year were Spanish-language tracks. But even back in 1996, we had two songs on the chart in Spanish: #98, the cringe classic “Macarena” by Los del Rio, and the number ONE song of the year, *squints at notes*: “Macarena- Bayside Boys Remix”.

My grasping claim at authenticity is that I first heard this song in Mexico City at a discotheque. I was the girl they pulled up onto a chair to demonstrate learning the basic dance movements- I assume it’s standard to choose the ugliest duckling for this honor? Later, when I was getting hit on less than my friends, someone offered me the condolence that it was just because I’m not blonde. They were right to offer up this worldly advice!

I count it among the saddest realizations of my adult life that when Darius Rucker says that the dolphins made him cry, he meant the football team. I had instantly conjured an adorable vignette where Darius goes to Sea World and the dolphins don’t scare him, exactly, but he is very startled when one comes out of the tank to nuzzle him. There are tears. A close second is the realization that Quad City DJs do not in fact rep the quad cities of Davenport, Bettendorf, Rock Island, and Moline.

Song of the Year: Is it reasonable to say anything other than Macarena? “You Oughta Know” by Alanis Morissette is on the chart, but I think it’s more correct to talk about it in the context of 1995. Still, it’s an all-timer. And Flea performed the bassline- listen to it now with that on your mind!

“California Love” by 2Pac, Roger, and Dr. Dre could be that Song of the Year candidate. This isn’t a 1996 memory by any means, but in 2014 I moved to Orange County, California from Maryland. I moved for my spouse’s job, and I moved not only without having my own job lined up, but completely sight-unseen. No one, myself included, had even considered that I should see the place I was moving to. Shortly after moving, my friends Nadia and Nathan visited, and I remember riding around LA in their rental car when this song came on. This was maybe the first moment after my move when I thought, yeah, this might be ok.

Song that may have actually aged well: “Missing” by Everything but the Girl

Forgotten Gems: “1-2-3-4 (Sumpin’ New)” by Coolio and “Woo Hah!! Got You All in Check” by Busta Rhymes. I wasn’t actually that aware of hip hop music in 1996. I was no longer listening to the Top 40 station (KQKQ Sweet 98 in Omaha) but instead was listening to whichever current iteration of the “alternative” station. We thought we were cool, but it turns out “alternative” was just exclusionary.

Similarly, the “Waiting to Exhale” soundtrack mostly left no trace in my mind, but I can also blame that on not being in the right age demographic. It’s all over the 1996 chart, though, and rightly so.

“Give Me One Reason” by Tracy Chapman and “Hook” by Blues Traveler: both of these songs bring back specific memories of trying to relate to my mother by offering her a current popular song that I thought she could find acceptable. She didn’t take the bait either time.

“Gangsta’s Paradise” by Coolio and L.V. The first R-rated movie I saw in the theater was “Dangerous Minds.” I lied and said that I saw “To Wong Foo, Thanks for Everything! Julie Newmar” which somehow was more acceptable than a film about the power of teaching! I’m sure I was shifty about my lie, which was chalked up to premarital sex, but it’s definitely on brand in retrospect.

I’m including the video for “Ironic” by Alanis Morisette as a favorite iconic video from the 1996 chart, but it’s also a trap I’ve set to see if anyone will jump into the comments without reading the whole essay to push their glasses up and offer their opinion on which lyrics of the song do or do not embody the concept of irony.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Jne9t8sHpUc

Anyway, here’s Wonderwall.

[butchtifalockhart]

maybe i’m just a jaded lesbian but being a fan of ff7 is rough sometimes when you’re not the “target audience” (translation: a cishet guy). in the original game, the main gals’ whole existences hinge on the fact that they’re heteronormative love interests for the player character. it’s an element i think seriously detracts from the original — the player’s guide literally spells out that cloud gets to be cool and complex while aeris and tifa are just there to fawn over him and fight for his affections when they are both so much more than that. obviously i don’t think it oughta be illegal to ship them with cloud or find a romantic relationship between them cute, but i do wish more fans engaged with the obvious misogyny the creators originally had in mind when writing those relationships. i’m reminded a lot of the context behind the “bechdel test”:

…these criteria, originally published in “dykes to watch out for”, jokingly outlines these as the criteria as necessary for lesbians and other queer women to pretend the characters on screen could be queer too. the joke is that this is such a low bar, yet many movies (then and now) completely fail to clear it.

it’s ironic, because i’m not even positive the original ff7 would pass it. say what you want about the remake (i certainly have my opinions on it), but at least it likely inadvertently gave the gays a bone with more aeris + tifa interactions and the greater depth to the women overall. idk — is this just me?

[9w1ft]

Hi, I know this is a very relevant topic but I've been following your blog for several years and your words and wisdom have always resonated with me, so I was hoping to have your thoughts.

I've always been a shy and quiet person with a very low self-esteem and a poor understanding of social cues. Not much is charming about me. Then we had the pandemic and my socialization set back by a thousand millennia. During this time I became what many would say "chronically online."

I just saw it as my regular life. On the Internet, I was somehow lucky and made a lot of online friends. We are like-minded, they are nice and funny, and it's great to see different perspectives. During this time, I also found a sense of belonging within the Kaylor community, and I still consider you all near and dear. My online friends and social circles have been there for me at my loneliest, darkest times when people physically next to me happened.

However, I think now I'm kind of growing out of that for several reasons. The Internet is a wasteland. Lots of drama and toxicity. Social media is becoming unusable. Also now that the lockdown is long gone, I need to be able to focus on my work but I can't get anything done because of my attachment to my phone where my online friends are.

Also in real life I don't know when or how it happened but I'm actually talking to people and going out of my way to socialize. I still don't think I have any attractive qualities but I am making friends regardless. I don't know if I am even confident but I do feel a lot more comfortable with myself.

With these real incidents, the risks and effort are more but it is also just as rewarding. With my online friends, I feel secure with them because I know what their beliefs are and I know they aren't homophobic or anti-atheists, whereas my secret identity would be a problem in real life. With my online friends, I access dopamine 24/7 anytime I want and I have the liberty to vent to anybody anytime. With my real life friends however I have to act like I'm fine and that venting might get me judged. However online there's just a lot of unnecessary pessimism everywhere.

With all of this context, I want to simply say that I am perhaps growing out of my online life, that a part of me wants to move on and focus on my real life forever. But I also think some of my online friends are really nice and wonderful people, and if I say goodbye to one of them, I oughta say bye to everybody because the cycle will simply repeat if I go from one social media to another.

I also really enjoy Kaylorism as a hobby. I engage with it up to the degree it makes me happy, as I'm following your advice.

I understand that this isn't an all or nothing situation. But do you have any advice for me? I want to know if there's way I can sustainably have the best of both lives.

hi anon ♥️ i hope you don’t mind that i posted this in full because i think there are others like you out there and i think what’s on you mind might resonate.

i think it’s so amazing that you’re finding successes and growth in your real life and it sounds like focusing in on that might bring you a lot of joy and fulfillment. at the same time, online life seems to be draining you a bit. i hope i’m understanding you right. if so, i think you already know what would be best for you.

but if changing up your regular way of living is making you apprehensive, i think it’s important to remember that as we go through life, we are going to need and want different things at different stages, and that there are a lot of things at our disposal to help us out along the way. i really believe social media (and by extension the internet) is one of these things— a tool. maybe right now, you don’t need to use that tool. and it’s okay to put it away and just have it as something to use as needed, if seasons change for you again.

there’s a conversation that might be had about choosing how to use the tool, or to drop the metaphor for a second, re-evaluate the content you are consuming or ways that you interface with people online and adjust the experience to you etc etc. but i know that’s easier said than done.

so if you need some encouragement, please do not ever feel as though you need to keep up appearances online to the detriment of your actual life. i know fomo is a real thing and wanting to be connected to the world is also an important thing, but there are also many things you can do on a local level that you’ll find will both fulfill those needs, and provide you with chances to expand the size of your toolbox.

plus! you can come back anytime you’d like. i think for a lot of us, especially on tumblr, we’re the kind of people who could go without talking for years at a time but still pick up and chat as if no time has passed. first and foremost, we’re rooting for you!

[southposting]

Last rant aside S26E04 was good. Best in the season thus far imo. Had been a while since south park elicited sincere laughter from me and I felt like the pacing worked because they stuck to their guns and expanded their basic premise. It was more centered than Cupid yew ep and had better closure as result.

Kept building unto the joke of AI generated text within the context of the boys cheating their essays +Stan and Wendy's relationship but finding ways around making new jokes about it and expanding instead of relying on the 1 gag repeating throughout the episode with a some semblance of a plotline thrown in there at the last 5 min like toilet episode.

>women ruined slavery joke explained in the second half of the episode without being the entire b plot

Matt and trey? Doing an elaborated joke set up in 2023? impossible!!

When Cartman shouted at the kid to get out! I legit thought they were just going to go through the same scene again lol. There's a lot of ways the premise could've gone that could've resulted in a mediocre episode. I can very well see them having the gag of submitting AI text loop through the episode as the punchline of the situation(picture branching away from stan and showing a montage of people using it at every level of society, same joke different setting/application) but it was used in an expository fashion to move the plot between stan and wendy forward which allowed them to exploit their remaining screentime with derivative ideas.

It's not complex stuff but failing at this bare minimum tends to be modern south park's biggest undoing in succeeding at both being funny and also immersing you in a situation involving characters and it makes the difference in entertainment value like day and night imo

we oughta make AI shit a permanent implementation in the south park writers room maybe it'll get them inspired me thinks

[tenshindon]

they almost got hit with that permadeath by demon gum they can make out a little

[melongumi]

One trope I really can’t stand - and this is a personal taste thing, maybe some rsd-adjacent bias idk - is public scorn for a protagonist character who is, actually, in the right. 

Like, if it’s coming out of prejudice that’s-- that’s one thing; I’m mostly inured to that I guess? Still a downer, but--

If someone gets framed, or misunderstood because of narrow-mindedness and a gap in information, that sends me... absolutely feral. My heartrate jumps, I perseverate, I can’t stop thinking about it and I hate every second of it. This is a problem b/c I’m still completely focused on mdzs, and the original text of mdzs kind of has a plot like that and still manages not to press my buttons? So that should be fine, right? 

Except oh boy, MDZS fics... do press my buttons sometimes. And I have zero self-control, so once I know that one has it I’m like “i gotta get to the part where everyone learns how wrong they are and gets fucking sorry. I gotta. I must.”

Haha spoilers... the part where everyone learns how wrong they are... is very rarely worth what I go through getting there. riiip... 

edit: It’s the public scorn over any essentially false charge that gets to me, I think-- with a protagonist either refusing to or not being allowed to speak for themselves. Canon’s fine because the charges are... fundamentally technically correct, and wwx is either perfectly willing to cop to them or, if someone says something that isn’t true, he immediately calls them out on it. So it doesn’t twig me out. But in modern aus or big canon divergences... well

[alexturntable]

Ok so from that interview do we gain any more insight into what Mirrorball means? Is he saying it's like fragments (the way a it's made up of lots of tiny mirrors). So self reflection or the mirrorball is a song? It's too early and I'm short circuiting!

I’ve been thinking about this since I re-read that interview. Here is the full quote for context:

"I always wanted to use the word ‘Colorama’ in a song ever since I saw Antonioni’s Blow Up. It was an unplugged neon light at the back of my mind for years. Some lyrics are declarations of love or hate written in blood or carved in a bus stop, in need of little or no melodic illumination. Some, I believe, are there almost entirely to facilitate it. If I ever thought about it at all I’m sure I used to think the melody was the vessel that carried the lyrics but more recently it has occurred to me that the opposite is often true.

The problem with the neon sign analogy is that neon signs are invariably bolted to the wall and full of gas. Melody seems as though its poured rather than sprayed and doesn’t feel as though whatever holds it ought to be fixed to anything.

I sometimes imagine each word to be made using a three dimensional open-top glass alphabet. Each letter built to harness and transport the mirror ball liquid marble of the melody. When the ‘substance’ fills up the syllables they seem to shimmer and become weightless. With the addition of close harmony I see colours swirl together, parts of the lyrics glow and the way in which they float suggests that something like the ‘star gate’ sequence from 2001: A Space Odyssey is happening deep inside them out of view.”

So in this neon light analogy the letters are like containers made of glass which are meant to transport the melody. The melody is a "mirror ball liquid marble". Mirror balls reflect lights directed at them in all directions and liquid marble would create this effect of colours swirling together which when put together would look something like the star gate sequence he mentions. So I guess what we can understand from this is that in this analogy the mirror ball is part of the substance that represents the melody which fills the lyrics.

In There'd better be a Mirrorball, he may mean that he hopes that there will be "melodic illumination" or music accompanying this separation he's describing. After listening to Body Paint I feel like Mirrorball could also be a self-refelction song, probably the whole album. So maybe the "relationship" he seems to be ending is actually his relationship with the current persona he's been putting on that he's moving on from to start the process of writing a new album. That's why he starts with "don't get emotional that ain't like you". Maybe it was easier in the past to get rid of a persona but as he gets older it's more difficult to do so. "Yesterday's still leaking through the roof / that's nothing new" some parts of the previous persona are still present but it's always been this way. "I know I promised this is what I wouldn't do / somehow giving it the old romantic fool / seems to better suit the mood" he never wanted to write gooey songs or direct, staright-forward lyrics but now maybe he is.

"So if you wanna walk me to the car / you oughta know I'll have a heavy heart / so can we please be absolutely sure / that there's a mirrorball?" If the old persona wants to walk him to The Car, meaning the new album, he will be sad about parting with the old one so he wants to be really sure that this it's worth it, that there is a really good melody / song to use for this new era. So I guess what I'm trying to say is that this could be the same mirror ball metaphor he had in mind when he made that analogy in 2016 and this is how I would interpret it but it could also be a complete coincidence that he had used that word before. Either way it's fascinating to read the words he uses, his brain will never seize to amaze me.

[not-bcring]

from-across-the-stars:

Though it sounded like a heavy load, Axel only scoffed at the large order, a hand coming to playfully rest on his hip with a roll of his eyes. “Pssh, yeah I can make that much fucking dick candy, who d’ya think you’re talkin’ to?” The very idea had him giddy, maybe Michi would let him be there when he handed them out too, that would be hilarious. 

Though giving at laugh at the choice of words, Axel couldn’t help the flutter in his chest at it all the same. ‘Jus’ gimme your word, as a man’ He had perhaps been waiting his entire life for a phrase such as that, and here it was in the same sentence as a request for dick candy.

He wouldn’t have it any other way. 

“Fuck yeah, I’ll give you my word! Hell, I can do ya one better!” Sticking a hand into his sweatshirt pocket, Axel pulled free a small baggy of said dick candy, tied up nice and sweet with a little bow and shiny rainbow cellophane. “If we swing by t’ store while we’re out, I’ll even let ya pick out some ribbon for the guys.” He said with a smirk as he tossed the bag Michi’s way. “And I’m down for anything that’ll piss off my parents.” All they saw him as was a meal ticket, a personal slave for their candy store, it would already upset them to learn of his…changes in life, dress and attitude so very different from when he lived at home, but to find out he not only used his talent to make dick candy and traded some for a ride on the back of a gang member’s motorcycle? Oh, he could feel the disappointment already. At least it was something…

「 ☆ 」   Snickering at the others boast, he rests a hand on his hip and cocks a brow. Tone lathered with a returned playfulness, he quickly retorts,  ❝  Hey, I don’t exactly know your track record. Maybe you’re just a lotta talk~  ❞  Frankly, he can tell the other isn’t simply spewing bullshit. There are different types of boasting and Takemichi likes to think that he’s pretty good at deciphering between them. Some people are like small dogs, trembling as they posture by barking loudly and baring what little fangs they have. Trying to seem bigger and more capable than they actually are. Then there are those who just- are.

Who make claims because they know they can live up to them. Simple as that. 

Yeah, maybe this claim is about something as small and stupid as dick candy. But it’s less about the WHAT and more about the sense of ‘ who ’ that Takemichi is getting from this conversation. This guy seems alright and in a world like this one, it’s always a relief to find someone who is actually alright. 

Sputtering at the sight of the candy bag— no. Candy sack; the word sack is funnier in this context. He’s still  laughing as he catches the sack with ease, wiping at his eyes before admiring the cute yet crude item carefully cupped in his palm.  ❝  This is th’ gayest thing I’ve ever seen... and I’ve seen a LOTTA gay shit.  ❞  Clearly a compliment, he pulls off the ribbon so that he can reach the candy inside, shamelessly popping one of the little dicks into his mouth,  ❝  Gayest thing I’ve ever tasted too.  ❞  He says while chewing, a predictable smirk forming as he quips,  ❝  Definitely th’ best dick I’ve had in my mouth.  ❞

Re-wrapping the ribbon so that candy won’t fall out, he shoves the bag into his jacket pocket and nods his head in the direction they need to go to reach his motorcycle. Already turning on his heel to head to where he keeps it, he glances over his shoulder,  ❝  Th’ name’s Takemichi. Takemichi Yukimaru. Figure you oughta know it if you’re gonna be ridin’ my bike...  ❞     「 ☆ 」 

[graphitesatellite]

How about a MC who said something really unsensitive without noticing and then feels really bad about it and just wallops on their sadness? (Instead/before apologizing)

this is such an interesting prompt, very human. maybe that’s why I like it so much

imma make up lil scenarios to go with each of the m6 cuz depending on what MC says and the context in which they say it they could get all sorts of reactions

Asra

(picking up around the shop, you grow frustrated knowing Asra made most of the mess because he never puts anything away. He comes down the stairs, just waking up, and asks if you need any help. You say, “You should be the one cleaning. Did no one ever teach you how to pick up after yourself?”)

goes quiet, deathly quiet, and instantly you know you shouldn’t have said that. He watches you with wide eyes, unable to hide his surprise, or his hurt. Sadness slowly creases his brow. Your heart sinks with the corners of his mouth.

jumps in before you get the chance to say anything, insisting you’re right, he needs to be more considerate of you and your time/space. He apologizes sincerely and promises to do better, then urges you toward the stairs to go up and rest while he finishes cleaning. Reluctantly, you leave him to it, but with each step your words weigh you down further and further.

knows you spoke thoughtlessly and understands why you said what you did, though it still stings. Mostly he’s upset that he upset you. After everything he’s done, the least he can do is keep your shop clean. He works sullenly, sniffling and sighing to himself, unaware you’re doing the same thing as you sit at the table upstairs and overthink every last syllable.

goes up to check on you once he’s done, not expecting you to lunge at him and tell him how sorry you are, how you should have never said that, how you promise to never say anything like it again. He forgives you immediately. You’re both so relieved, you stand there a moment just holding each other, laughing and crying and agreeing you will always be useless with conflict when it comes to each other.

Nadia

(in the midst of planning for the masquerade, you and Nadia discuss the logistics of a new room idea she suggested. Executing the idea would require a not insignificant amount of mechanical engineering, and Nadia tells you she wants to build it herself. You say, “I don’t know, I think we should hire a real engineer for a project this big.”

raises her eyebrows at you, momentarily lost for words. The shadows of many emotions pass over her face, but in the end she settles on something like disappointment. Voice tight, she asks if you mean to say you don’t view her as a “real” engineer. It strikes you just how poorly you chose your words. You backpedal hard and tell her that’s not at all what you meant, you’re just worried she’s being a bit overambitious.

processes this a moment, disappointment deepening. She doesn’t quite meet your eye as she thanks you for your honesty. You move on uneasily, wanting to explain yourself further but not knowing how. Nadia excuses herself not long after, claiming she has some business she wants to take care of before dinner. Helplessly, you sit and watch her leave.

throws herself into whatever work she can find, desperate for a distraction, but continues to dwell on what you said. She can’t help but feel hurt by the implication that you don’t take her hard-earned skills seriously; she may not be a “professional,” but you’ve seen what she can build, and she’s no amateur. Why wouldn’t you have more faith in her? She chews on this question while you rip yourself to shreds in the privacy of your room. You know you oughta go find her and clear this up before it snowballs, but how are you supposed to face her after an absolute bonehead move like that? You both end up stewing in your feelings until dinner.

takes her usual seat next to you, bearing the awkward tension like a true diplomat. There’s no easy way to break the ice; you think you might explode before you get the chance. She asks you to pass the salt, and that’s all it takes to make you spill your guts, a rambling, stream-of-consciousness apology she can only quiet by taking and squeezing your hand. You look at her, she smiles at you, radiant beyond all belief, saying she forgives you, but she would like to have a longer conversation about it. You talk all through dinner, and dessert, and post-dessert wine until neither of you remember how it all started.

Julian

(as you unwind for the night, Julian brings you a cocktail he claims to have invented himself. You take the drink warily and ask if this one actually tastes good, to which he replies you should take a sip and find out. Shrugging, you say, “Alright, but if this kills me, the blood’ll be on your hands.”)

snatches the drink away from you before it even grazes your lips. He clutches it to his chest, saying he knows it’s silly, since he’s the one who prepared the drink and all, so he knows it’s fine, but just the thought of losing you to something HE did is unbearable. He’d never forgive himself if he betrayed you that way… again. Your blood runs cold as it dawns on you what he means. You haven’t thought about that in ages.

pardons himself to fix you something else, regardless of your protests. You have a lot of time to think while he’s out of the room, a lot of time to feel like the scum of the earth for dredging up such a terrible memory. You wonder if you’ll ever learn to think before you speak. There’s a rain cloud hanging over your head by the time Julian returns. He hands you your new drink, you slam back half of it without flinching.

seems equal parts concerned and impressed. He asks if you’re okay, you insist you’re fine. You ask if he’s okay. He pauses, caught off-guard by the question, like usual. Eventually he says he thinks he is okay, so long as you are. You finish your drink and admit you’re not okay, and that you’re a horrible person. Somehow you both feel you’ve had this conversation before, just backwards.

is much more equipped to deal with himself than he realizes, wrapping you up in his arms and asking why you would say that about yourself. With some prodding, you explain everything and ultimately apologize. Julian is surprised because he didn’t think you had anything to apologize for, but he accepts it nonetheless, saying it’s sweet of you to worry so much over his feelings. You tell him his feelings will always be a top priority, and the rest of the night passes in a vague blur. There was a LOT more alcohol in that drink than you thought.

Muriel

(following the first snow of the season, clearing the walkways around the hut quickly devolves into a lighthearted snowball fight. Muriel throws one that accidentally pegs you in the face. He runs over to make sure you’re okay, and laughing, you say, “Yes, you big brute, I’m fine!”)

freezes up in the middle of wiping the snow off you, pulling his hands back suddenly, jerkingly, like he was caught doing something he knows he shouldn’t do. He looks like he’s been slapped hard across the face, tears pricking the corners of his eyes. Regret strikes you in the stomach as he mumbles how sorry he is.

doesn’t seem to believe you when you say it’s okay, you didn’t mean it in a bad way. He heaves a great sigh and steps back toward the snowy wood, apologizing again. You ask what he’s doing, he says he needs to take a walk, alone, and you should warm up inside in the meantime. He disappears between the trees before you can stop him. You stand there awhile, unable to decide if you should follow his tracks or not.

wanders the forest in circles for a couple hours, feeling like garbage, which funnily enough is the exact same thing you’re doing. Muriel thankfully leaves obvious tracks, but his legs are much longer than yours, so you don’t have much hope of catching up to him. You use this time to reflect and punish yourself. What if you just ruined everything? All those months spent gently coaxing Muriel out of his shell, undermined in a matter of seconds. The cold nips at your face and ears. It’s so uncomfortable, but you feel like you might deserve it.

panics hard when he returns to the hut and you’re not there. His first excruciating thought is that you packed up and left him, but none of your things are missing. You wouldn’t leave without your things, would you? His next thought is that something might have happened to you. Overwhelmed with desperation, he rushes out the door calling your name. You emerge from the woods, sniffling and shivering, just as he’s preparing to run in, and he cannot get to you fast enough. He crushes you in the softest hug. It takes a minute to realize you’re both crying. You tell Muriel you’re sorry, you’re so sorry. He picks you up and carries you inside, and you have a good cathartic talk about it cuddled up in front of the fireplace.

Portia

(you wake up to Portia kissing your face and telling you a letter from Asra has arrived. She sets the letter on your chest, then picks it up a beat later, asking if you want her to read it to you. You don’t feel awake enough yet, so you roll over and say, “I know how to read, dear, I’ll get to it later.”)

gasps involuntarily, as if she’s been stung. It’s so quiet you hardly notice, and seeing as you’re already dozing off again, you don’t think too much of it. You feel the bed shift. As she walks away you swear you hear her mumble something under her breath, but once again, you don’t think much of it. You’re asleep within minutes.

isn’t around when you wake up and realize she totally called you an asshole as she left. It doesn’t take you long to figure out why. You wanna blame your thoughtlessness on being half awake, but that’s really no excuse. She’s probably so pissed. Convinced she must have gone out to get away from you, you bury your face in the pillows to sulk.

walks into the room maybe half an hour later and completely ignores you, much to your dismay. She pulls open a few drawers, tinkers with this and that. You wonder if you could pretend to still be asleep, would she even notice? She chooses that moment to turn and look you directly in the eye, pinning you with her gaze. She offers two vials and asks if you could tell her what they are, since you’re so good at reading. It feels like a punch to the gut, though you know she could punch you much harder than that.

does look mad, but not entirely. It’s hard to take her scowl seriously when her lower lip trembles like that. You sit up, and the first thing out of your mouth is, rightfully, an apology. You explain how you didn’t mean to say it at her like an insult, but now you know you just shouldn’t have said it at all. If you could take it back, you would. Before you can ask if she’ll ever find it in her heart to forgive you, she tackles you flat onto the mattress, blubbering about how she’s so glad you weren’t serious because she just hates being mad at you. You wrap her up in the tightest embrace you can, telling her that you’re glad, too.

Lucio

DISCLAIMER: I don’t like this guy, I think he sucks and I don’t wanna take him seriously, so I won’t <3

(while gathering useful info from traveling merchants, Lucio makes an ass of himself by pulling the ‘don’t you know who I am?’ card. The merchants then refuse to buy anything off you, and as they leave, you turn to lucio and say, “It’s no wonder your mother doesn’t love you.”)

cannot BELIEVE you would say something like that to him. He gasps so long and so loud you think (hope) he might run out of air, but he bounces right back and accuses you of being jealous. Jealous of what, you may ask? Of how great he is, of course. You laugh openly as he claims to have never done anything in his whole life to deserve this.

gets defensive when you remind him that, not two hours ago, he called a tiny orphan girl a slur because she accidentally tripped over his cape. He says that obviously didn’t count because the orphan started it. You ask if he often gets sucked into battle with five year olds and he tells you to forget it,

continues to whine about it when you hit the road. He must love the sound of his own complaining, something you cannot relate to in the slightest. You finally snap at him once you stop to make camp for the night, saying he either needs to shut the hell up or sleep outside without a blanket.

scoffs and says you wouldn’t dare kick him out into the cold. In fact, he dares you! His smug smile drops when he remembers you can use magic and he can’t. After ten minutes locked outside the tent, he snivels that he’s sorry for being annoying and begs you to let him in. You do, reluctantly, but only after making him repeat some phrases so embarrassing he can’t even look at you for the rest of the night, and the silence is blissful.

[chattahoochiecoochie]

Mud On The Tires

Summary: Mick and his girlfriend get into a bit of trouble during a day of out door adventure.

Word Count: 2.2k

Context Clues: Georgia is the daughter of Mick’s engineer and is from the American south.

Authors Notes: This is part of a mini series, written for an oc and Mick Schumacher. Each installment can be read as a standalone, they will be posted in chronological order. The last installment can be found here.

The room was still dark when Georgia woke to the sound of her boyfriend’s voice, the soft glow of the morning barely cutting through the curtains. “Georgie.” Mick was crouched down on her side of the bed, holding two mugs.

“What time is it?”

“It’s early.” Mick set down one of the mugs on the bedside table and leaned in to give her a kiss, brushing the hair away from her eyes.

“Jus’ a little longer?” Georgia shut her eyes and turned away slightly, pulling the comforter up to her chin.

“We’ve got to get going, everyone’s on their way now.” He sat next to her, tugging the blankets back down. Mick offered her the mug, taking her hand as she sat up slowly. It was early, and longer in bed would have been nice, but he was right. Her brothers had likely left Dallas hours ago, they’d be mad if they had to wait on her.

“Are–” Mick raised a hand and nodded, as if he could read her mind.

“Sawyer texted me, they're an hour out.”

“Guess I oughta get dressed then, huh?” Georgia slipped out from the covers, stepping onto the soft carpet slowly.

“If you want.” Mick gave her a smirk, pointing his eyes to the pair of boxers she was wearing, stolen from his drawer the night before.

“Nice try but you don’t get any if you wake me up ‘fore dawn.” She sauntered away, swaying her hips just a little extra as she disappeared into his closet. “Where’d you put my bags…Nevermind!”

A short while later she came out, sporting camo from head to toe, with the exception of the worn out canvas jacket she was wearing. She did a twirl, momentarily self conscious about how old her outfit was. In true southern fashion, most of it had belonged to someone else first. Good gear was even better if it had a history. The only thing she was certain belonged to her, were the boots. Maybe the jacket too, she couldn’t remember.

In stark contrast, Mick sat on the bed in a brand new pair of jeans and a crisp new shirt, an even newer looking Carhartt on top of it all. Sensing something, he gave a small smile and looked down at his sleeves. “Still haven’t got any camo.”

“I’ve got enough for the two of us.” Georgia grinned, heading for the door. “Breakfast, cowboy?”

“We have to be quiet though, I think Gina’s still asleep.” He followed her out into the hall, pulling the door softly shut behind himself.

“Your mama?”

“Gone. Early flight. She’s going to see Dad.” She nodded, taking his hand in hers as they made for the stairs, light feet treading softly across the wood floors. They didn’t speak of his father often, at least not in a serious matter. When he was in a good mood he would tell her stories from when he was little. Once, after an interview had gone too deep on the paddock he had held her close in silence, but they hadn’t talked about it after. Michael was Micks, and he kept him close.

Georgia stayed silent in the kitchen, sitting on a stool as Mick wandered around, gasping every time a dish made a loud noise or a drawer closed too abruptly. Dropping a knife onto the counter without thinking, he caught her eye, his mouth in a perfect ‘o’ shape. He worked quickly after that, buzzing through the kitchen like a man on a mission.

“For you, my lady.” Mick slid a plate across the counter to her, the porcelain piled high with fresh fruit and scrambled eggs. He watched closely from his place opposite her as she took a bite, his brows raised in question.

“Very good.” He nodded at her, digging into his own plate immediately after. Mick watched her closely, gesturing at the food still on her plate each time she set down her fork. Begrudgingly, she finished the fruit, each bite earning him a hard stare. “You know I don’t eat much this early.”

“You need it for later.” He waved her off, taking a swig from his coffee mug as she opened her mouth to argue.

“Not if I’m not driving.” She grinned up at him, reminding him of the night before.

“Georgie, baby, you’re a very smart woman. And a brilliant mechanic. But you absolutely cannot drive.”

“Touché.” Mick took the plate from its place in front of her and piled it into the sink on top of the other dishes he’d made dirty. Before he could check his watch or his phone and urge the show along, Georgia was already making her way down the hall in what she believed was the direction of the garage.

With his hands on her shoulders Mick spun her around and pointed them both down a different hall. With his hands on her hips they swayed step by step together until they stumbled down the steps into the cold concrete room.

“We’re all packed, I took care of everything before I woke you up.” Mick skipped across the room on light feet, slapping his hand on the hood of the ATV. “I’ve got our spare gear in the truck”

“Mama is sending lunch with the boys,” Georgia ducked around to root through the bed of the truck, rifling through the tool box to check the assortment. “You got zipties in here?” Lifting the lid to another gearbox, she flipped through the pile of stuff inside. Not a zip tie in sight.

“That box there,” Mick pointed, “No the one on your right, tape too.”

“You pack any work gloves for me?” Mick nodded, flicking the switch to the garage door.

“We’re meeting them at the gas station outside the trail.”

“Let’s get to it, mister!” He gave her a grin and tossed her the keys to the truck, motioning for her to pull it out so he could move the ATV behind it for the hook up.

Less than ten minutes later they were off, tearing down the driveway, dust kicking up behind them as they broke into the day. Mick held her hand tightly in his own, kissing at her fingertips, a smile glued to his face. With the low sound of Brad Paisley’s Mud On The Tires emanating from the radio, they took off for the other side of town.

*

“Mick!” Georgia’s brother, Sawyer leapt down from his truck bed and came across the parking lot, sweeping Mick off his feet and into a bear hug. “Good ta’ see ya kid, she ain’t been botherin’ you has she?”

“Course she has!” Her oldest brother looked up from where he stood by the gas pump and gave a wild grin. “That’s all my sister’s good for, ain’t it kiddo?” Georgia elbowed him in the side, taking him into a hug just after.

“Watch it or I’ll forget I missed you.” Walker jabbed her in the stomach, a sharp reply to her snarky comment.

“Are y’all ready? Trail’s gonna be hot soon.” Sawyer let go of Mick and looked down at his watch, fidgeting with the band on his wrist.

“It’s the middle of the week, ain’t no way it’s hot.”

“You ain’t drivin’ so you wouldn’t care neither way.” Walker gave his sister a grin before turning his back to sort out the gas pump.

“We’ll lead, yeah?” Asked Sawyer, raising his brows for Micks approval. He shrugged, indifferent to the question. “Alright. Mama said hey, Daddy too but you hear from him enough I reckon.” He laughed, giving a wave as he walked around to get into the truck, chuckling like he’d told an inside joke.

Georgia and Mick made their way back to their own vehicle, swinging their hands as they held one another tightly. “It’s funny, Gary hasn’t said anything to me all week, I’m on vacation.” Mick grinned, his teeth showing as he opened Georgia’s door, ushering her into the cab of the truck.

“Careful now, or we’ll be getting calls the rest of the week.” Mick chuckled at her, shutting the door gently before jogging around to get into the driver’s seat. Georgia smiled quietly to herself, wondering how she’d gotten to this place in Austin anyways. Four months in with a boy her brothers liked and her Daddy loved like his own. Life must be lucky sometimes she reckoned, sneaking a look at the happy blonde next to her.

*

“Comfortable? The belts are not too tight are they?” Mick fiddled with the buckle of the belt strap, wiggling it in its place on her chest.

“All good, baby. Jus’ let me try it.” Georgia shimmied in her seat before pressing her foot to the accelerator, gritting her teeth as the vehicle jolted underneath her. Just like driving a car. They rolled over a bit of rocky terrain, hitting gravel on firm tires. Georgia grinned, giving her boyfriend a nervous look as she pushed them further up the trail, successful still.

“Good, Georgie, a little faster through here.” Mick pointed to the hill crest in front of them, a bare patch of even terrain laying in front of them. She pressed her boot further to the floor, plowing forward, control of the wheel slipping just slightly from her grasp. The ATV cleared the hill without a struggle, rolling down the other side with ease, until suddenly a sharp lock up in the rear of the truck sent them sailing into the bank of the trail. Without thinking Mick swung his arm out, holding Georgia against her seat as the jolt rocked them both forward.

“Fuck.” Georgia let her head fall forward, the helmet hitting the buckle on her chest. In the distance she could hear Walker and Sawyer coming up behind them, both boys hollering and screaming to see if they were okay.

“We’re alright!” Mick called out, sliding out from his seatbelt to get a better look at Georgia, whose side of the cab had taken the brunt of the impact. They were upright still, which was good, but the ATV was wedged down in the bank, stuck into a corner between two trees.

“Georgie!” Sawyers face appeared moments later, his eyes peeking out from the visor of his helmet.

“I’m okay. Rear diff locked up, couldn’t get it back in time.”

“Could be a fluid issue?” Walker snuck up behind his brother, peering into the dust covered cab.

“Not enough miles for it to be the pinion nut, at least I think.” Mick looked at both men, before turning to his girlfriend to check for her opinion.

“Fluid probably. We can definitely get it out of here and home in one piece.”

“Oughta check the side gears back at the garage though, jus’ in case.” Walker ducked out of sight, leaning down to inspect the back end of the vehicle.

“We could tow it home and fix it at the shop, in Dallas, if you wanted.��� Sawyer crossed his arms, cocking his hip to the side as he offered a cheap solution to the numerous potential problems.

“I’ll have Georgie check it at the house, I don’t want you guys to worry about it.” Sawyer stuck his hands out and nodded, backing off from the concern.

“Either way I’m telling Daddy you crashed into a tree.” Her brother laughed, his cheeks flushing underneath the pads of the helmet. “Don’t worry Mick, I’ll make sure he knows she did it all on her own.”

“Sawyer don’t you dare!” Georgia unbuckled herself, leaning over to swat at her brother, missing him by a hair as he darted out of reach, laughing all the while.

“Maybe you shouldn’t,” Mick looked out at her brother, turning back to glance at her with worried eyes. “I don’t want Gary to worry. He’s been so busy at the factory.”

“Yeah, don’t upset him, Sawyer, COTA is in a week.” Georgia turned serious, taking hold of Mick’s arm as she caught on to what he was trying to imply. Better to let the engineer rest and collect himself instead of riling him up for the sake of something childish.

“I won’, I won’.” He turned on his heel, wandered back to the other vehicle, shaking his head fervently, as if to say I could.

“You’re lucky you got Gina, all I got ‘s two bastards for brothers.”

“They’re not so bad.” Mick gave her hand a squeeze before slipping out of his seat and on to the hard ground. “Now hop out and spot me while I back this thing out, please.”

“Aye Aye, Cap’n.” Georgia gave him a small salute and jumped out of her seat, nearly knocking into the tree that had caused it all in the first place. She stood a few paces behind the truck, watching carefully as he spun the wheels into the gravel. With dust flying, and the sun beating down, her boyfriend doing his very best, Georgia sent up a little prayer. Bless this dirt and Brad Paisley.

[jackawful]

people who mainly argue about pedophilia in the context of fandom spaces really oughta know that "kill all pedos" shit is like, primarily a right-wing campaign to scapegoat feminists, lgbtq folks & Jewish people, and not about actual pedophiles

like moving the goalposts on what Counts as pedophilia only benefits the right wing. it's very, very similar to what the right is doing with CRT, and in fact, most intances of right wing intimidation of school boards have also involves attempts to ban lgbtq content & symbols on the basis of them being Inherently Sexual, thus "sexualizing children," thus equating displaying a pride flag or talking about queer kids existing...with grooming and pedophilia

like i dont give a shit where it comes from, it takes maybe 5 seconds to think through who your particular Pedo Hunt could benefit & who it could harm to see that you're...potentially giving ammo to the folks who wanna death squad people like you

[madhyanas]

the craft so long to learn ・ chapter four

[twisting and turning]

➢ You make a friend through blood, guts and gears.

Pairing: Boba Fett/Reader, Fennec Shand & Reader — Gender Neutral.

Rating: PG-13

Word Count: 4.7k

Tags/Warnings: Medical emergencies. Gunshot wounds (not to the reader). Implied gun violence. Mild gore. References to past physical trauma. Descriptions of/references to chronic pain. Fantasy/Unrealistic surgery. Unrealistic medical practice. Medical inaccuracies. Unethical and unsafe medical practice, in real-world context. Mild language.

GIF credit: @freemasagyeman​ - [x]

Notes: bit late. next one... might also be late lmao. but cobb vanth, i guess! and we’re officially beyond the word count of the original one-shot so good 4 me i think :)

series masterlist ・ ao3

———

“Mornin’, doc.”

“Marshal,” you greet blearily. Vanth’s affable face shines at you from the hologram, too cheerful for this hour of the morning.

And what a bright morning it is, twin suns piercing through your iron-barred window. As if to burn away the shadows that Fett left behind.

It’s not that it’s early, per se, around about the time you’d usually communicate with the Marshal if necessary. But last night’s sleep was the heady kind; too much all at once, dripping like treacle from your eyes. The kind where you sleep too heavily and wake up tired anyway.

You haven’t forgotten what Fett said. What he swore.

Vanth looks concerned, in his own polite way. “Late night?”

“Something like that.” You clear your throat. “Listen, I’ve been meaning to ask you—”

“Yeah, I was expectin’ your call.”

You blink. “You… were?”

“Sure was,” he drawls, moustache quirking as he grins. “Your little friend got here just fine.”

Friend. Friend? 

Alket.

“Alket!” you blurt. It bothers you that he mentioned her before you did.

“That’s the one.” A hand reaches up to scratch at his stubble, silvery and recently shaved. “Made herself at home, got a good job tending the saloon bar. Friendly with the townsfolk. I reckon she might’a done all right even without your recommendation, doc.”

You’re physically knocked back with your sigh of relief. The smile you offer Vanth is wide, open. Grateful. She made it. “Oh, that’s excellent. Thank you, Marshal.”

He raises a palm to stop you. “Nah, you’re okay. She’s keeping morale up, and she’s a hard worker to boot. I oughta be thankin’ you for the extra help around here.”

That’s better than you could have asked for. Almost too good to be true. 

“And she is happy? Not just surviving, but—”

“Living?” he prompts, knowing.

He has a bad habit of interrupting you. “Yes.”

“Well, I probably ain’t the best judge o’that. I don’t pass by much, other than to check in from time to time. But I’d say so.” His practiced smile turns teasing. “Maybe if you visited, you’d see for yourself. She’s always talkin’ about you.”

You sigh, softened by your Twi’lek friend’s antics even from miles away. “Perhaps I will.” This might be the best news you’ve heard all week, barring some exceptions. But it’s not why you called. “There was… one other thing, though.”

“Shoot.”

That’s the good thing about Vanth. He’s quite helpful, when he wants to be.

“Your, ah, armour. I see you’re not wearing it.”

His expression settles into something… less. Just less. Resigned, maybe.

“Keen eye.”

“Not really. You’re always wearing either red or green. Fifty-fifty chance even if I was blind.”

He snorts, and it’s genuine. “S’pose so. But that ain’t a question.”

“True.” You want to keep this quick. It’s apparently some kind of sore spot for him, even if it’s since healed over. No point picking at the scab. “Was it yours?”

Vanth takes a second to think about it. “Depends on how you mean.”

“How… else could I mean? Did the armour belong to you?”

“Economically, y’might say so, yes. Bought it off some Jawas for a fair price. But, uh,” he hesitates, “It wasn’t mine by birthright.”

“Birthright?”

“Sure,” he says easily, like this isn’t the most confusing conversation you’ve had in—

Well. Just today.

Vanth goes on. “Beskar, that Mandalorian steel. It’s sacred to ‘em — a family heirloom kinda deal, right? They inherit the stuff. S’tradition.”

“I— I don’t know the specifics.” Do they? Did Fett?

“Neither do I. But on those lines, you could say the armour wasn’t ever really mine. I just sorta rented it, for a while.”

“Without permission.”

It’s just an observation; you don’t mean anything by it. But Vanth narrows his eyes, and you’re reminded with cutting clarity that he too is a warrior to be wary of.

“I did what I had to do,” he says coolly, “To survive. As have we all.”

You get the distinct feeling you’ve been chastised.

“Ah. Yes. Sorry.”

“Yeah. Now, was that all, or—”

“Where is it now? The armour, that is.”

He sighs, impatient and uncomfortable with whatever reminder you’re giving him. But not irritated. “With a Mandalorian. Kinda self-explanatory.”

“The same Mandalorian?” you press.

“No. Or I assume not. That guy already had his own armour, this fancy chrome-plated kit. He’s the one who helped out with that whole Krayt Dragon fiasco, by the way.”

Yes, you remember. A big week for acid burn referrals.

“But the armour — the set you wore — it was definitely green?”

He squints at you, confused and perhaps now riled by the interrogation. “You already know it was. What’s with the questions?”

You pause. Is it wise to be loose-lipped about Dune Sea politics? About Fett and Fennec?

“Doc?”

He’s answered your questions thus far. Some honesty in kind is just courtesy.

“I think the original owner lives here now.”

“Huh. Shit.” 

Vanth pinches the bridge of his nose and squeezes his eyes shut, hissing out a sigh long and slow. He doesn’t normally like to swear. It takes him a while to collect himself enough to look up, and ask, “Should I be prepared for anything?” 

He doesn’t break eye contact, not even to blink.

It’s a fair question, one you’re not quite sure how to answer. If Fett was on a witch hunt for the man who bought his ancestral family armour, would you know? He’s not subtle in his threats. But it’s also none of your business.

You decide to go with your gut. “No, I don’t think so. The armour’s been fixed up, new paint job and all. He doesn’t seem very interested in anything beyond, uh, the remains here.”

“Right.” Vanth doesn’t look entirely convinced, but he believes you. You think. “Right, that’s good.”

You hum. 

The silence is awkward. This is a common occurrence in your talks with Cobb Vanth.

“Well!” His countenance changes with such speed, you’re alarmed. Not a trace of the strategist left in the wake of plastered, desert-town charm. “Hope I could help some.”

That’s a conclusion. “Yes,” you exhale, smiling. “You did, very much so. Thank you, Marshal.”

“No worries. See you ‘round.”

“Bye,” you return, but he’s already shut down the hologram. 

———

For the best, as it so happens. Since an urgent message shrieks through your comms not a moment later.

———

The air gets thicker by midday, here. You’ll find yourself breathing shallow just to avoid the arid yet dense feeling of the breeze in your throat. Stale and foreign, even after all these years. 

It gets worse with anticipation. But the surgical mask helps. That feels like home.

You’re tempted to pick at your rubber gloves, to fidget with the open medkit on the gurney, which has already been slid out from the wall and sterilised. Your foot taps an insistent rhythm against the floor. 

When they’d messaged ahead, telling you of an emergency drop-in — you’d prepared for the worst case scenario. Hell, you’ve got the emergency contact for Mos Espa general ready to go, just in case.

‘They’ can’t really be anyone else but those two, these days.

You don’t know which one of them is the actual emergency. Could be Fett, could be Fennec. Somehow — and this is more of a gut feeling, rather than logic or inference — it’s hard for you to correlate an injured Fett with the man in your clinic last night.

Which leaves Fennec.

You’ve labelled her a shadow in your mind; an indecipherable pillar of authority that only really becomes relevant to you when she needs something. Or rather, when you become relevant to her. 

She’s just… smoke. You might occasionally catch sight of a curled, tightly-wound braid or a trail of red wire, but never the woman herself.

It can’t be intentional. Neither of you have any reason to interact and you both have enough to keep busy, surely. More likely that you’re looking for things that aren’t there.

She hasn’t paid you a visit. You can appreciate that Fett handles his own affairs.

Ah, not that— not that you’re one of them. It’s a figure of speech. 

Anyway.

Her role in the new management is unclear. But integral, if you had to venture a guess. Fennec seems to have Fett’s trust. They’re always side-by-side, in spirit if not in person — as close to equals as you’ve seen around these parts. Literal partners in crime.

With the two of them as thick as thieves, who else could it be but Fett dragging Fennec into your clinic?

A mottled mass of green bursts through the door, Fennec’s body hanging limply by an arm strewn across his shoulders. She looks pale, weakly managing a few steps though it’s clear that Fett is the only thing keeping her upright. 

There’s a familiar constriction in your gut, that spike of adrenaline that steps in with a critical patient followed by a heavy blanket of calm. You’re plunged underwater, into your element. Narrow, cultivated focus.

So it comes to be that the next time you meet Fennec Shand, is when she gets shot.

The gurney is cleared to receive the patient. As you activate the scanner, Fett begins listing out the damage before you even have to ask.

“Three B.B.W’s,” he reports stiffly, helping Fennec onto the metal surface quickly and carefully. She hisses with a vengeance. “Right shoulder, left thigh, abdomen.”

You nod while he’s still talking. “Blaster model?”

“E-11 rifle. Standard Imperial munitions.”

That’s convenient. Imperials don’t have time for slug throwers or shrapnel grenades — the dirty, ragged warfare of this desert — which improves Fennec’s chances significantly. 

You flick the scanner on, aligning its weighted, magnetic bell over the patient. Grabbing a vibroblade from the sterile dish of instruments to your left, you make a quick, clean slice through her top. The material, which seemed so durable before, cleaves in two. Halves of fabric fall to either side of her ribcage like hands parting from prayer. You do the same to her trousers.

Fett’s still here.

“Out!” you bark. 

He doesn’t argue, briskly stepping through the doorway to your small office to wait this out. 

(Later, you’ll remember his gloved hand lingering briefly on Fennec’s shoulder, the reassurance that he’s still there. Later, you’ll remember her grimace twitching up at the corners.)

That removes the interference. And if you do end up needing the extra pair of hands, he’s ready.

This job is so much more stressful without droids. 

As expected, Fett’s assessment is mostly correct. There are two round, puckered burns — one nestled beneath Fennec’s right clavicle, and the other just a few inches above her left knee. A preliminary probe from the scanner indicates, to your relief, that they’re both flesh wounds. The smell of singed flesh gets stronger, mixing with discharged blaster residue.

But the third. Abdomen, B.B.W.

You see the blaster bolt wound. You see no abdomen. Neither does the scanner.

“Oh,” you breathe.

Where Fennec’s midriff should be, there’s a rectangular hole. A slim window into her guts, if she had any. Which she doesn’t.

Even the most extraneous species you’ve studied have some kind of… gore on the inside. Instead, inside Fennec, there’s a network of pistons and wires; an entirely insular mechanical framework keeping her alive. It’s the most dense, deeply-integrated use of cybernetics you’ve ever seen. 

It would be a credit to its technician, if it had been sealed properly. Or sealed at all.

A gaping hole has just been left there in her body. Like some kind of— of sick meat-letterbox. It’s asinine. It’s horrific.

It’s also surprisingly well constructed, to have lasted this long on sandy Tatooine.

One of the… gears, is it? One of the gears is scorched and dented out of place — evidently where the bolt landed — and is creating a blockage in the chain of movement. A wrenching, groaning sound rumbles from the metal. Fennec herself grunts with it, clenching her jaw and looking more and more nauseous with every second that ticks by.

If you were any less professional, you’d swear.

This would have been good to know earlier. You’re kicking yourself for not realising, trying to recognise any symptoms or markers through hindsight.

Later, though. Patient first — do that later.

You frown, reaching for a local-dose bacta shot from the tray to your right and injecting it to the side of her leg, before placing it into the waste tray. The movements feel routine, fluid in their practice. Your arm doesn’t need direction. 

You fetch another syringe, your gaze not leaving Fennec for an instant.

“I’m going to lift your arm, now,” you narrate crisply, following through with as much delicacy as you can afford, and administer the anaesthetic into Fennec’s armpit. She curses savagely.

Two bacta shots, two double-gauze squares taped over the entry sites. Cleaned, anaesthetised, wrapped. There. With the added clotting agent, the flesh wounds are stabilised for now.

“How are you feeling, Fennec?” The question is lukewarm, something to keep her talking. Your frown deepens as you watch the scanner; vital checks aren’t displaying anything between her lower ribs and pelvic floor. Her entire abdominal cavity is just an empty green outline glowing on the monitor. The machine can’t even detect anything wrong on this setting, since there’s nothing there. 

It’s artful.

“Stellar.” Her voice is raspy, and sour to all hell. Better than you expected.

“Sarcasm is good,” you say distractedly, an idea coming to you all at once. “Means you’re alive.”

“I’d ‘preciate it ‘f you’d keep m’that way.”

The slurring is a result of the bacta. You sound exasperated as you scold, “Of course I will. Who do you take me for?” 

If she answers, you don't hear it. A swipe of your fingers across the screen brings a change from green to blue. 

Magnetic readings. 

Lo and behold, a blinking yellow triangle appears at the site of the abnormality, just to the left of where Fennec’s navel would have been. You would grin if it was appropriate.

You hadn’t expected to use the bio-mech tools when you got the advance notice. But you’re not complaining. In your enthusiasm, you don’t see Fennec eyeing you dubiously.

Lifting the red box from underneath the gurney, you think it’s a rather positive turn of events, all things considered. These are your second limbs, they’re precious. They also haven’t been used for a while, but you’re no less proficient with them — all that practice on junked protocol droids to pass the time has proven useful.

“What are you doing?”

The question is posed flatly enough that you’re momentarily reminded of Fett in the next room. Her enunciation is so clear that she must be focusing significant energy just to ask. She narrows her eyes, and despite your focus, you do feel the venom behind the expression.

But then you spot the thin sheen of sweat on her forehead. Her eyes, dark and dilated from the bacta, aren’t staring you down so much as the wall just beyond your shoulder.

Oh, you realise. She’s worried.

And you haven’t given her much reason not to be. Bedside manner is usually something conducted on autopilot and with someone like Fennec, it was easy to fall prey to the idea that she just wouldn’t need that kind of care. 

A trap that you won’t step into again.

“Sorry,” you offer hastily. “It’s just that… the blaster wounds are stabilised. And the damage done to your cybernetics is immediately fixable. I don’t even have to make an incision, since it’s all—” You gesture around her middle— “Out in the open.”

It doesn’t appear to have much effect on her.

“What I’m saying is,” you try, somewhat gentler, “You’re going to be fine. The pain isn’t an indicator of mortality.”

She looks into your eyes. Really looks, with clearer perception than you’d expect from someone who’s just been shot. 

“Fennec.” Your voice is serious. You are not the sort to make promises, least of all to patients, but— “You will not die. I wouldn’t let you.”

A split-second of hesitation. It’s strange to witness the process of her decision-making as it plays out. Then her shoulders relax, and her head bobs in a minute nod.

“All right, doc.” Fennec works her jaw. “Proceed.”

You’d normally object to someone else giving you orders in your own clinic. But you’re willing to cut her some slack. 

You smile, reach into the toolkit, and get to work.

———

It takes four and a half hours. 

Fennec blinks at you groggily when the work is complete, and you can relate. Fascinating, her cybernetics. But it’s finger-numbing stuff. Somewhat tedious. And she’s just been lying there, making idle conversation at times but mostly staring at the ceiling in silence.

Fett had left after the first hour or so. Not without convincing; it had taken his friend’s affirmation that she’d be, in her own words, “just fine, don’t wait up”. He’d turned to you with what you assume was a piercing look under the helmet, and returned with his blaster in hand back to the Palace. Or to wherever else he goes during the day.

He should have stayed. But you weren’t in a position to insist, with your fingers buried in literal live wires, and whatever situation they were in the midst of beforehand must have needed tending to. Things work differently out here.

“Thanks,” Fennec says, sitting on the edge of the gurney after you’ve helped her up. Her legs dangle loosely. As you dispose of the surgical gloves and mask, you can feel her watching you. It’s a careful look, like this entire encounter has made her see something different.

“You’re welcome.” It’s distracted, but genuine as you disinfect your hands, then rifle around in a side compartment for a medical gown. Your fingers brush pale blue cotton at the back — there it is — and you return to hand her the thin garment. 

Your eyes stay trained politely above her shoulders. “You can wear this for the time being. Your other clothes are, uh—”

You both glance at the ground where her shirt and trousers lay, both severed in two. Even through the dark cloth, some ominous wet blotches are still visible. You’ll probably have to wipe the floors down later.

“Shredded?”

“—Unusable,” you finish at the same time. It makes you smile.

Fennec takes the gown from you slowly, and you instinctively turn around as she raises her arms. Never mind that she’s actually putting more clothes on. Or that you’ve spent several hours putting her innards back together.

“Okay, doc, this has been fun,” Fennec grunts. You hear the thin cloth sliding over her head. “But I’ll be getting out of your hair now.”

“What? No—”

“You can turn around.”

When you do, it’s with concern. “I can’t let you go alone, Fennec. You’re on bacta, you just had a procedure.”

The quirk of her eyebrow is sardonic. “I can walk myself back,” she drawls. “I’m a big girl.”

“You were shot thrice.”

“I’ve handled worse.”

You roll your eyes with such unfettered derision that she grins. It stretches over her mouth slowly. “Don’t start,” you warn.

“With what?”

“That hero shit.” She scoffs. “I’m serious!” You wave a hand in the air disdainfully and her eyes follow the movement sluggishly. “It’s an excuse to get out of safe post-operative procedure. And dumb. Far too dumb for you.”

She pauses, again, and her expression morphs into something that you have trouble deciphering. Indulgent, perhaps. How the spider is to the fly.

Although she might just be high out of her mind on bacta.

You shake your head. You’re tired. Fennec is acting… strange. And though you wish it were under better circumstances, her company is nice to have.

“Come on,” you request, holding out a hand to help her stand. “There’s a 'fresher over there, you can wash up before I drop you back.”

Fennec looks at the offered limb for a brief second — you can never quite tell what she’s seeing — and claps it solidly with her own as you help her stand. She’s quite strong.

While she uses the refresher, you amble up the stairs to fetch a bulky, nondescript outer robe from your wardrobe. You can lend it to her for the journey back. 

On the way back down, though, your left ankle twinges sharply, miserable after standing several hours hunched over. You gasp, and stumble down the last two steps, unprepared for the strike up your bones.

Fuck. You consciously make your bad leg go limp to cope with the pain, a half-hearted survival strategy. Your face scrunches up, crumples without resistance — a childish habit, one that makes you look like you’re about to cry, even though you’re not — and you rub your palm to your left knee in a hopeless attempt at a balm. 

“You good?”

Fennec stares at you, resting her weight against the refresher door. Her face looks a little less pallid, and her braid has been re-tied. 

You’re getting a little sick of her unreadable looks. You hope she has a clear line between concern and pity.

“Yes,” you bite out, straightening your posture and expression as much as you can. The bubbling heat in your cheeks is violently ignored as you approach, passing her the robe rigidly. “Take this. It’ll keep you warm.”

She says nothing, does nothing, for a long moment. Your leg throbs in time with your twitching heartbeat.

Then, bless her, Fennec takes the subject change for what it is. She nods her thanks and throws the robe on. “You do this for all your patients?”

Really, bless her.

“Consider yourself special,” you intone, earning another, smaller, serrated grin. “Let’s go.”

“Lead the way,” she murmurs. It’s disconcerting.

———

The journey to the Palace is longer than usual. You don’t mind it that way.

Bacta is a miracle. Fennec apparently has no problem balancing and walking around after getting shot. Thrice. If she does, then she hides it well. You’d rather she didn’t.

Movement aside, it’s her grip that’s an issue.

“Is this a good idea? I don’t— I don’t know what to do with it.”

“No one’s asking you to shoot. But I’m not leaving my blaster at your place.”

The issue being that Fennec currently can’t hold her own blaster. The mean-looking thing doesn’t look right sitting anywhere other than in Fennec’s arms. 

But as she says, she needs it with her. Hence why you’re toting the weapon around gingerly, hoping it doesn’t misfire or explode or whatever a blaster with live rounds does in the hands of someone such as yourself.

It’s much heavier than it looks.

You’d like to help her walk, support her arm at the least. You also suspect that any efforts to do so would be unappreciated. If anyone around here had offered to help you, you certainly wouldn’t believe their good intentions.

So she walks, mechanically, about half an arm’s length away from you.

It’s a selfish realisation, that her pain distracts her from your own, mild limp.

The walk is quiet, without energy to spare between you. Not a word is spoken till you try to turn the corner to the wide, central path leading to the Palace.

“No,” Fennec orders quietly, holding your elbow in place. With the movement, a muscle jumps in her jaw painfully.

“But… The Palace is this way.”

“We’re not going that way. Follow me.”

And she turns — in the opposite direction — into an alleyway that you’ve made a point to avoid, for the sake of your credits and your health. It’s dark and murky and honestly, not a path you’d ever wish to take alone. 

Her immaculate braid is swallowed up by the slim column of shadow. You’re following before you know it.

It’s not as ill-lit as you expected, trailing behind Fennec through alleyways and side-paths. The walls, splattered with graffiti and booze and whatever else, are bathed in dusky light, enough for you to see the sandy brick walls above, and the path ahead of you. Tatooine’s suns persevere.

Your guide walks with no hesitation whatsoever, sporting three bullet wounds and no weapon and still more confident than you could ever feel in this place. Fennec’s impressive. It’s a little breathtaking.

That could be the stench, of course. Fumes of all sorts encourage you not to breathe deeply.

“You know,” you start, taking her acknowledging hum as encouragement, “I’ve lived here for a few years. Never seen this route before.”

A handful of steps pass before she replies. A nameless, solitary shadow lingers by the next corner and scrambles away once Fennec gets close. “Good. Better to take the main roads.”

She’s left your question unanswered. You’re not very good at subtlety. Definitely not as good as her.

Your silence must sound disheartened, because she glances back. Gives you a once-over so fast, it slices. You catch a hint of canine in her grin as she looks forward once more. 

“I’ve been here before, doc. A long time ago. Don’t stress yourself out.”

You’re free to look surprised, since Fennec can’t see you. She can probably tell anyway.

“Oh. I see.”

“Yeah,” she grunts. “You shouldn’t take this shortcut.”

“I can’t imagine that many people do.”

“No. I mean you. S’dangerous.”

Makes sense. But everywhere is dangerous, really.

Then her head cranes around once more, and she casts a meaningful glance down to your left leg.

Your mouth tastes bitter . Of course.

She doesn’t ask how, or when, or who. There’s the chance she already knows. It’s not rocket science. But you don’t want to think about it. Self-preservation tells you not to.

“Nasty break.”

“Yeah. It was.”

“It hurts, then.”

Your smile is mirthless. “All the goddamn time.”

She makes a noise of acknowledgement.

You still hold her blaster, and your fingers tighten on the barrel minutely. It says something that she thought to bring this up when you technically have the advantage. Perhaps it’s her own peculiar brand of gratitude. Of kindness.

You don’t want to think about it.

The two of you lapse back into silence. There are several twisting, gnarled turns and careens that you try to memorise as a means of distraction. Fennec’s steps don’t slow even once. 

You’re successful, for the most part, in remembering the path as you both finally re-emerge into the light of day. Hopefully you won’t have to use it at all. 

The Palace sits before you, as grotesque as it always has been. Maybe it hosts a better crowd, though.

Once you both reach the entrance, Fennec plants her good hand on your shoulder. “Thank you,” she says, neither loud nor soft. She isn’t smiling.

Her hand’s weight on your shoulder feels significant. In a way that you can’t describe, but you could perhaps see painted on dirty stone walls and in blood smeared on your floor.

You want so badly to dislike Fennec. It should be easy — she’s a mercenary, a killer, the very antithesis of what you strive to accomplish every day. But you don’t always get what you want.

“No thanks necessary,” you return gently. “Comm me if there’s any pain or discomfort. And avoid further physical strain, please.” 

“Anything else?”

You frown, thinking about it. "Get me my robe back in one piece, if you can manage it.”

She exhales shortly through her nose. Her mouth twitches at the corners. “We’ll see.” Her hand appears before you, palm facing the sky.

You stare at it until she flexes her fingers once, twice, demanding. Give.

“Oh, right.” Her blaster’s still in your hands. You pass it over, trying to slowly, delicately, and check as subtly as you can to make sure she can grip it long enough to get inside. Fennec manages by pinning it to her stomach with the flat of her good forearm.

Now, she smiles. It holds promise. And it’s genuine, which is somehow worse than the alternative.

Then she steps down into the mouth of the Palace. This time, you don’t follow.

———

[inkdemonapologist]

SESSION TWELVE of the BatIM Call of Cthulhu game, aka Continuing to have a Great Time At The Masquerade! : )

Joey and Bendy destabilised early on, meaning Joey went through the ENTIRE masquerade UNABLE TO STOP SMILING

getting some mixed messages here, Joey

Sometimes u dress ur characters up as rabbits for fun but then you have a lot of emotions about them losing their minds and then u gotta draw them losing their minds while dressed as rabbits... anyway Jack being mind-controlled did NOT help Sammy hold onto his mental stability at this nightmare party in case you were wondering,

ANYWAY HAVE, MORE OUT-OF-CONTEXT QUOTES, UNDER THE CUT

[Sammy is played by me, Joey is played by Boo (inkyvendingmachine), Henry is played by Maf (inkcryptid), Jack is played by Mochi (whatyouwantedmetosee) and Thren (haunted-hijinxer) is our GM!]

[GM] Joey, make a POW roll also... [Joey] Oh, boy, [GM] ...because Bendy was also told to enjoy this party, and you guys just passed a plate of food, and he wants to eat! [Jack] FEED YOUR SON! [Joey] No!!! [Henry] HES A HUNGRY BOY! [Sammy] A GROWING BOY!

[Henry] Henry will look back to see if Moonlight is trying to follow them! [GM] He will see that Moonlight has grabbed onto the railing of the stairs and is hobbling slowly down them. [Joey] *extremely evil-sounding cackling*

[Jack] All Cthulhu Official Dice actually come weighted, to make you fail.

[Henry] Gotta try harder than that, bitch! [Henry] ....that wasn't in character. [Jack] It's in character, but he's only thinking it. [Sammy] That's the golden text you see on the wall if you use the seeing tool

[Henry] My Luck is 68, I don't know what y'all are doing! [Jack] We're spending Luck so that we'll fail! [Sammy] BEING UNLUCKY! I've barely spent any Luck, I'm just NOT A LUCKY GUY

[Henry] Oh, Avedon's here, [GM] There's a gunshot, and he tries to shoot Fowler! [Joey] Um, well, uh, whoops!, rest in peace Fowler! [Sammy] Yeah, that'll sort itself out, let's go! [GM] Moonlight seems to reconsider from telling people to grab you guys, to grabbing Avedon instead. [Joey] Oh! THANKS AVEDON, your sacrifice will, not be thought about in the slightest!!!

[Sammy] Is... weird question, does this room look like it matches the architecture of the rest of the house? [GM] [GM] [GM] ...make a sanity check.

[Sammy] It would be a like, Come on Jack, do you know where you are, shake it off, snap out of it, kind of thing. [GM] Why don't you make a... a.... oh boy, [Sammy] One of my REALLY persuasive social skills?

[GM] This probably just registers to Jack as, Sammy griping about a party, which isn't that strange. [Jack] Yeahhhh, he wants to leave. He always does that. I wanna stay at least a little longer! [GM] That just means it's Jack's job to find them something fun and good to do. [Sammy] Oh boy, [GM] I don't think Jack is being compelled to be aggressive about this necessarily, he just feels like he's Jack at a party, doing the things Jack normally does, and trying to have a good time! [Sammy] Ah, and everyone else is being weird, [GM] Yeah! Everybody's being really weird! You're at this nice party, and now you're in this weird room? The party's back there somewhere! [Jack] I mean not that he's opposed to bein' dragged into side rooms at parties by cute boys, but,

[GM] The table looks like a table that Henry has in his house, actually. [Sammy] Have I ever been in Henry's house? These are questions I didn't expect to need to ask tonight.

[Sammy] Jack, this is weird! You see this is weird, right?! [Jack] Well yeah, it is kinda weird that we're in-- what are we doing here? [Joey] Joey is going to grab Jack's arm, and point to the next door, and go "Party is this way!"

[GM] Peter looks worried... [Sammy] Sammy looks worried too! Well, Sammy looks angry, but in a worried way.

[Joey] Joey is going to scream frustratedly. [Sammy] Is there ink in this room? [GM] There is not. [Jack] Is there a party in this room? [GM] Definitely no, only the party you bring with you.

[Joey] Joey is going to scream again. [Joey] He's also going to kick the door. He might stub his toe. [Sammy] Through all this, Joey is smiling. I just need us all to remember that. [Joey] YES. Also his tail is furiously going. [GM] Bendy is also upset! There is nothing to eat here.

[Joey] Joey is going to try to feed Bendy some ideas, [GM] He doesn't want ideas, he wants food!

[Joey] So.... what happens if you fumble a sanity roll?

[GM] See, here's the silly part. At this point, right? At this point, the best place to do the tasks you want to do, involve either getting the stone out of the room with the safe, or having the staff that Henry is currently holding. [Sammy] So you would arrive, by completely different means, to the same place that we are! [GM] Clearly Joey is inside the safe.

[Jack] Bad and naughty Joey Drews get put in the safe to atone for their sins!

[Henry] Henry is going to channel his inner Joey Drew and round the corner and say "No, sorry about him, we're just here on inspection, we need to check the safe." [Henry] Which is probably a Fast Talk, which I hope it isn't, because my Fast Talk is a 5. [GM] Unless you wanna try to turn that into a persuade somehow? [Henry] I'll do Persuade! [GM] What are you doing to persuade them, rather than just lying? [Henry] *rolls* I failed... I'm gonna push it... [Sammy] *uneasy noises* IF YOU PUSH IT AND IT GOES BAD, IT GOES WORSE [Henry] AH! HAHA! I ROLLED A SIX! [Sammy] THAT'S STILL NOT LESS THAN FIVE! [Henry] WELL IM DOING PERSUADE! [Sammy] That means you have to NOT LIE! [Henry] ....Fuck. [Henry] Okay, uh, there's an emergency, we need the contents of that safe. [Sammy] THATS STILL A LIE??? [Joey] NO actually, THAT'S TRUE! [Henry] It IS an emergency!!

[Sammy] Sammy cannot believe that this is working.

[GM] Bendy does wonder what his plan is for getting out of the safe. This does not seem like a fun party place. [Joey] Um, [Joey] Joey says it's a surprise.

[GM] Henry, the safe does indeed open! And there's a Joey! [GM] Bendy says "Oh wow!" [Henry] Henry tries his best to keep a straight face, like yes! this is exactly what he came here for! [Sammy] (Sammy is NOT keeping a straight face) [Jack] (Straight? In this party?)

[Jack] He's probably saying something like, "What are you doing, he's one of us!" [Jack] And that could go either way. That could mean "No, he's chill, I will persuade you to stop!" Or that could mean, "We are also criminals!"

[GM, as the guards] Then why does he look like the Yellow King's messenger? [Henry] *not missing a beat* We get that a lot.

[GM] Something falls from the sky and lands in front of him. And it's a person! [Joey] Is he alive? [GM] Very much not. [Sammy] How... how Illusion of Living canon-compliant is this Joey...?

[Jack] So... it would probably occur to Jack that this is weird for a party,

[Henry] Joey don't touch it! [Joey] Why not? [Henry] There's runes around it. I don't know if you can touch it. [Joey] Joey's gonna touch it. [Henry] *long-suffering sigh* If you get zapped, I'll tell you I told you so!

[Jack] Jack really wishes we were just back at the party right now, you guys... [Jack] Only bad things have happened. [Jack] Pete's traumatised, Joey's goopy, the Lurker ate all of the snacks,

[Sammy] Can I try to break free from Henry? Sammy's gonna try to run over there. [Henry] At this point, Sam can go, if he wants. [Sammy] Okay, cool. Then Sammy's gonna go and put ink in his mouth! [Henry] Goddammit. I was hoping you were going to check on Joey!

[Joey] You can’t take all of the sanity hits! You have to leave some for other people! [Jack] Says you! You got so many temps!! And an indefinite!!

[GM] Bendy probably is complaining loudly about WHY DID HE WALK THROUGH THE RUNES??? [Joey] Oh! I thought he was going to complain about the party, or lack thereof, [GM] That’s part of not having fun at the party, he’s not into that! [Joey] Well, [GM] This is not a fun party activity!!

[GM] But he doesn’t think it will destroy either of them, if you do it right! [Jack] That’s a nice, way to end that sentence,

[Sammy] Let us hurry! May I take the stone? [Joey] Joey shrugs. [Sammy] Sammy will, uh, attempt to reach inside of... whatever this is, and find the stone. [Henry] Reach INTO your LOCAL boss, and you will find A Friend And Boy,

[Sammy] Is there anything in this room that I can pick up, and then hit him in the head with? [GM] Henry has a stick... uh....there’s a projector.... [Sammy] Can I pick that up? [GM] No, you cannot. [Sammy] It would be REALLY funny if Sammy dropped a projector on someone else’s head. [Sammy] HOW THE TURNTABLES!!!

[GM] ...Can you impale with a rocking horse...???? [Sammy] I don’t want to impale, I want to knock him in the head so he passes out!!! Rest your head, it’s time for bed!!!

[Jack] I don’t think Jack has any plans after this! [Jack] I meant that in the sense that he doesn’t know what he’s doing next, but the way I phrased it, now it just sounds like he’s hitting on Fowler, like, he doesn’t have anything to do after this, are you free? That’s not canon.

[Joey] I don’t know how this will go, [Sammy] Good luck! [Joey] But Joey would like to-- [Sammy] Sammy believes in half of you! [GM] w-which Sammy? wHICH HALF?!

[Jack] I know you said “note.” But my brain at first processed that word as “milk.” [Henry] *laughing* “Did you get my milk, Fowler?” [Jack] He drank the last carton and he didn’t buy more! [Sammy] “I’m going to the store, want me to get anything? *jumps into the lake*”

[GM] Combat Jack! [Jack] *exasperated* He’s not a Combat Boy! Jack is soft and warm, like mashed potatoes!!!

[GM] Norman is wondering to Henry if he oughta be concerned about you all getting what you want out of this. [Henry] .....Maybe.

[soundsof71]

Lauren Patten hits like a hurricane in “You Oughta Know” from Broadway’s Jagged Little Pill

Alanis Morrissette’s "You Oughta Know” is one of the biggest songs from one of the biggest albums in history, 1995′s Jagged Little Pill, with over 33 million copies sold, so it’s easy to understand why you might think you know enough about this song to skip this video.

Trust me, you don’t. TURN THIS UP.

As part of a Broadway play that went on pandemic hiatus not long after opening, not enough people got to see it in person. NBC aired a broadcast of musical numbers done literally in the streets of New York City’s Theater District, worth watching in the usual places (Peacock, Hulu, etc), and in clips on YouTube. It was part of a fundraising effort for the entire Broadway community (not just performers, but crafts people, ticket takers, you name it), and there were quite a few highlights -- but none as high as this.

The play Jagged Little Pill isn’t based on the album in the way a conventional jukebox musical might be. Rather, the story by Oscar-winner Diablo Cody is all original, using the songs from the album as resources to support the story in the ways that all musicals do, not just jukebox ones. It’s remarkable to me how well it works across the board. Jagged Little Pill was nominated for 15 Tonys this year, and I anticipate updating this post soon with all the awards this will definitely win. I’m counting on Lauren Patten being one of them, but she won’t be the only one.

In the original version of this particular song, the singer attempts to hold a male ex accountable “for the mess you left when you went away” to be with another woman. In the play, the ex is a woman who has left the singer for a man, and Lauren Patten’s performance is devastating, with a physicality that adds new dimensions to the song’s already intense emotions.

The wonderful thing about this performance is that it exists at all. Performing it in the literal street adds a viscerality to it, but wowza, I sure hope they make a movie of the play as directed and staged by Diane Paulus (already a Tony winner for her 2013 revival of Pippin). There are a couple of cell phone videos of this song (and others from the play) on YouTube, but none really convey the impact of the full scene. This photo comes closer. It’s more like a rock concert than a play, and was bringing audiences to their feet every night.

The secret weapon of Jagged Little Pill, both the album and the play, isn’t the catharsis of its rage. It’s healing through empathy. That’s really what “You Oughta Know” is about -- you never thought about how your actions affected me, so “I’m here / to remind you.” She’s demanding empathy. 

Alanis’s original might be as hot a fireball of rage as anyone has ever recorded, and Lauren’s version is downright nuclear. I don’t want to skip past that to get to the healing supplied by the rest of the album and stage play. Healing doesn’t work that way. You have to go allll the way through the pain first, and there really is an awful lot of wonder on the other side of it in Jagged Little Pill (both of them) that we don’t talk about nearly enough.

I hope that the power of this performance will draw you back into a record you only thought you remembered, if you’ve managed to catch up with it at all. I know that a lot of you reading this weren’t born in 1995, or were maybe kids. You’re busy, I get it. There’s a lot of stuff to listen to. Especially in the context of tumblr, though, it’s worth remembering that Alanis was all of 19 when she wrote and recorded it! 

Yet Jagged Little Pill isn’t just one of the biggest sellers of all time. It’s one one of the smallest handful of best of all time, too -- and certainly among the most humane and hopeful. 

Jagged Little Pill has been one of my most treasured musical companions for the past 25 years. I hope you get to experience it all soon, too, or re-experience it if it’s been a while. Lauren Patten’s take on “You Oughta Know” is a fine place to start.