#maybe i am making jude too tall but for him to be described the way he was repeatedly i think he would be pretty tall

[gywn]

so jude was said to be abnormally lanky right, and liam is said to be just below 6 feet and five inches taller than ruby. ruby is said to be 5’5” in never fade. this would make liam 5’10 which is likely the same height if not shorter than jude

[destiniesfic]

132 Hours, Chapter 15

“I didn’t want to hurt you.”

“But that’s ridiculous,” I protest. “You hurt me all the time.”

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The day is bright and pleasant, but the sunlight and soft breeze are an assault on my senses after my time underground. I limp to the ambulance, which is parked on the grass, rear doors open, waiting for me. I ease myself to sit in the back, next to Cardan, who inexplicably has a blanket tightly wrapped around his shoulders. When I’m no longer standing, I sigh. I’d thought that after sitting and lying down for days I’d be desperate to move, but it turns out I’m actually very tired. When no one is looking at us, Cardan leans over and nuzzles my nose with his.

I smile at him weakly. Everything is too much and not enough. It seems to me that I am watching Madoc and Balekin talk to the detectives from very far away, like they are characters on a TV show. I just want to go back to the Amagansett house—or my actual house, hours away—and curl up in a bed that’s mine. But that fantasy leads to complications too. What will Oriana say when she learns what I’ve done? What will Taryn say?

Not wanting to spiral, I search for anything else to talk about. “Are you cold?” I ask Cardan, glancing at the blanket.

“Oh, no. It’s for shock or something.” He looks down at himself. His kitschy t-shirt is partially obscured now. “But, you know, free blanket.”

“Yeah,” I say, like that makes perfect sense. My head is spinning. “Was Balekin… happy to see you?”

He sets his jaw. “He was glad I wasn’t dead, I guess. But that’s about the only thing I did right.”

I look down as my fingers curl into my palms. I don’t examine how much I want to wrap my hands around Balekin’s throat. “My dad knows,” I whisper. “About us. I think I’ve talked him out of killing you.”

“That’s good. I’d really rather not die after surviving all of this already.”

“You’re taking this really well.”

Cardan shrugs. “If we’re bonded now, and your father isn’t going to kill me, that means I’m part of your family. Dain is dead, and Balekin will find it harder to touch me.”

“Oh,” I say dully. No wonder he wasn’t that mad at me mating him. We can’t stay in the basement forever, but he still has a way out. It makes sense. I can hardly blame him.

“Not that I’m necessarily thrilled that your dad could have any sway over me, given that he’s maybe a murderer and almost as scary as you are.”

“Right.”

He cocks his head at me, sensing my reticence. “Jude.”

I look away.

He leans over again and nudges the nape of my neck with his nose. “Hey.”

“What.”

Cardan chuckles, but it sounds nervous. “Jude, I’ve thought about mating with you since I was fourteen. And back then it made me feel panicky and trapped—”

“That’s just what every omega wants to hear.”

“God dammit. Look, I’ve always been afraid to want things—not clothes and shoes and shit, things that matter—because they’re always ruined. I always screw them up, or someone else screws it up for me. This is…” Out of the corner of my eye, I see him look down at his hands. “I didn’t want it to happen this way, because who would? But I want to help you through the next heat, and the next one. Actually do it right. I want to be your mate, Jude.”

I turn back around to stare at him, incredulous. “You want that?”

He nods, slowly.

“But you—you didn’t. For days, you didn’t. You held off and it should have been impossible if you actually—wanted me.”

“Well, it felt impossible.” He lets out another nervous chuckle. “I wanted you so bad, but more than that I wanted you to want me. I didn’t want to just go and mount you or whatever the hell I’m supposed to do. For once, I wanted to be better. Sounds crazy, right?”

“Yeah,” I say slowly. “It does. You wanted to mate with me so bad that you didn’t mate with me.”

“Jude. I didn’t want to hurt you.”

“But that’s ridiculous,” I protest. “You hurt me all the time.”

“Yeah, I did.” Cardan looks down at his knees. “But not like that. Never like that. I may have made some off-color jokes, but I would never have done what Valerian tried to do. I mean, I hoped I wouldn’t, and now I know.”

“You made me miserable.”

“I know.”

“I definitely shouldn’t want you as a mate.”

“No, I guess you shouldn’t.” Cardan sounds resigned, and hangs his head. “Well, the pheromone marker cleansing is kind of time-consuming and expensive and unpleasant, but I guess—”

I thought hurting him might feel good, but it just feels like a hollow pang in my chest. I ask, “You want me to be your mate, though?”

He looks up at me with those dark eyes. “Yes,” he says.

I nod. “Okay.”

“Okay?” He stares at me, a grin that he doesn’t dare unleash just yet tugging at the corners of his mouth.

“Yes. I hated you so much for so long because you smelled so good and you were so mean. So if you could stop being mean for a while, and you’ve proven you have, I think we could find some common ground.”

Cardan sniffs. “Well, I may have to remain a little mean. For the sake of my reputation.”

“We’ll see.”

“You don’t want me totally defanged, do you?”

“I haven’t decided yet.”

He laughs, then he lowers his head to nuzzle again, this time at the bite mark he left on my neck. I am flooded by his delight. From nearby, someone clears their throat. We look up to find a paramedic standing in front of us, face half-hidden by a surgical mask, patiently waiting for us to submit ourselves to examination.

“Oh,” I say. “Uh.”

Cardan, who is utterly without shame, is grinning when he straightens up. “Actually, we’re both fine, thanks.”

“That’s for us to determine,” says the paramedic. Something about him is oddly familiar, but his height and build are totally nondescript. Where could I have seen him before? “To start, we’re going to make sure you’re not concussed.”

Cardan just groans.

The paramedic bends at the waist and takes a penlight out of his pocket. “Just look into the light here for me.”

That voice. It’s the voice. I narrow my eyes at him. It is weird, on second thought, that he’s wearing a mask. It’s not like we’re possibly carrying an infectious disease. Cardan raises his eyebrows, but doesn’t move as the light shines into one pupil. “This is a surprise,” he says, without blinking. “And also, you have to admit, pretty dumb.”

“Suicidal,” I hiss through my teeth. I’m strangely angry. They had to know what a risk it was to come back. They could have gotten away clean. “What are you guys doing here? If my dad catches you—”

“Are you going to tell him?” the Roach asks. He doesn’t sound too worried, which irks me.

I press my lips together, then say, “I should.”

Another of the paramedics kneels at my feet, his sandy head bent. The Ghost. Certainly less conspicuous than the Roach, with his scars. He’s tall, sure, but handsome in a way that’s totally generic. In fact, I’d have a difficult time describing him beyond “tall” and “symmetrical.” He picks up the leg that he shot to dress the wound, once again.

“We had to talk to you,” he says. Always to the point.

Suddenly I am sure that if I turned and looked behind me into the ambulance, the Bomb would wink at me from the driver’s seat. Part of me is relieved they’re okay, and the other part is baffled and horrified at my relief. But they did take care of us through some pretty gross and awful times. They kept me fed, kept me hydrated, kept us company. Maybe it’s natural to feel some degree of attachment.

“Why?” Cardan asks, baffled, as the Roach shines a light in his other eye. “You guys should be on a plane to Morocco by now.”

“Morocco?” I ask.

“It’s pretty. Also, no extradition policy.”

“Why do you even know that?”

Cardan shrugs.

“Look,” the Roach says, “we’re short on time. Your brother and Madoc are going to come over and tell you Dain killed himself out of shame when his plan was discovered. He left a note, confessing, yadda yadda. It’s bullshit. He didn’t commit suicide.”

“What?” Cardan and I ask, in unison.

I shake my head, as if trying to shake off our now unshakeable connection. “Then what happened to him?”

The Ghost doesn’t say anything, or even fully turn his head, but without lifting his eyes from my leg, he somehow indicates where Madoc and Balekin stand, in conversation with the police.

“No,” I whisper. It sounds naive, even to me, but I don’t want to believe Madoc is capable of those horrors, even though the fear our kidnappers expressed when they spoke of him seemed real. “No, it—Dain was a client, he and Madoc were friends—”

“Do you think that would matter if Dain went after Madoc’s family?” the Roach asks.

My stomach turns. “How do you know Dain didn’t kill himself?”

“Because he wouldn’t,” Cardan says quietly. “He’s Dain. He’d think he’s clever enough to find a way out, even if everyone was closing in on him, and he’d probably be right.”

“We don’t know exactly what happened,” the Roach continues. He makes a show of fiddling with the stethoscope around his neck. “We just know that he was increasingly agitated about the way negotiations were going, and then we suddenly had no contact. I went to his office, then to his place. Coroner beat me there. Single gunshot wound to the chest, pistol with his prints on it. Seemed open and shut.”

I sense Cardan’s horror, and look to see that he’s gone pale. I lay my hand on top of his. Something tells me that he doesn’t have much of an issue believing that Balekin is capable of murder, even of a brother. And Cardan clearly didn’t like Dain, but what does that mean for his safety?

“You couldn’t have waited around and told us this in the basement?” I ask, feeling again like I am observing this all from afar, watching a scene in a movie that just happens to star me.

“We didn’t know what Dain told them before he died, so we had to clear out pretty fast. Left your stuff with the cops so you’d be found, left the door unlocked so you could leave whenever you wanted. Besides.” He raises one eyebrow. “You guys were busy.”

I flush; it’s true that Cardan and I couldn’t and wouldn’t have been able to go anywhere once we’d finally given ourselves over to each other. But all of this is too much. “Well, we can’t trust you.”

“You can’t trust your dad,” the Ghost says. “We’ve never lied to you.”

“You did shoot her,” Cardan points out. “Most people would say that’s worse.”

The Ghost just shrugs.

“Look, believe us or don’t,” the Roach says. “But you have to admit that something’s rotten here. You’re going to need help. Eyes and ears. And I also hear that one of you is coming into a very large sum of money and a considerable amount of corporate influence in a little less than a year.”

“There it is,” I mutter.

But Cardan looks delighted. “Do you guys have a business card you can leave with me or something?”

“Are you planning to kidnap anybody?” I demand.

“No, but I could use the help,” Cardan admits. “He’s right. Once I come into that inheritance, there’s going to be a huge target on my back.”

“We’ll call you. In the meantime, you’ve got a clean bill of health.” The Roach pats his shoulder. “Good for you.”

“Thanks, man.”

Out of the corner of my eye, I see two figures break away from the detectives and begin approaching us. I say, “You’d better clear out.”

The Roach doesn’t thank me, but he gives me a little nod before disappearing around the side of the ambulance, whistling. That’s what passes for honor among thieves, I suppose. The Ghost remains, having drawn the short straw, his generically handsome features apparently working to render him inconspicuous.

“How is she?” Madoc asks him. I make myself look up at his face and try not to think about how, if what the Roach said is true, he might have recently pulled the trigger on one of Cardan’s brothers. The other brother stands next to him, looking less sour than before.

The Ghost stands. “They’re both good to go,” he says. “It looks like she sprained her ankle a few days ago, but it’s healing well.”

“The wound on her leg?”

“Nothing serious.”

Madoc nods, and then turns to me. The Ghost melts back into the scenery as though he wasn’t even there to begin with. No mystery as to how he got that codename.

Balekin stands at Madoc’s side, both men casting shadows across our knees. Madoc’s arms are folded, and Balekin’s jaw is set. I see his eyes find my hand resting on top of Cardan’s, but for some reason I am not at all worried about censure. Not from him.

Balekin says, “We’ve been given leave to take you back to your homes to rest, provided you return tomorrow to give your statements to the police. No one here wishes to… prolong your ordeal.”

“Wait,” I say, my heartbeat picking up in my chest. “Wait. Nobody’s told us what’s going on. Where’s Dain? How do we know he won’t try again?”

“He’s dead,” Madoc declares. “When he realized he wasn’t going to get away with it, that he had no other recourse…”

I swallow. I had hoped he’d say something else, anything else. “Oh. I see.”

Cardan covers his discomfort with a snicker. “Well, good riddance.”

“We’re hoping you can help us fill in the rest of the gaps once you’re up to sharing what, exactly, happened over the past five days,” Balekin says.

“I don’t know how much help we’ll be,” Cardan replies, shrugging loosely. “If it was Dain, we never saw him. And the guys who took us all wore masks.”

I’m surprised at how easily he lies, but maybe I shouldn’t be. I have to reevaluate everything I thought about his childhood; it probably involved a lot of lying to Balekin. Madoc doesn’t seem to notice anything, and it’s hard to get bullshit by him. He just watches me with a quizzical expression.

“Well, maybe you’ll remember something useful after you’ve had your rest.” Balekin jerks his head toward the waiting car, already beginning to walk away, assuming Cardan will follow. “Come on.”

Cardan glances at me with uncertainty, then begins to stand. I take his hand again and pull him back down. “No.”

Balekin turns around. “What did you say?”

I stand now, keeping hold of Cardan’s hand. “I said ‘no.’ I’m sure you have business back in the city. Cardan can come stay with us.” I look at Madoc and try to reassure myself that he is the safer choice. “There’s plenty of room in the house.”

“There is,” Madoc agrees, his tone carefully neutral.

“So it wouldn’t be too much trouble.”

Balekin looks angry. He doesn’t want to lose his influence on Cardan. “That’s very generous, but I have just gotten my youngest brother back, and I’m not eager to let him out of my sight.”

“He’ll be under Madoc’s protection.”

“You have to admit, it does seem safer,” Cardan chimes in. He seems a little dumbstruck by the way the whole situation is unfolding. Maybe no one’s ever stood up to Balekin before. Certainly

“You don’t know what you’re talking about,” Balekin says, trying to loom over me. He is tall, but tall doesn’t faze me. “I’m his brother. I’ve been his guardian since he was a child. I will be taking him back.”

“Well, Cardan isn’t a child anymore. He’s an adult, and I’m his mate,” I say, sticking up my chin. “And he is coming with me.”

I yank hard on Cardan’s hand, bringing him to his feet, and start off toward the car Madoc came in. Out of the corner of my eye I see Cardan, smiling, give his brother a shrug. “Omegas,” he says. “What are you gonna do?”

What, indeed. I don’t even know what I am going to do. Everything that happened in the last one hundred and thirty-two hours seems to have pushed us so much further down the road to a strange and dangerous adulthood. I don’t know if either of us are ready for what lies ahead, much less ready to defy our dangerous parental figures or negotiate the relationship we’ll have once I’m in college.

But it doesn’t matter, not right now. Because I have just pulled off a bigger heist than the Ghost, the Roach, and the Bomb could ever dream of. Because Cardan’s hand is in mine. Because his smile is, as always, contagious, so I am smiling too. Because we survived our trial, so maybe we can survive anything. Because he would choose me, and I chose him. Because neither of us is alone. Because he is my mate.

The rest, we’ll figure out when it comes.

[megmahoneyart]

why did you draw michael who is white as looking more remorseful and human on half his face than helen who you depict as a black woman who appears angry with both of her eyes spiraled? even despite michaels vocal insistence that he is wholly an inhuman monster and his cruel actions you draw him looking more innocent and human than a black woman who has not done anything nearly as monstrous as him and held onto her human identity more strongly?

Okay!  So, I use this blog to draw and not to talk, but I’m suuuper long-winded when I write.  And to spare the general public, I’ve put this answer under a read-more.  But it’s a good and valid question!  And I appreciate anon’s concern; I thought the question deserved as good an answer as I could give.  So that answer is below:

That’s a totally valid question!  I didn’t intend to convey “remorseful” so much as, upset, with Michael.  Angry wasn’t necessarily what I was going for with Helen either--so it sounds like my expressions overall aren’t reading super well. Helen was meant to be more, I think enthusiastic, is the word I’m looking for.

The big difference between Helen and Michael isn’t one of them being more innocent or more guilty than the other.  The difference is the amount of conflict.  Helen has repeatedly brought up how much better she is at being The Distortion than Michael ever was.  Michael had a lot of knowledge about the Fears, and The Spiral, in particular, before becoming The Distortion than Helen did.  And, along with that, he brought the baggage of being taught that his job was to fight the fears, and the baggage of being scarred by The Spiral before working for the Institute.  He kind of sucks at being The Distortion because his job was to stop The Distortion from performing The Spiral’s ritual--and that leaves both The Distortion hating Michael for fucking up its purpose, and Michael hating The Distortion because it’s the embodiment of what he hated and feared as a human.  Everything Michael Distortion does is double-minded--because part of him is like “Hey I used to work here, and these guys are technically my co-workers, and I kind of want to hang out with them, but I also hate this place” and part of him is “I want to Fuck Everything Up, and I hate All of these people and would be happy to see them dead.”  

Helen, on the other hand, doesn’t have the baggage of foreknowledge or hatred.  She’s Michael Distortion’s victim, at first.  But the second she has an opening to turn the tables, she jumps on it.  And the reason she had an opening is because Michael and The Distortion were at odds and schisming and in Conflict.  She’s set up in season 4 to be a kind of narrative foil for Jon--as they have both become avatars without really meaning to (like the majority of avatars that have showed up on the show).  In Season 4, Jon is constantly agonizing over what exactly he is now, and futilely circling around the morality of his continued existence.  Helen, in season 4, is beyond this point.  She has already accepted the Way Things Are now, and she’s dealing--constantly telling Jon he needs to deal with it (the reality of being a “monster” too).  By season 5, she’s not just dealing, she’s Thriving.  And in seasons 4 and 5, at any opportunity, she (Helen Distortion) is always down to remind Jon (and co) that she is So Much Better at being what she is (The Distortion) than Michael ever was.  

I think Helen Richardson probably had a stronger character than Michael Shelley did, as humans as well.  Not saying that one was better than the other. But Helen was a successful career-woman.  Michael started at the institute as a scared kid, who was then groomed by Gertrude and psychologically experimented on by Emma.  I could never see Helen Richardson ever being someone Gertrude Robinson could emotionally manipulate, or convince to “sacrifice” herself.

And all of that informs how I characterize these two characters’ personalities when I draw them.  And that doesn’t touch on the race issue.

Unfortunately, TMA doesn’t explicitly describe many characters’ race or ethnicity.  A Lot has been said about the few negative vs positive characters who are explicitly characters of color.  It’s kind of a black-and-grey-morality podcast.  But on the side of the protagonists/positively-portrayed you’ve got Oliver Banks, Adelard Dekker, Basira Hussain, Mikaele Salesa.  On the enemy-aligned side you’ve got Jude Perry, Tom and John Haan, Manuela Dominguez, and Annabelle Cane.  And those on the positive side are pretty flawed (aside from Adelard Dekker who is an anomaly on this show); and those on the negative side usually have at least some alternate-character-interpretations and can be viewed as sympathetic (lookin at you, Annabelle).  A lot of discussion has gone into their characterizations and how that relates to their respective races--and the problems therein (Jude Perry is startlingly devoid of family concerns--when culturally a large part of being a successful businesswoman would usually relate to how it benefits or affects her family; Mikaele Salesa’s setting up an Apocalypse Bunker without the crew he cared for is peak White behavior; bastard cops that are WOC (like Basira) absolutely exist--but should a story about a WOC bastard cop be written by a white guy?; the Haans being avatars for The Flesh is straight-up racist; etc).  

But again, the list of characters that are explicitly characters of color is Short.  And the fandom filled in some gaps.  Almost all of the characters get a variety of designs, and some characters don’t have a Uniform Fanon Race (like Melanie).  But some characters are almost always portrayed as a certain race (Jon is almost always portrayed as Desi or Pakistani, Georgie is almost always portrayed as black, Helen is almost always portrayed as black).  I came into the show late.  By the time I arrived, Desi/Pakistani Jon and black Helen were the only Jon and the only Helen I saw when I showed up.  (The first sketches I did for the show, I did before seeing any fan art, and before hearing any canon descriptors.  As such, Georgie would be unrecognizable to most of the fandom--because I drew her white the first time I drew her; and Martin is Too Small in my first sketches--because they were drawn before I got to episodes that described him as tall and chubby and before I saw the fantart--which gives us the Big Martin we deserve).  So that’s why my Helen is black.  (My Michael is white because he is physically described early in the show--and is one of the confirmed white characters).

That said, I accepted the generally-agreed-upon fan depictions of Helen (and other characters) without a whole lot of critical thought from Me.  I’ve since read a lot of good takes on why Jon is depicted as Desi and why his characterization has resonated with certain Desi listeners.  I haven’t read any dissertation on why Helen is black.  My guess is that, where there were no canon physical descriptions (like with Taz Balance before the graphic novels), the fandom Made representation because they wanted it and because they could.  Maybe there was discourse, back in the day, on why Georgie and Helen are usually depicted as black; but I didn’t see it.  My (completely uninformed) guess is that people liked Georgie.  And people liked Helen.  And if they could make the cool lady with a great cat that is incapable of being afraid black, and if they could make the cool lady who has sharp hands and set up her house in the Institute basement for fun black, why not do it?

If you, anon, do have strong feelings that Helen shouldn’t be black and why, feel free to pass that on to me.  I am Not the authority on Helen’s characterization or her appearance--especially as related to race--as I’m 1) white and 2) just another listener of the show.

If I were to start drawing Helen as white, she’d probably be unrecognizable to people that are looking through the tag for their sharp-handed wife.  And I like Helen.  So without additional information, I’m unlikely to change my depiction of her.  But!  If you (or anybody else) do have additional information, I’m happy to see/hear it, and will take any concerns raised with me into consideration.

[onceuponalany]

“Don’t touch the spirit of my hairstyle” - An Olivier Giroud Playlist

Since it is Giroud’s birthday today (Yay) I decided to make this playlist with some songs that remind me of him! :D

1. Chuis Bo, Pzk - This is the first song that I think when I hear “Olivier Giroud” (thank you @mrhugolloris). I can’t choose a quote because the whole song is perfect. I mean: 

“ J'suis une bête d'oeuvre d'art je devrais avoir ma place au Louvre”

I am sure he agrees with that. 

2. Champs-Elysées, Joe Dassin - This was his initiation song for Équipe de France and Arsenal. Unfortunately, there aren’t any videos (that I could find).

3. Hey Jude, the Beatles - I dare you not to sing “Nananananana... Nanana... Giroooud!”

4. Ego, Beyoncé - Rob Holding in a video described Giroud as “He loves himself”. We know he does, because he wears sunny outfits, ridiculous haircuts and beards and he thinks it is really alright and that we don’t know anything about fashion. Also, we have this part:

“Damn I know I'm killing you with them legs better yet them tighs Matter a fact, it's my smile or maybe my eyes”

5. Just the way you are, Bruno Mars -

“Oh her eyes, her eyes Make the stars look like they're not shining Her hair, her hair Falls perfectly without her trying She's so beautiful And I tell her every day”

The man sung Joe Dassin, he deserves a sappy song! 6. Hands to myself, Selena Gomez -

“Can't keep my hands to myself No matter how hard I'm trying to”

We know it is true (thanks @itsaporcupine now I can’t hear this song without laughing)

7. Every teardrop is a waterfall, Coldplay - When someone asks him about music, he always talks about Coldplay (even better if it is a remix). This is the song that he put in his songlist for the World Cup!

8. Loca, Shakira - Another song that was in his World Cup playlist (I would never imagine!!!)

9. Garota de Ipanema / The Girl of Ipanema, Tom Jobim -  I prefer the original version because the lyrics are a bit different. I could totally imagine a video of that footage of Olivier and Jen walking in the beach in Rio de Janeiro during the world Cup and this song playing in the background.

“Tall and tan and young and lovely The girl from Ipanema goes walking And when she passes, each one she passes goes "a-a-ah!"

“Ah, se ela soubesse Que quando ela passa O mundo inteirinho se enche de graça E fica mais lindo Por causa do amor”  

10. All of me, John Legend (Remix) - This song is too in one of his playlists and I love this song (well the original version...)

[thefoolsloop]

The mistress of your charms: SNM Shanghai, show no. 1

**(Spoilers for Sexy Witch and Bald Witch loops, but not for any 1:1s. I have deliberately - and sometimes accidentally - changed the order of events in the loops, and I’ve redacted details which aren't in the New York show or which are just too much of a spoiler. I’m not accustomed to writing about a show which most readers won’t yet have seen, so I’m trying to exercise self-editing while still giving a genuine flavour of the experience. If I mess up, I apologise.

The first draft of this write-up came to 3,000 words; so I have gone through and excised a great deal. There’s basically nothing left which I would consider a spoiler, but your mileage may vary so be warned.)**

I came to Shanghai on a promise.

In 2015 I had promised Miranda that if she was ever cast in Sleep No More I would come and see her. I was assuming of course that she would be cast in New York. Then, many months later, the news came through that Punchdrunk was mounting SNM in Shanghai, a city I had no interest in visiting. Sure enough, she was in the cast. And so were twelve other TDM alumni.

I don’t break a promise. And the thought of seeing not only Miranda, but Sam, Omar, Fania, Ben and many more besides, people whom I had followed loyally in TDM, people who made that show for me, who made the world of Temple Studios so real that in my mind it still exists, I still visit it every day - the thought of all that overcame my reluctance to travel and the limitations of my budget. Some experiences are so obviously special that to turn them down is to live a life of regret. And I’m done with regret.

So after three months of Mandarin lessons I find myself, in the company of @drinkthehalo and a tiny handful of other ex-pat enthusiasts, in front of a huge, gleaming building on a main road in the west end of Shanghai. A most incongruous setting for a Punchdrunk production, accustomed as I am to seeing them in unmarked warehouses, barely-opened museum archives, crumbling stately homes; but not at all incongruous for Shanghai, a rapidly growing city apparently intent on erasing anything old.

You're not guaranteed an Ace at the McKinnon, no matter how early you queue; but the gods are smiling on me, and I’m in first lift. I make it to the ballroom while the party is still happening. I don’t know who’s in the cast for today, of course; but as I advance towards the centre of the room, searching for anything I recognise, I immediately see them: those incredible green eyes. Thank you, sweet Lord Jesus (more on him, later) - Miranda is Sexy Witch in my first show.

(Photo from sleepnomore.cn)

She’s upside down. Macduff has her in the middle of a backflip. But the moment I lock eyes with her, she holds my gaze as she returns to upright. I’m here, I try to say with my eyes, I kept my promise, I’m here. I know, she says with her eyes, I recognise you. I knew you’d come. Then she turns her attention back to flirting with Macduff. I look around and my joy is increased - Fania is here, a natural choice for Bald Witch after her ice demon PA in TDM. Olly is Boy Witch - too big and tall for the part in my view, but clearly enjoying himself enormously. Omar is Banquo - more hair than when he was in TDM, and he looks handsome and full of life. I recognise American performers whom I saw in New York - Emily, Eric. A family reunion, like Christmas.

I follow Sexy’s loop as far as the 1:1 (which I lose to @drinkthehalo, but that’s OK, I was miles away from the right spot). I could wait, but I don’t know how long for. It might be better to get accustomed to the space first. It would also make sense to see a Sexy Witch loop in full, from the top. And maybe there’ll be someone else interesting to follow. So I wander upstairs, see how the rooms have been changed, how the space seems better used than at the McKittrick. The fourth floor is the same and yet different, somehow twistier, less like a High Street and more like a whole town. I glimpse Jude’s Taxidermist, but he swiftly disappears into a 1:1. I see Lily in a costume I don’t recognise. I find the rep bar - Shen Ni looks like a performer worth following. But the beat of the rave is starting and I have to get out of the way.

I wander around until reset time, then head to the lobby. Here are the witches; when Macbeth appears, the three of them climb the walls like spiders. It’s such a delight to see them together. Once they were bopping along to ‘Bulldog’ in Studio 5: Andrea, Dwayne and Faye. Now they’re spinning, plotting, enchanting Macbeth in a scene with a very different tone. It’s a class reunion - and somewhere Daniel’s Porter is lurking; like Frankie, only on the margins of the big scene but waiting for his moment later.

I attach myself to Miranda like a limpet, it seems to be the way here. The loop has changed - there are new moments among the familiar stuff. There’s a new scene which I daren't reveal but it suggests that the character of SW has been fleshed out further, given an extra strand, more motivation. Not just a witch any more, now an avatar of someone else. Wonder if this has been done for all the witches.

Wherever she goes, Miranda fills the room with her presence: impish, sly, teasing, powerful, her timing constantly perfect. As the ballroom scene comes round again, I wonder what must it be like to dance with her (I miss the chance this time). I remember how Leslie in New York felt so light I could have breathed on her and watched her blow away on the air. Miranda seems made of tougher stuff, it’s what made her Romola less of a doormat and - perversely - made her story even more tragic.

The rave approaches; I follow the witches into the room but then I must make my escape before the flashing starts (I mean the strobes, of course, there is no flashing of the other kind in Shanghai - which I don’t think matters much; I have rather a lot I could say about this, but this isn’t the time). I wait in the corridor; once the lights stop, I hurry back in to see the witches hold up their miniature trees to Macbeth. The parties split up, their followers disperse. Because I’m at the back of the rave crowd, all I have to do is turn around and I’m at the front for the bar dance.

Ah, Miranda’s bar dance...

(Image by @arfman, reproduced with permission.)

There are some works of art that are simply too perfect, too accomplished, too striking, moving, disturbing or compelling to be described. Once you start using words to convey them, they immediately become diminished. Miranda’s bar dance belongs in this category.

Doesn’t that sound absurd? Well, all I can say is in the context of the piece, coming at the point it does when the atmosphere is elevated by the rave, when Sexy Witch’s persona is so possessed by... something... that dance, in which she seems to express all the demonic mania, all the suffering, all the rage, all the bloodlust, all the pain that runs through this show from top to bottom, that dance is one of the stand-out moments in the entire production. I’ve seen five, maybe six Sexy Witches do that dance, and none of them could touch the way Miranda does it. And I’m talking about some seriously great performers - Leslie, Lily, Emily O. Every time I saw it in New York, each performer seemed to do it better. And then Miranda comes and tops the lot of them. And I really can’t put into words what it is that makes it so great; it just.... IS.

(I’m biased, of course, but I check with my fellow English-speakers post-show and there is consensus on this point.)

We run to the door of the Taxidermist’s, where she pauses. Something is happening. She reaches out into the distance. For a moment I assume it’s just another gesture, but her hand stays out. I’m halfway down the corridor, some way out of reach. Another hand emerges from the crowd, a Chinese person looking for an opportunity. Miranda shakes her head, ever so slightly, and the person drops her hand. It seems this is meant for me, after all, and I step forward. I can’t say much about this interaction because it would spoil too much, except that once again Miranda seems to discharge a mountain of emotion in the course of seconds, her presence filling the entire corridor, her personal magnetism enchanting the crowd. This open-air interaction has a stronger effect on me than the 1:1 (which I’ve picked up earlier, now that I know where to stand). I’ve never known a performer like this.

I simply must spend a loop with Fania, so I pick her up around the reset. I don’t remember the early parts of the loop (the penalty of doing a write-up a week later), so let’s cut to just before the ballroom scene. I’ve been following her closely for a while now, and she’s rearranging the trees in the room, almost hidden in their midst (one place where the McKinnon’s improved lighting levels don’t have an impact). Then she draws the curtain, takes my hand and we’re dancing. She feels as tall as me (she isn’t, but Fania seems to exceed her dimensions, so compelling is her presence) and I try to remember months of ballroom dancing lessons from decades ago. As we part she whispers in my ear something which I will have to redact, but which makes me nod conspiratorially.

I’m now seeing the party scene for the third time tonight, and the infectious good humour of the music is rubbing off on me: I’m tapping my foot, nodding my head in time. My face has a broad grin on it - perhaps Fania can see it, because she catches my eye and breaks out into a grin too. We do the odd eyeball at each other as my gaze follows her around the room, then the crowd disperses and she goes into her muscular, spasmodic de-wigging solo. This is, just as I had anticipated, a massively athletic undertaking and is almost the match of anything Miranda does.

But, as Fania goes through her loop, I’m hugely impressed yet also slightly surprised. After seeing her PA in TDM I was expecting Bald Witch to be another contemptuous ice maiden. But this Bald Witch is fiery, defiant, with much more warmth than I would have imagined - more like Andrea’s evil twin. And her relationship with the religious artefacts and imagery in her environment - of which there is a plethora, far more than in New York - is so violently sarcastic that I expect the flames of Hell to spring up around her.

The rave happens. I go upstairs to investigate the fifth floor, so transformed from the McKittrick that I barely recognise the features (on a superficial level it’s not that different, but it feels different). I get a glimpse of a powerful scene in the new story, which I had been tipped off about, but once I’m past that I realise the rave must have finished. Maybe I can catch Miranda again, although my focus is on what Fania’s going to be doing. I head for the staircase. I can’t find the staircase. I do find the woods, however. I wander through the woods, looking for the way out. I don’t find it. I do find myself back where I started, however. OK, try again. Stick to the right hand path. No, that doesn’t work. Good God, don’t tell me the woods have only one way in and out?

I won’t answer that question, but I will say that after a couple of accidental detours into the toilets I find myself at last on the stairs down. So I’ve missed a chunk of the loop, but I do eventually manage to find Fania. Bald Witch is having fun, upping the ante on the relationship with her Redeemer. There’s no redemption here. It would be a massive spoiler to reveal what she does, but there are moments in the loop which make me jump with shock. Then we’re downstairs for the finale. As the walkout music plays, she comes round to the front of the stage, offers me her hand to help her down, and holds onto it as we walk out into the Manderley. A fabulous Fania smile and a gentle kiss, and my first show is over.

Fania and Miranda are about as perfect a pair of female witches as I’ve ever seen. While I may not be an SNM diehard, and may have missed some spectacular combinations over the years, the relationship this pair has built up through their work on TDM has granted them a naturally symbiotic dynamic in which they flourish - and the presence of Olly merely tops this off (I would like to have given him more time as Boy Witch, but he just seems to me a more natural fit for his other roles, Speakeasy and Macbeth). I would give anything to be able to see them all together in the rave, but I can’t take the risk with my health, especially on my first night.

And what a first night. To see these wonderful performers on their own would have been heaven. To see them together, and on top form, is... well, again, words fail me.