#not all of these guys had renders too so i had to improvise a bit

[legless-fish-on-rollerskates]

All the morons trying to claim that Dean wasn't saying anything to Cas because he was holding back slurs or something equally ridiculous... what show have you been watching? Surely not Supernatural. Like, yeah, Dean had some internalized shit for a while (mostly cause of how he was raised, let's be real), but this isn't season fucking one. Dean's in his goddamn forties now guys.

But you still think Dean Winchester is homophobic? Let's examine the evidence then, shall we?

1. Aaron Bass: Dean was flustered because he's not used to being hit on by dudes, but he was completely respectful. And he was alone, too. It wasn't like he was trying to "hide his homophobia" from Sam. He could've said whatever he wanted in that moment without anyone ever knowing, and he chose to awkwardly walk backward and wish Aaron a nice day. Then later, when they're working with him, Dean says nothing about it (other than a quick "he was my gay thing" to Sam), doesn't make it weird, and talks to him exactly the same way he would talk to anyone else.

2. Jesse and Ceasar: Dean's surprised when he realizes that they're married, again because he's not really used to it and so he made the wrong assumptions (which I will point out is really really normal, it happens all the time even between queer people, because heteronormativity is very much a thing in real life). But what does he do when he finds out? He asks them about their marriage - with genuine curiosity. What's it like to be in a relationship with a hunter, is it hard, all that jazz. Never asks about the fact that they're both men, none of those gross "so who's the woman" questions, literally just. Talking to two married hunters. That's it. Then later, when they're working, he never once questions their capability as hunters or suggests that they're weak in any way. There's no "you're less 'manly' because you're gay" mindset at all. And at the end of the episode he's genuinely happy for them, two hunters who managed to get out of the life and retire together.

There's lots of other examples (several male cops have been obviously into him over the years, his reaction to Jody talking about Claire and Kaia, all the subtext surrounding Lee, etc.) but for my last one for now, let's not forget...

3. Charlie fucking Bradbury: Arguably Dean's best friend besides Cas (no I haven't forgotten about Benny, I love Benny, but he was part of a very specific chapter of Dean's life and that chapter is done). We've known she was a lesbian from the get-go, and Dean takes it in stride when he finds out, immediately improvising to coach her through some painfully awkward flirting so she can get into the office ("you've just come home, and Scarlett Johansson is waiting for you"). And yes, there's the whole "I feel dirty" "yeah so do I" bit there, but that's clearly established as a joke, plus the guy was gross - as someone who is attracted to both women and men, I would feel dirty after flirting with him too.

The next few times we see Charlie, she and Dean are geeks and dweebs together, Dean is having more fun than we've seen in years, and we see him be a really good friend - in some ways, a better friend than he is to Cas. Charlie talks to him a little bit about girls, they LARP, they go shopping together, Dean comforts her when she has to let go of her mom. When she's killed, he gets so upset he goes on a murderous rampage (maybe not the most healthy way to deal with greif, but nonetheless showing how much she mattered to him). When he sees an alternate version of her in trouble he's immediately ready to risk his own life to help her even though she doesn't know him. He loved her like a sister, and he never once expressed any issues with her sexuality.

So let's go back to Cas. Cas is in love with Dean. Not much of a surprise there, he's said it before. But this is the first time Dean understands that that's what he's saying. It makes sense that he's a little stunned, especially considering that Cas is also saying that he's about to die. I mean, if your best friend of twelve years told you one day that they've been in love with you all along, that just knowing you has irrevocably changed them for the better, and that also by the way telling you this means they're going to die, mightn't you be rendered a tad speechless?

Dean does not hate Cas for this. Not at all. Because whether or not Dean is bi, whether or not he reciprocates, Cas is still his best friend. We've seen how hard Dean grieves every time Cas dies. We know how much Cas matters to him. Of all the shit they've put each other through, there's absolutely no logical reason for this to be the thing that damages their friendship beyond repair. Not after everything. No fucking way.

Dean says nothing because he doesn't know what to say, because he's still processing Cas's confession but also already grieving and blaming himself for Cas's death. The way he breaks down at the very end of the episode? That's not a man who's disgusted. That's a man who's shattered.

How dare you try to simplify this incredibly complex and emotional moment into Dean being a dick. How dare you. It's positively insulting. The entire point of Cas's speech was that Dean is so much more than that. If you can't see that, than I'm sorry, but you're missing the whole message of the show.

Supernatural is about family and sacrifice. It's about free will, making your own choices. And it's about being more than just who you're supposed to be, going beyond what other people want or assume. All the depth beneath the surface. That's the show. That's why we're still watching after all this time. Because it means something important. Something relevant. Something real.

Don't you fucking discredit that.

(thank you for coming to my TED talk)

[echo-hiraeth]

Princesa - Frankie Morales x F!Reader

Summary: Frankie is eager to find out what it is his girl does for a living, but she’s rather reserved about it. Until they run into each other at a birthday party.

Warnings: Profanities, mentions of injury, little bit of angst, but overall very fluff

Masterlist

A/n: I didn’t pick a specific princess, so everyone can feel included :)) feel free to imagine whichever one lol, go wild!

“Are you sure you don’t want me to pick you up?”, he asked, leaving a trail of kisses on your neck.

You scratched at his scalp, smiling down at him. “I get what you’re trying to do”, you chuckle.

“What? Bull-shit! Me, a secret agenda?”, he jested, lying his absolute ass off.

“You jerk! Pretending to care about my safety huh?”, you continued to taunt.

He poked your sides, burying his scruff in your neck. “Can you blame me? You work in ‘entertainment’ that could literally be anything, I just want to knowwww”, he whined.

“Patience, my dear, is the greatest virtue of all. Now unhand me, I have entertainment business to attend tomorrow.”

He pouted, tightening his strong arms around you. “Why can’t you just stay the night, princesa?”

“Because I have a lot of getting ready to do”, you answered, wiggling out of his iron grip.

“Alright, alright, fair enough, but let me come see you after”, he bargained, handing you your shirt off the floor.

You put it on, standing up to button your jeans. “I’ll text you, okay? I love you Frankie.”

He kissed you goodnight, walking you to your car and waving as you drive past. Luckily he had something to preoccupy his mind tomorrow, it was one of Redfly’s girls’ birthday. Tom had invited all the guys to help him out, a bunch of seven year-olds not exactly something he was equipped for.

The two of you had been dating for about half a year now, though you’d only gone public in your fourth month. Frankie had introduced you to some of the guys already, Redly and Ironhead being the ones you had yet to meet. So when you got an e-mail seeing if you could attend a seven year-old’s birthday tomorrow as a Disney princess. The one big mystery had been your job, you’d roughly told Frankie what you did without ever telling him what you did. It had been a big deal to you, some of your exes either breaking up over it or being really creepy about it. Everything had gone so smoothly with Frankie, as if it was always meant to be, and the longer you were dating, the more the talk about your job stressed you out.

The next morning you were up early, showering while trying to think of a way to tell Frankie. Too bad you weren’t allowed to drink on the job, you could use a shot for courage right about now, at ten am in the morning. Getting out of the shower you made your way to your wardrobe, pulling out the drycleaner’s bag with your dress for the day. You put on all the layers, trotting back to the bathroom to do your make-up and put on that damned wig. They really didn’t pay you enough for this, more than once had you nearly passed out from the heat, the wig and excessive uniform nothing short of restricting and suffocating in summer.

You sat down in the kitchen, eating a quick lunch and checking up on your work e-mails before heading off. The drive was supposed to be just under two hours, so you had time to rehearse your little act in the car, singing along to the karaoke version of the assigned princess’ song. You loved it though, seeing those kids’ faces light up as you walked into the room, tugging on the skirt of your dress, singing along with you. It was a very fulfilling job, but a tough industry nonetheless, more than once had a father taken you aside, asking you if you did anything else on the side. It was downright inappropriate and having to walk it off and smile hadn’t always proved easy. You had a good feeling about today though, humming along to the music as you drove, waving at kids and parents in passing.

As per usual you parked a couple houses down the road, not wanting to blow your cover of being a mundane girl rather than a glorified princess. You texted the father of the kid, communicating that you were ready to go. He texted you the OK, telling you to just come around the back. You took a deep breath, putting on your trademark smile as you opened the fence, walking into the garden.

“Look kids, the princess is here!”, somebody announced.

About a dozen of little heads turned your way, some squealing and screaming went along with it, as per usual. You waved excitedly, making a reverence to the birthday girl.

“Tessa! Happy birthday darling!”, you cooed, engulfing the little girl in a hug.

Some of the kids gathered around you, immediately starting the crossfire of interrogation, asking where your prince was, if the other princesses would be coming too, where your castle was, and so on and on. You answered each and every one of their questions, giggling and chuckling as they grew more and more excited.

Frankie was in the kitchen when you arrived, flipping pancakes with Santiago. “Think the princess is here”, he sighed.

“Think she’s hot?”, Pope asked.

“Hope not, Benny won’t be able to keep his hands off”, he chuckled.

Will walked in with some empty bottles. “Those kids are gonna sleep well tonight.”

“Ironhead”, Santi called, “she hot?”

He wolf-whistled, fervently nodding. “Drop-dead-gorgeous is what she is! Go have a look, I’ll take over.”

The two of them went outside with some new bottles of soda and water, setting them down on the table before looking in the direction of all the commotion. Frankie was sipping on some coke as he followed Santi, nearly choking on his drink as he spotted you.

“No way, Fish!”, Santi laughed, doubling over in his enthusiasm.

“That your girl?”, Tom asked with a confused look on his face.

He was rendered speechless, just slowly nodding as he looked at you. This was your “entertainment” job you refused to tell him about? So you weren’t like a private dancer? Just a.. princess for hire? He didn’t know whether to be relieved or not, feeling bewildered more than anything. When the initial shock settled he could actually take a good look at you. Will was right, you did look gorgeous, beaming like that. The dress was beautiful too, making you look regal, if not divine. It was a sight Frankie could get used to, you were adorable. You looked up from where you were crouched, talking to some kid and locked eyes with him.

A fucking deer in headlights. You felt your heart drop, blood rushing to your face. You cleared your throat, trying to regain your composure, not wanting any of the kids to suspect anything was off. But fuck, this wasn’t the plan at all.

He disappeared back into the kitchen, a mischievous smirk plastered on his face. At least Benny would keep his hands off. Will clasped his shoulder, grinning wickedly. “Goddamn Fish, you got yourself a whole princess, huh?”

Normally you felt rather comfortable in your role, singing and dancing for and with the kids as they please, but now, knowing that your boyfriend was here.. it was gonna be a long two hours. Everything was fine until Tessa tugged on your corset, beckoning you to bend down a little.

“Yes, dear?”, you asked.

“My uncles are staring at you”, she whispered, “maybe you should dance with them.”

Your lips curled up involuntarily, your bashfulness gaining the upper hand. “Is that what you really want, Tessa?”

The little girl nodded, twisting some of your locks around her tiny finger. “But uncle Frankie has a girlfriend, so you can’t dance with him”, she explained.

“Of course, that would not be very ladylike”, you assured her, placing a hand on her shoulder, “Your pick, love.”

She hauled you over to Santiago of all guys, giggling as she ran away, leaving the two of you just awkwardly standing there. “Tessa wants us to dance”, you sighed, picking at your fingers.

“Did she now?”, he humoured, “Well who am I to turn a princess down.”

He extended his hand, motioning for you to take it. And so you did. The two of you walked back over to the improvised dance floor. Everyone’s eyes were on you now, as Santiago placed a hand on your waist, the other one holding onto your palm. It was one simple waltz, where he learned this you didn’t know, but as you spun around you caught a glimpse of your surroundings. All the way in the back stood Frankie, leaning against a doorpost.

“Don’t worry about him, he can take it”, Pope soothed you, circling around once more.

You twirled out of his grasp, only to come back in four counts later. “I just feel bad that I didn’t tell him.”

“He’ll understand, but for now, let’s annoy him a bit more.”

You couldn’t help but huff out a laugh at this, nodding before you devoted all your attention to the dance again. At the end you curtsied, as did he, pressing a tender kiss to your palm. You saw Frankie shift in the corner of your eye, Benny already making his way over to you.

“Got one more for me?”, he asked, clearly wanting to play along.

You made another reverence, accepting yet again. “How pissed is he gonna be?”, you questioned as he laid his hands on you.

“Fuming”, Benny chuckled, starting to sway along to the music.

It became clear that he was an inexperienced dancer when he stepped on your toes for the fourth time. You just smiled at him, despite wanting to curse him out. He wasn’t doing it on purpose though, offering a mumbled apology each time it happened. That was until he stepped on your foot mid, twirl, making you bend it at an awkward angle. You heard somewhat of a crack before losing your balance. Because he was so close he had no issue steadying you.

“I think I just sprained my ankle”, you whispered, smile faltering due to your discomfort.

“Can you stand on it?”

You get tried to put some more weight on it, nearly falling in your attempt. Benny caught you yet again, putting your arm around his shoulder, guiding you towards one of the chairs.

Frankie was by your side before you could so much as blink, crouching down next to your chair. “Everything alright?”

“Her ankle’s fu- not good”, Benny informed him, grabbing the nearest bottle of water.

“We should take this inside, away from the kids”, you whispered, noticing the little heads turned in your direction.

Frankie nodded, sliding an arm under the backs of your knees, swiftly picking you up. He carried you into the house without a word, setting you down on the couch. You bent over to slide your heel off, whining at the sensitivity.

“What happened out there?”, he asked from the kitchen.

You lifted your skirt to get a good look. “He stepped on my foot and I bent it.”

“Shit – think it’s broken?” He knelt down again, resting your foot on his thigh as he carefully laid some ice on it.

You flinched at the touch, pursing your lips as you nodded rather frantically. “Yep, yep, yep. That’s never a good sign.”

“Okay, I’m taking you to the ER, c’mon”, he announced, once again picking you up. “I know my truck is no carriage but..”

You playfully hit his shoulder. “Don’t you dare make fun of me now.”

 He sat with you the entire time you were in the ER. Since you weren’t injured that badly you mostly were just stuck in the waiting room, in pure agony. You got some strange looks in your dress, but you’d abandoned the wig and corset. Frankie stuck by your side the entire time, kissing you forehead and holding your hand when he felt like it.

“I think you’re up, princesa”, he murmured, pointing towards the doctor approaching you.

 You had indeed fractured your ankle. The x-rays proved as much, a clean break on the bone. The doctor gave you some advice as to how to treat it and what not to do and left you in a small room with Frankie, waiting for a nurse to come apply your cast.

“Are you mad?”, you asked quietly.

He quirked a brow at you, trying to read you. “What?”

“Well.. the dancing and just not telling you and-“

He kissed you, shushing you with his mouth. “Honey, you were doing your job and the guys were just playing around. Why would I be mad?”

“It’s just that.. well in the past my job has.. you know, put an end to things…”, you said with a trembling lip.

He cupped your face, making you look up at him. “I don’t care about what you do for a living, baby, princess or not, you’ll always be my princesa.”

You blinked away a few tears, leaning back in to close the gap once again. “I love you so much, Frankie.”

“Te quiero mucho, mi amor. But.. you do owe me a dance.”

[cloudmyweather]

A Small Guide to Munimún's Discography: Part four and final, Pretty Dolly

Shaken by harsh reactions over the Fishface album, I wanted to make a follow-up that would be a sort of "how you like me now" comeback... a record that was actually awesome and oozing snark and misanthropy like I wanted Fishface to be in the first place. I wrote down lyrics that were generally misanthropic in nature, taking pages from groups like Ministry and guys like Mike Patton and William Bennett (of Whitehouse).

Around this time, I was also investing myself into the general history of popular music, trying to take notes of everything. Yes, I was becoming a "music nerd." I wanted my infatuation with the Residents to mean something. On an unrelated note, during the year of 2018 I also developed crippling anxiety and paranoia which has rendered me dependent on medication possibly for the rest of my life. On another unrelated note, I felt progressively more useless and confused about my sexuality and gender. All of this fueled my ideas for "Fishface II". I wanted the album to be tough and scary like some industrial music I was getting into at the time.

On sending demos over to Selena, she told me what I was doing was far too personal to simply call it another Fishface record. And in truth, I didn't want to make a Fishface record - I just wanted to make angry music because that's how I felt all the time. So that prompted me to call the project something else, and maybe develop an alter ego to justify the sudden change in sound and attitude. Enter Pretty Dolly with the screamy and sample-heavy Erotoleptic.

EROTOLEPTIC – July 2019

Highlights: "The Trout Mask Replica of Jacking Off", "Punching Bag", "Money", "Love Song", "Indie Darling"

Reception for this one was fairly surprising. I'm pretty sure at least 50 people have heard it. Some even paid for it!

Of course, I wasn't angry all the time. My less aggressive musical outings were collected into a cute little Gunstar Cum (a joke only I get), along with some attempts at keyboard improvisation. I got a MIDI controller for my birthday which was used quite a bit here. People didn't really care about this one although it was clear I was getting better at this "making music" thing.

GUNSTAR CUM – October 2019

Highlights: "Ah That's Fine", "I Mentioned You", "Carz to Work", "My Ace Your Fass", "Tiny Song"

also: ALL THIS KIND – Halloween 2019 30-minute acoustic guitar session, some of it was used in Teu silêncio ensurdece and other places.

I am sure I don't have to explain what the year of 2020 did to me, but it was made worse by the presence of a certain woman in my life. The suicidal thoughts that have plagued me for a long time were also taking their toll on me. I am not capable of love was not recorded as a follow-up to Erotoleptic, but simply as a necessity to get more things out of my chest. What those things were, I don't think anyone can figure out.

I AM NOT CAPABLE OF LOVE – June 2020

Highlights: "TIRED OF ME", "Skin Fetish", "Pitchfork Darling", "SON OF A GUN" (Vaselines cover), "Ugly Dolly", "This is not your place"

I like to think of it as successful because at least one friend asked if I was okay after they listened to it.

Things only got marginally better for a while, finishing a full cover of the Residents' Commercial Album, before falling to an absolute low point at the end of the year. I'll spare you of the details but the woman I mentioned wasn't in my life anymore. Well... she still was, but as a ghost in my head, not as a friend. And to make it all worse, the year was STILL 2020.

At a mild mood in December, I got in touch with Selena again and cooked up one more Fishface song which lived up to my initial expectations of the project. Christian children's Christmas trees were decorated with the Fishface Christmas Single, a song about finding out Santa Claus was never real. There's a meaning somewhere. I need to tell you that because otherwise you won't look for it.

Pretty Dolly as an entity was becoming a tired idea for me. I didn't want to be predictable and simply make another album of angry music. I never liked doing essentially the same project twice. But I had things on my mind still, as you can imagine. It seemed interesting to collaborate with myself – as in, mingling Munimún [with] Pretty Dolly. I figured it would be a way to avoid being one-note. I'm pretty happy with the resulting album. I was getting a little more comfortable with my vocals and lyrics.

MUNIMÚN & PRETTY DOLLY – April 2021

Highlights: "Pity Song", "Leg" (Hardy Fox cover), "The Post Punk Community is Dying", "Burn in Hell", "Men are Pigs / Women are Cunts"

Another friend worried that this album was too angry and hateful. So again, I must be doing something right.

Pretty Dolly has retired for the time being. Not only is she unwilling to fall into a pattern of making angry albums every couple of months, she's happy with the idea of a trilogy. The song "Burn in Hell" closes out her feelings on life and people in a way that would be hard to repeat.

As for Munimún, I had it in me to compose one last piece in honor of my year in Hell. Of course, it didn't feel like Hell at first. It can take a while for one to realize that they're being boiled alive. I think Elvis sang a song about that.

And with that we find ourselves in the present without a specific goal in mind. I'm currently trying to piece together ideas for an album of Residents covers - not my first attempt at that, but my first attempt at mingling their music with my style. Other than that, no plans for original music are currently being worked on. I wouldn't say I'm in a slump, I'm just not sure what to do next.

But enough about that. We're done talking about my music for now. Next couple of posts I'll do some catching up with my art.

[boreothegoldfinch]

chapter 11 paragraph x

In the car, out on the main road again, all was jubilation: laughter, high fives, while my heart was slamming so hard I could barely breathe. “What’s going on?” I rasped, several times—gulping for breath and looking back and forth between them and then, when they kept ignoring me, babbling in a percussive mix of Russian and Ukrainian, all four of them including Shirley Temple: “Angliyski!” Boris turned to me, wiping his eyes, and slung his arm around my neck. “Change of plans,” he said. “That was all on the fly—improvised. We could have asked for nothing better. Their third man didn’t show.” “Catching them short-handed.” “Flatfooted.” “Pants down! On the crapper!” “You”—I had to gasp to get the words out—“you said no guns.” “Well, no one got hurt, did they? What difference does it make?” “Why didn’t we just pay?” “Because we lucked out!” Throwing up his arms. “Once in a lifetime chance! We had the opportunity! What were they going to do? They were two —we were four. If they had any sense, they should never have let us inside. And—yes, I know, only forty thousand, but why should I pay them one cent if I don’t have to? For stealing my own property?” Boris chortled. “Did you see the look on his face? Grateful Dead? When Cherry whipped him back of the dome?” “You know what he was complaining about, the old goat?” said Victor, turning to me jubilantly. “Wanted it in Euros! ‘What, dollars?’ ” imitating his peevish expression. “ ‘You brought me dollars?’ ” “Bet he wishes he had those dollars now.” “I bet he wishes he kept his mouth shut.” “I’d like to hear that phone call to Sascha.” “I wish I knew the name of the guy. That stood them up. Because I would like to buy him a drink.” “Wonder where he is?” “He is probably at home in the shower.” “Studying his Bible lesson.” “Watching ‘Christmas Carol’ on television.” “Waiting at the wrong place, most like.”

“I—” My throat was so constricted I had to swallow to speak. “What about that kid?” “Eh?” It was raining, light rain pattering on the windshield. Streets black and glistening. “What kid?” “Boy. Girl. Kitchen boy. Whatever.” “What?” Cherry turned—still winded, breathing hard. “I didn’t see anyone.” “I didn’t either.” “Well, I did.” “What’d she look like?” “Young.” I could still see the freeze-frame of the young ghostly face, mouth slightly open. “White coat. Japanese-looking.” “Really?” said Boris curiously. “You can tell apart by looking? Like where they are from? Japan, China, Vietnam?” “I didn’t get a good look. Asian.” “He, or she?” “I think is all girls that work in the kitchen there,” said Gyuri. “Macrobyotik. Brown rice and like that.” “I—” Now I really wasn’t sure. “Well—” Cherry ran his hand over the top of his close-cropped hair —“glad she ran, whoever, because you know what else I found back there? Sawed-off Mossberg 500.” Laughter and whistles at this. “Shit.” “Where was it? Grozdan didn’t—?” “No. In a—” he gestured, to indicate a sling—“what do you call it. Hanging under the table, in some cloth like. Just happened to see it when I was down on the floor. Like—looked up. There it was, right over my head.” “You didn’t leave it there, did you?” “No! I wouldn’t have minded to take it except was too big and had my hands full. Unscrewed it and knocked the pin out and threw it in the alley. Also—” he pulled a silver snub-nosed pistol out of his pocket, which he passed over to Boris—“this!” Boris held it up to the light and looked at it. “Nice little conceal-carry J-frame. Ankle holster in those bell bottom jeans! But to his misfortune he was not quick enough.” “Flexcuffs,” said Gyuri to me, with slightly inclined head. “Vitya thinks ahead.” “Well—” Cherry wiped the sweat from his broad forehead—“they are light and slim to carry, and they have saved me many times shooting people. I do not like to hurt anyone if I don’t have to.” Medieval city: crooked streets, lights draped on bridges and shining off rain-peppered canals, melting in the drizzle. Infinity of anonymous shops, twinkling window displays, lingerie and garter belts, kitchen utensils arrayed like surgical instruments, foreign words everywhere, Snel bestellen, Retro-stijl, Showgirl-Sexboetiek. “Back door was open to the alley,” said Cherry, elbowing off his sports coat and swigging from a bottle of vodka which Shirley T. had produced from under the front seat—hands a bit shaky and his face, the nose particularly, glowing a flagrant, stressed-out, Rudolph red. “They must have left it open for him—their third man—to come in at the back. I closed it and locked it— made Grozdan close and lock it, gun to his head, he was snivel and crying like baby—” “That Mossberg,” Boris said to me, accepting the bottle passed over the front seat. “Evil dirty thing. Sawed off—? sprays pellets here to Hamburg. Aim it way the fuck away from everyone and still you will hit half the people in the room.” “Good trick, no?” said Victor Cherry philosophically. “To say your third man is not there? ‘Wait five minutes, please’? ‘Sorry, mix up’—? ‘He will be here any moment’? While he is all the time in back with the shotgun. Good double cross, if they had thought of it—” “Maybe they did think of it. Why else have the gun back there?” “I think we had a narrow miss, is what I think—” “There was one car pulled up front, scared Shirley and me,” said Gyuri, “while you were all in there, two guys, we thought we were in the shit but was only two gays, French guys, looking for restaurant—” “—but no one in the back, thank God, I got Grozdan on the floor and cuffed him to radiator,” Cherry was saying. “Ah, but—!” he held up the felt-wrapped package—“first. This. For you.”

He handed it over the seat to Gyuri, who—gingerly, with his fingertips, as if it were a tray he might spill—passed it to me. Boris—downing his slug, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand—chucked me gaily in the arm with the bottle while humming we wish you a merry Christmas we wish you a merry Christmas. Package on my knees. Running my hands all around the edge. The felt was so thin that I sensed the rightness of it immediately with my fingertips, the texture and weight were perfect. “Go on,” said Boris, nodding, “better open it, make sure it’s not the Civics book this time! Where was it?” he asked Cherry as I began to fumble with the string. “Dirty little broom closet. Piece-of-shit plastic briefcase. Grozdan took me right to it. I thought he might fuck around a bit but burner at the head was all it took. No sense getting popped when all that good space cake still around for the taking.” “Potter,” said Boris, trying to get my attention; and then again: “Potter.” “Yes?” Lifting the briefcase. “This 40 rocks is going to Gyuri and Shirley T. Keeping them green. For services rendered. Because it is thanks to these two that we did not pay Sascha one cent for the favor of stealing your property. And Vitya—” reaching across to clasp his hand—“we are more than equal now. The debt is mine.” “No, I can never repay what I owe you, Borya.” “Forget it. Is nothing.” “Nothing? Nothing? Not true, Borya, because this very night I carry my life because of you, and every night until the last night…” It was an interesting story he was telling, if I’d had ears to listen to it— someone had fingered Cherry for some unspecified but apparently very serious crime which he had not committed, nothing to do with, perfectly innocent, the guy had rolled for reduced prison time and unless Cherry, in turn, wanted to roll on his higher-ups (“unwise to do, if I wish to keep breathing”), he was looking at ten sticks and Boris, Boris had saved the day because Boris had tracked down the slimebag, in Antwerp and out on bail, and the story of how he had done this was very involved and enthusiastic and Cherry was getting choked up and sniffing a bit and there was more and it seemed to involve arson and bloodshed and something to do with a power saw but by that point I wasn’t hearing a word because I’d gotten the string untied and streetlights and watery rain reflections were rolling over the surface of my painting, my goldfinch, which—I knew incontrovertibly, without a doubt, before even turning to look at the verso—was real. “See?” said Boris, interrupting Vitya right in the heat of his story. “Looks good, no, your zolotaia ptitsa? I told you we took care of it, didn’t I?” Running my fingertip incredulously around the edges of the board, like Doubting Thomas across the palm of Christ. As any furniture dealer knew, or for that matter St. Thomas: it was harder to deceive the sense of touch than sight, and even after so many years my hands remembered the painting so well that my fingers went to the nail marks immediately, at the bottom of the panel, the tiny holes where (once upon a time, or so it was said) the painting was nailed up as a tavern sign, part of a painted cabinet, no one knew. “He still alive back there?” Victor Cherry. “Think so.” Boris dug an elbow in my ribs. “Say something.”

But I couldn’t. It was real; I knew it, even in the dark. Raised yellow streak of paint on the wing and feathers scratched in with the butt of the brush. One chip on the upper left edge that hadn’t been there before, tiny mar less than two millimeters, but otherwise: perfect. I was different, but it wasn’t. And as the light flickered over it in bands, I had the queasy sense of my own life, in comparison, as a patternless and transient burst of energy, a fizz of biological static just as random as the street lamps flashing past. “Ah, beautiful,” said Gyuri amiably, leaning in to look at my right side. “So pure! Like a daisy. You know what I am trying to express?” he said, nudging me, when I did not answer. “Plain flower, alone in a field? It’s just —” he gestured, here it is! amazing! “Do you know what I am saying?” he asked, nudging me again, only I was still too dazed to reply. Boris in the meantime was murmuring half in English and half Russian to Vitya about the ptitsa as well as something else I couldn’t quite catch, something about mother and baby, lovely love. “Still wishing you had phoned the art cops, eh?” he said, slinging his arm around my shoulder with his head close to mine, exactly as when we were boys. “We can still phone them,” said Gyuri, with a shout of laughter, punching me on the other arm. “That’s right, Potter! Shall we? No? Maybe not such a good idea any more, eh?” he said across me, to Gyuri, with a raised eyebrow.

[aion-rsa]

The Suicide Squad: How Idris Elba Brings Bloodsport to Life

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Idris Elba has a certain unmistakeable, charismatic vibe about him. The resulting magnetism extends to the wide range of characters he has brought to life over the years – from playing the second-in-command to a drug kingpin in The Wire to playing a guy who has to deal with the likes like Michael Scott in The Office, to playing a dedicated horseman committed to fighting off gentrifying developers in his neighborhood in the recently released Concrete Cowboy. Whether it’s as a leading man or part of a larger ensemble, Elba’s performances always stand out because of what he brings to each role. 

Later this summer, Elba will make his DC Extended Universe debut in James Gunn’s The Suicide Squad – a comic book adaption full of talent who could carry their own features if given the opportunity. We recently spoke with him about his role as the lesser-known comic character Bloodsport and what it was like to be part of such a chaotic batch of DC villains and antiheroes. 

How were you first approached for the role for Bloodsport, and what made you say yes?

James Gunn reached out to me and said he had this project that he wanted to work on and didn’t tell me what it was. We had a meeting pretty late at night [and] what was appealing to me was that it wasn’t a continuation of the last film, and this is a new character. I just wanted to see where James wanted to go with this new film and this new character. So that was really what drew me in.

Bloodsport isn’t a very famous character. So what did you learn about him and what freedom were you given to bring him to life?

Like you say, he’s not very well known so I sort of traced his history back in the DC world. He’s popped up in some places. He’s more of the vigilante soldier type. He’s not going to have special powers, he’s just a really good assassin, basically. That was pretty consistent throughout his history. There was a little bit of leniency between myself and James collaboratively just working it out … what we want to bring to life. I felt very involved in that process, so essentially I got to bring him to life the way we wanted to.

You’re no stranger to superhero movies. You’re an MCU alum and I consider Hobbs & Shaw a superhero movie because you played Brixton Lore, the fantastic “Black Superman” in it. Did you bring any of those experiences to Bloodsport?

Playing any action character requires a level of real dedication just to the amount of work you have to do. So although I’ve been in the Marvel universe, Heimdall isn’t so much of an action character, despite moments where he’s had action. But Brixton in Hobbs & Shaw was 100% full on. Going from that into The Suicide Squad was a great transition because I basically brought some of the things I learned from the experiences I had on Hobbs & Shaw. It’s not the same character, but the level of effort is the same. 

This ensemble cast is one of the wildest we’ve seen in a superhero movie. What was it like to work with everyone? 

That was a lot of fun. It’s challenging keeping your character in one lane while you’ve got these really larger-than-life characters around you, especially Peacemaker who is a natural rival [to Bloodsport]. It’s kind of hard to sort of stay in your character with John Cena, who is incredible with improvisations. And then everyone else has this quick-fire banter, but Bloodsport, he doesn’t even like to talk. It’s like, you don’t want to be too friendly with these people. But I think that’s what’s beautiful about his arc. When you see the movie, he goes on a journey.

The dynamic with the actors is incredible. Really good, nice, hard-working people. James was so specific around timing and comedy and how you say lines and stuff. It was great to be a part of that. It’s almost like he’s a comic strip artist and he had these characters to play with and built these amazing frames. I love working with directors that have a complete vision, but allow you a little bit of latitude to bring it to life.

What was it like wearing that intricate Bloodsport costume?

The suit was very tricky to wear. Each component of his costume does something else, so it’s quite a tricky costume to design. I remember speaking to James about the many machinations of designs that he had gone through with this costume. When I came on board, it had to fit to who I am and how Bloodsport moves. It’s intricate but it looks incredible and badass when you see it in the film, but it was a real journey getting there. 

What are his weapons like?

Just imagine a weapon that can transform from one thing into another and keep going. He’s got a pretty cool array of weapons. 

In the trailer we see Bloodsport in vacation wear, a nice pair of grilling sandals and linen pants. Do you believe that Bloodsport is good on the grill and who would he play Spades or Dominos with and why?

With a name like Bloodsport he’s definitely going to grill. I don’t think he’s the guy that’s seasoning, but I think he’s behind the barbecue with the fire, making sure that meat and blood are cooking. As far as playing games with anyone, he doesn’t do that, he’s solitary, he doesn’t like company, and likes to be alone. He’s very guarded. He just wouldn’t find it interesting to play cards against anyone. He might play chess, maybe, but I don’t think he’s playing Spades at the barbecue.

Earlier this year, there was an announcement about you and your wife, Sabrina, teaming up with your respective production companies to develop an Afro-futuristic animated series. Can you speak to some of the motivation for wanting to put a story like Dantai out into the world?

I can tell you that it’s mainly the brainchild of Sabrina. Her deep passion and history with anime introduced me to it. From my perspective, I just love telling stories, but also this is a medium that’s kind of new and interesting to me, and it feels underserved in many, many ways. Sabrina is a super, super geek when it comes to anime [laughs], so, you know, I’m there. But I’m so engaged from what I’ve learned so far, Crunchyroll is incredible. We want to make something really exciting, hopefully that will maybe even bring more people to the genre.

You don’t know how happy it just made me to hear that your wife is a huge anime fan. I’m a huge anime fan, so finding other Black women who love that art form always makes me happy. So thank you for sharing that.

Yeah. You guys could definitely travel down some wormholes and discuss because she can go deep.

Would you all ever consider developing a superhero story or comic book adaptation?

We haven’t considered it. It would certainly be sort of a natural course of action in terms of how this came about. We would certainly consider that, but right now it’s one step at a time to try and get [Dantai] right and see how we go. But for me, if you know anything about me or my ambitions are out there, so (laughing) I’ll end up doing something in that space for sure.

Retcons and remakes and comics all go hand in hand. Are there any other comic characters you’d love a chance to bring to life, even though you’ve already been in the DC and the Marvel universe?

Well, we all need to see Black Superman but someone else is putting that in the works. But you know, that’s practically my nickname right now. (laughing) I’m being honest. I’m not the best dictionary of comic books [so] I honestly couldn’t speak with authority.

There is a character named Icon from Milestone comics, and although folks don’t like when you refer to him as the Black Superman, he is kind of like that analog. So I mean, there is still a chance for that to happen. 

Oh, really?

Yes.

Wow. Okay. Thank you for that tidbit. What did you say was the name of the company it comes from?

He comes from Milestone Comics. They were a Black imprint. Dwayne McDuffie was part of this startup, but they were an imprint of DC Comics. Static Shock, Icon, Rocket and some other really prominent Black superheroes came from them. I’m sorry. I’m a comic nerd.

No, I did not know that. Who has it now?

DC does. Unfortunately, Dwayne McDuffie passed away. But DC is bringing it back. There are some actual comics that are in the works right now. Static Shock is one of them. I know that. I believe Michael B. Jordan is producing the movie. So they’re around. Yeah. So I’m just putting that bug in your ear.

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

Thank you very much. That’s great. I’m looking it up as we speak.

The Suicide Squad opens on Aug. 6 in theaters and HBO Max. 

Check out more on The Suicide Squad in the latest issue of Den of Geek!

The post The Suicide Squad: How Idris Elba Brings Bloodsport to Life appeared first on Den of Geek.

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[brideylee]

Chateau Quarantine

                 Sophia Coppola smokes a cigarette while she waits for an omelette she has no intention of eating.  It’s a gloomy marine layered morning, you can barely see across Sunset. She’s been in lock down for three weeks and while she normally loves the moody, brooding decadence of the Chateau Marmont, its elite solitude is giving her a bit too much time to reflect. She thinks about the concept of crying as she watches a long torso-ed model skinny dip in the pool from the penthouse. There are no rules anymore, not that there were many in the first place. The hotel was shuttered to the public as of three weeks ago, and those who were already there could stay indefinitely. Sophia lives alone in the tower suite with the three bedrooms and the wrap around porch, known by some as “the Deniro”, but Robert himself couldn’t tell you why. Any legends or gossip about the Chateau were just bread crumbs to keep the public hungry and mystified. The real Chateau for the privileged few who used it, was an unceremonious respite for excessive loneliness, addiction, and often not great sex. The Chateau had a reputation: look but don’t fuck. Everyone’s genitals were rendered useless from anti-depressants.

               She thought she would be filming by now. Her cast is stranded too, with little guidance other than “we’ll wait it out.” The film she wanted to make stars Hugh Grant and Ewan McGregor as two estranged brothers coming together for their father’s funeral. Iman was set to the play the mysterious woman who shows up at the funeral who they then realize was their father’s mistress. It was going to be a slow movie about the brothers coming to terms with their father’s death and equally so falling in love with the woman he hid from them. All this would be suggested through intimate long takes, and funny, stylish, improvised montages. Always subtle and romantic without the sap, this was the tight rope Sophia liked to balance on.  At the end of the movie, both brothers are mildly changed, but not entirely. She has a sweet spot for the immovability of people’s psyches, particularly men. 

Sophia watches impartially, as the naked model floats on her back in the calm pool. It is so cold and early to swim, is she on drugs or is everyone at this place even more numb than they think? She wondered if her film was too male, too disembodied from her personally to mean anything.  Tapping into the male gaze, was an ability she was born with. Her father’s point of view was all she interacted with as a kid, and the underside of his specialties became her focus: the lost parts of men when they are too weak to hold up the heavy crown of their egos, who they were when they could let themselves feel outside of their work. But given the state of the world, and the molasses nature of time during lock down, Sophia started to question if what she always found to be her strength was just simply trauma. Was her whole profession a way to resolve some genetic creative stifling that took place in the shadow of her dad? Surely her body of work contains more than that. It’s not all a selfish attempt at repair. Is any art not selfish? "Maybe I should make a different movie, something that everyones gonna like for once.” She thinks to herself.  Thank God, her goat cheese omelette has arrived.

             Later on, the gothic lobby is empty besides the cast of her film and the elegant model behind the reception desk standing like a hollow sculpture, frightened by the chaos that lurks outside. Ewan McGregor, drunk off of five Marmont Mules, is showing Hugh Grant an app that maps the stars and constellations. Ewan has gone on and on about a camping trip he took around Scotland and how amazing the stars were, but when pressed for details about where exactly he was or what he saw or what year he did this, he can’t seem to remember anything at all.But that doesn’t dampen his excitement about the app. “See, that, there is Orion’s belt!” Ewan enthusiastically points out, his cute smirk displaying his bottom row of sweet corn kernel teeth. Ewan just recently learned about the stars. Until the age of 47, Ewan had been referring to them as “night freckles.” Many think this is why he didn’t have a fun time acting in  Star Wars, space simply befuddled him. Hugh and Ewan are dressed exactly the same: navy blue beanie, black jeans, a tight blue thermal, and desert boots- the actor man uniform they give you after you play opposite Nicole Kidman or Renee Zellweger.

“That’s brilliant,” says Hugh Grant completely perplexed by the app and confused at Ewan’s rambling. Hugh sticks a handkerchief up his nostril with his pointer finger and wiggles it around somewhat violently. Iman clocks this with a blink of disgust, her silk, gold blouse  glistens with god-like royalty in the amber glow.  “Can you turn your face away? That’s how the virus is spreading.” Her voice is deep and she rarely uses it because it changes the direction of the wind and messes with the tides.  “Aw, fuck me. That’s right, isn’t it?” Hugh Grant turns away and starting blowing his nose and coughing obnoxiously. Hugh is acting like a resentful brat because he knows he wont be able to have Iman. He decides he’s gonna pick a fight with Sandra Bullock via face time later to blow off steam. Iman is thinking she was right all along, she should never have agreed to this. She was already sick of the “beanie twins”. 

Hugh had been rattling on about how the movie needed a sex scene or at least a sexy scene and went on to say that Sophia had some sort of block. Iman felt that both Ewan and Hugh, however innocently, were exploiting their acting roles to gain real life experience, and there was no way in hell, she was going to kiss either of them.  Her kiss would make them immortal and Iman knew their souls needed more lifetimes to grow. Plus, she liked the script the way it was- underwritten and open for interpretation. Her character is symbolic of the side of their dad they didn’t get to meet-  spiritual, graceful, embodied. It was a soulful choice not to show any nudity or sex, one that could lead Americans to try to use whats left of their iPhone stolen imaginations.

                Meanwhile Michael Cain, who was supposed to play the dead father, is staring at the beautiful Victorian tapestry hanging behind her. “It’s like it’s right out of the Cloister’s.” Michael says under his breath. Michael is sweet, Iman thinks as she watches him stare at the tapestry with wonder, his mouth agape, and a lil warm milk spilling out of his left eye. Iman and him have known each other for years and he always reminded her of her husband: his fierce devotion to his craft, his rigorous intellectuality that does a bad job hiding an animalistic sexuality. Both men contained so much and no one can handle a man like that besides a mystical siren like Iman. 

Hugh and Ewan’s chatter dies as their drinks empty. “If I were to be honest with myself…” Hugh begins. “Better later than never…” Michael Cain interrupts without cracking a smile,  a dryness a la Maggie Smith. In fact, fuck, this was Maggie Smith. No one had realized. Hugh winks at Michael/ Maggie and continues. “ I don’t think were going to be filming any time soon, folks. I think we are being held hostage a bit by Miss Coppola.” Ewan stares off with a thinking face like no one has  ever had a deeper thought before. “That is interesting to think about. There is some kind of bratty assumption that all this will fade away soon enough. And we’ll be back on set. But what if it’s not for another year or so?”  Ewan is really getting worked up “What if we live here for the rest of our lives!!” His eyes are big and dazzling, it’s like he’s thinking of the most ideal outcome for the rest of his life.

               Suddenly, Sophia joins them at the table. “There they are, my little hunchbacks!” This is what Sophia affectionately calls her actors, the origin is unknown. Sophia has a strange new confidence around her. Usually, when she walked into places, she would feel like a Nat Sherman cigarette, like only some select tall New Yorkers in the back would still appreciate her. “Hello, love! Someone slept well.” Maggie Smith as Michael Caine chirped. Even when Maggie-Michael said something sweet, it still felt like someone was aggressively tickling your ribcage. 

          “I have news.” Sophia sits down, and smiled large and toothy, a stark contrast to her usual chic, despondent stare,  a look only afforded  to artists born with trust funds. “We’re not making the movie.” Hugh taps the table. “Well, I believe I won that bet.” Ewan’s jaw drops, destroyed. “You mean we cant live here together forever?” He runs his hands through his hair, petrified. Iman is quiet, which can mean many different things and all things at once, she is eternally the glory of God, a forgotten pyramid at the bottom of the ocean that if unearthed would explode us into 5D ascension. 

 “We are making a better movie! A super hero movie!!” Sophia exclaims. Sophia gets up close in the faces of her cast, pitching them on her new idea. “It’ll be a real heroes journey- good guys versus evil! Fun CGI! Sexy starlets and fun on trend jokes!” She turns to Michael Maggie, her mouth inches away from their milky eye, and says- “And much much more!” Sophia climbs up on the table now. “The adults will love it, as well as the little ones!” She does an Irish jig and starts spinning around and then poses with her arms up as though at the end of a musical.  It was not fun to watch.  Iman cuts her off-“I don’t trust what is happening.This is not reality. This is delusion. A karmic spell.” The power of Iman’s words blows the power out of the Chateau, pipes burst, the fire alarm goes off, and Joel Madden of Good Charlotte in room 304 stops jerking off for a second. Sophia is still catching her breath from her presentation, her sweating, arms stretched to the ceiling. She gulps as her eyes meet Iman’s. “Why don’t you just write from my character’s point of view?” Iman says as softly as she can without causing chaos.   Sophia freezes. Her whole body calcifies and turns to ice, then crumbles onto the table. Ewan and Hugh watch in absolute horror as Iman drops some of the ice into her water. She knows she shouldn’t have said yes to this project and looks on lovingly at Michael/ Maggie who has dozed off. 

[metalgearkong]

Days Gone - Review (PS4)

8/19/20

Developed by SIE Bend Studio, released April 2019

Days Gone is an ambitious effort from the company that made the Syphon Filter and PS Vita Uncharted games. This is their first major title attempting to stand head and shoulders among other major open-world franchises. Days Gone is a game I had some interest in, but only picked up about a year later, curious to see if it brought anything significant to the genre. Combine Sons of Anarchy with The Walking Dead and throw it into a sandbox landscape, and that’s about what the elevator pitch must have been for this game. Days Gone is a huge accomplishment for what is a relatively small studio, but it needed a lot more polish and commitment to new ideas to be as good as the more well known franchises. 

Deacon St John is a survivor of a zombie outbreak, and gets around on his motorcycle doing odd jobs for friends at fellow refugee camps. This game’s most unique aspect is how it centers around the chopper itself. You cannot simply hop into a random vehicle and drive anywhere you want. The motorcycle is the only mode of transportation in this game, and I thought that was a lot of fun at first. However, at no point does the game or story explain why trucks, cars, and other vehicles aren’t in use. Gasoline is clearly present, as it powers your motorcycle and the many generators found at most camp sites and settlements, so it seems a bit contrived without explanation. The gas tank is shamefully small, not able to go more than a couple kilometres without having to be refilled. This means you need to stop at virtually every abandoned gas station, government release camp, or other settlement to search for a gas can and fill up. 

Having to constantly be on the lookout for more fuel felt extremely restricting, and kept me from exploring the map as much as I wanted. If you run out of gas on the highway, you physically have to walk the bike all the way until you find gas at a settlement before you can drive again. There was no way to fast travel or pay for a Uber in any way I could see, and running out of fuel a couple times were the low points of my experience. I get this game wants to have elements of the “survival��� genre, but this aspect took it too far. Guns and ammo tend to be scarce as well, making you rely on improvised melee objects for weapons, and stealth kills to make up for the lack of an arsenal. Melee weapons degenerate quickly, but new ones can be found constantly. Chopping at human and zombie enemies works well enough, as you need to consider your stamina meter to keep from becoming exhausted. The shooting mechanics are nothing special, and each gun doesn’t feel like it packs a lot of punch. 

Much of the routine activities will be very familiar to those who have played any Assassin’s Creed, or open-world RPG of late. The map itself is covered in fog until you visit new locations. Zombies (”freakers”) dot the landscape, especially at night, and burning zombie nests in small towns and settlements acts to reduce the random zombie population of an area. Bandit camps also fill many corners of the map, and killing all enemies in those also renders the area of the map safer (and unlocks fast travel). It’s really nothing you haven’t done a million times before. Camps can be cleared entirely with stealth (something I always tried to do), but with the slightly unreliable shooting and stealth mechanics, it didn’t always feel satisfying. Once I had cleared enough bad guy human settlements, I felt like I was beginning to spin my wheels and lost interest. The only other memorable aspect of this game are the zombie hoards themselves. Days Gone packs a surprising and intimidating amount of zombies in one spot, and having to work around or run from a hoard can be a scary and challenging experience.

SIE Bend Studio is based in Bend, OR, and is the same state this game takes place. As a fellow Oregonian myself, I’m disappointed more of Oregon’s locations aren’t taken advantage of. How cool would it have been to be able to access the coast and see something that resembles Haystack Rock, or perhaps a huge lake in the middle of the map representing Crater Lake National Park? I do like that half of this map is virtually desert; as most of Eastern Oregon (and where Bend is located) is fairly arid, but change the texts and this game’s would have resembled any generic mountainous location in North America. Even a distant inaccessible mountain resembling Mt Hood would have been easy and much appreciated. I don’t know how many major big budget games will ever take place specifically in Oregon, and its a shame the developers didn’t take more advantage of it. 

Days Gone is yet another open-world action-RPG taking place in a zombie pandemic. Much of what works best about it are things you’ve seen in dozens of other games, and no single aspect stands out as the best within its genre or format. Its most unique aspect is its focus and center on the motorcycle itself, but its not enough to make this an all around great game. I actually lost so much interest and faced so many fetch-quests I gave up on trying to complete the game. With uninteresting characters and story, nothing kept me motivated to push onward. The story may or may not have an interesting outcome, but in the 20 or so hours I played, I hardly ever found the narrative or characters interesting. This is a decent open-world game, but if all your appetite calls for is clearing bandit camps, scavenging for spare parts, and unlocking achievements, you may enjoy Days Gone more than I did.

7/10

[innuendostudios]

We hit 200k subscribers! Holy heck! Here’s a small, celebratory video collecting my favorite bits and pieces that got cut from other videos.

If you like this, or the videos these bits were removed from, consider backing me on Patreon.

Transcript below the cut.

The Artist is Absent

If I tell you about what I did yesterday, you do what? You take a bunch of sights, sounds, tastes, smells from your experience and stick them together in your head into a complex picture of my experience? Well, that’s what I’m doing when I use my memory. I don’t have a prefab image of what’s happened to me in my life that I break down into pieces when I describe it to you; the act of remembering is building up from pieces, reconstructing reality from a mass of tiny sensations, and all a memory is is a set of instructions for which ones to assemble and how. This act is performed every time a thing is remembered. And the difference between my memory and your imagination is that, having lived it, I have way more sense memories than I could ever communicate, and the knowledge that mine actually happened to me. Those are really the only differences; you could characterize memory as “imagining things that actually happened,” or imagination as “remembering things that didn’t.”

The Artist is Absent 2

OK, quickie sidebar on what the meaning of “meaning” is in this context. I don’t want anyone to trip over this term and think I’m saying all art is part of some grand design, like I’m going to argue The Avengers is an allegory for the Bay of Pigs or something. I’m not using “meaning” in a lofty sense. If you wanna argue that the only substance to The Avengers is “it’s fun,” that’s cool. That’s still a meaning, but it’s perfectly valid if that’s all there is to it.

...I mean, that’s not all there is to it, it’s also about family, and about how being in a family with people who are different from you can make you a better person. It can teach you the value of selflessness, or the value of compassion over mercenary coldness, or the value of accepting yourself and your flaws, or help you fit your idealism into the modern world, or… deliver exposition, because Thor doesn’t have an arc in this movie.

But you see my point! All I mean by “meaning” is that there is an answer to the question, “Why does this exist?” If someone made it, they had to have a reason, anything from “I wanted to change the world” to “I wanted to make money” to “I was bored.” Those aren’t all great answers, but they’re answers.

Also, all creators exist within their culture, which means their works are products of that culture, and their contents will either reflect or differ from that culture’s values. Like, the fact that all the central characters in The Avengers save one are white, and all save one are men, means something. We can debate the whats and wherefores of that meaning and how much that meaning matters, but since things like race, gender, the military, and New York City, mean things to our society, they can’t not mean things in our movies.

And, let’s be honest: following The Avengers, Tony has PTSD from being a rescue worker during Something Very Bad that Happened in New York, and SHIELD dramatically expands the surveillance state and employs Cap in fighting terrorist threats, so, while not the Bay of Pigs, The Battle of New York is doing work as a 9/11 allegory. Both of these movies have been praised for exactly that.

But, let’s follow through: in our 9/11 allegory, the US government could not have possibly predicted nor prevented the bad Guys’ invasion, America is wholly innocent and has had no political or social impact on the Bad Guys, the Bad Guys are literally inhuman, and any amount of violence against them is justified, up to and including the Good Guys nuking them.

But whatever.

Bringing Back What’s Stolen

OK. A lot of psychoanalytic film writing comes from the 70’s, 80’s, and early 90’s, including gender analysis of horror films, and it can read a little Freudian: gender essentialist, heteronormative, and obsessed with the D. “Does this empowered woman look feminine? Well, she’s holding a gun, and I’ve got news for you: guns are penises. She’s smoking a cigarette, and cigarettes are penises. She’s wearing high heels, and high heels are penises. That slit in her dress that shows off her long legs? [Long Legs Are Penises]”

It’s a bit Second Wave-y. And not completely off-base! Like, I get it, Laura, sometimes a knife is a dick. (Symbolically, I mean.) But sometimes a stiletto is just a stiletto.

Bringing Back What’s Stolen 2

I want to stress that a trope does not define a character, and does not, alone, make her or the movie around her bad. I love a number of the characters I’ve cited. But when a movie, even a great movie, tells me, “Don’t worry, this woman is violent, but we’re not saying women at large are as strong or violent as men,” I feel condescended to. The lengths some movies go to soothe my ego, like I’m a seven-year-old who’s going to throw his toys against the wall, strike me as a big waste of time that could be spent on the more interesting parts of the movie. I’ll take another shootout any day.

WSGT3

Imagine you’re called onstage to do a cold reading of a two-person scene from a play you’ve never read. You don’t know the story, the characters, or even the stage directions. And the director hands out only one script to the other actor. You will have to improvise all your lines. The other actor knows the premise, knows the story, but they still need you to make the scene work. The person who knows what happens is trying to signal everything you need to you without straying from the script, while you attempt to discover your role in the story and perform it at the same time. That is the attention that must be paid. And, together, you try to make a story.

This is an exercise my acting teacher used to do with us, to get us listening to the other actors in a scene instead of just waiting for our cues. And this is how an adventure game feels.

DOOM

It was 1993, and we all knew about DOOM. It had a reputation. Many of us learned it existed with the same breath that forbid from playing it, in the same way we were forbidden from watching Beavis & Butt-head or Terminator 2. We didn’t have those kinds of parents. But most of us knew someone who did.

We came to learn three things about DOOM: that was intended for grown-ups, that our access to it was scarce, and that having not played meant getting teased by those who had. Some of us never asked if playing it interested us, we simply knew playing it was important.

And when we played - and we did play, on whatever computer someone had secreted the shareware version onto - it was like nothing we’d ever seen before. Amazing and terrifying, in the way that a kid alone in the house watching their first skin flick finds it shocking, because half-naked women and simulated sex are so far outside their limited experience. We had never seen anything close to this, and it unsettled us at first. But we played.

The titillation of an art student drawing a nude model lasts for the few moments between the dropping of the robe and the touching of charcoal to paper. Then nakedness becomes just another series of lines to render. We acclimated. When we fired our shotguns into an enemy, soon enough all we saw was an obstacle neutralized. We saw a series of lines elegantly intersecting a series of boxes. That’s not what our parents saw. Our parents saw an imp howling in pain as its ribcage burst from its chest.

And so part of playing DOOM became learning how to defend it. “I play DOOM for the gameplay” became a generation’s “I read Playboy for the articles.” When we got caught, we tried to explain the the lines and the boxes: The bullet wounds were just there to let you know when you’d hit your target. The space marine’s bleeding face was just there to tell at a glance how your health was doing. The enemies were Satanic hellspawn just to make it perfectly clear their function was to be dispatched by your shotgun. What we wouldn’t say was that all these things could be accomplished through other means, without blood, but we didn’t want to play Chex Quest.

What we couldn’t put into words, most especially under threat of punishment, was that, while the blood and gore wasn’t why we wanted to keep playing, it was usually why we sat down in the first place. DOOM was good, but being good wasn’t what made it important; it was important because it was illicit. Yes, we were kids, and we probably would play a game that offered us nothing but brutal violence, but if the lines didn’t pleasingly intersect the boxes we would soon stop playing. DOOM is loved today because there was more to it than that. Blood was captivating, but it wasn’t enough - we sat down, but we did not stay, for blood alone. What our parents could rarely put into words was that us no longer seeing the blood was part of what worried them.

Indivisible Talk

These are some fundamentals I want you to keep in mind as we look at the Right.

Everybody’s people. When I talk about the difference between the Right and the Left, I’m not saying “the Right does this and the Left does that.” I’m talking about things all humans do, and the difference between the Right and the Left is a matter of scale and proportion. If I say “the Left values data over gut feelings” or “the Right values family over extended community,” obviously everyone values all of those things. It’s a question of how they’re prioritized. But small differences in our priorities can lead to dramatically different worldviews. So when I say “the Right does X,” don’t get too hung up on whether the Left also sometimes does X, but try think about how it manifests on the Right versus the Left and what those differences between them mean.

People vote their beliefs, not their self-interest. The Left tends to ask things like, “Why would working-class voters who depend on Obamacare vote for the party that wants to repeal Obamacare? They must have been lied to.” And I won’t deny that a lot of lies were involved, but it’s a mistake to think people only vote for what’s good for them. It seems like this should be obvious; I mean, why do I vote to have my taxes raised to pay for someone else’s education, someone else’s food stamps? We tend to answer that by arguing it is in my self-interest, that a well-fed and well-educated population leads to a stronger economy and a richer culture, and that this will trickle down to make my life better in the long run, and I could make that case, but, really, that’s not why I do it. I believe in education, I believe in fighting poverty, and if you proved to me that neither would ever benefit me personally, I would still fight for them, because it’s the right thing to do. So when someone across the political spectrum does something that confuses us, it may be true that they are misinformed, but we can’t assume that simply correcting them will change their minds. Right or wrong, they are acting in accordance with their beliefs, they trust misinformation because it aligns with those beliefs, and, if you don’t understand what those beliefs are, you’re going to misdiagnose the problem.

Tolerance and sectarianism. A tolerant view of society is the melting pot, the idea that Real America is the combination of many different walks of life, all of which are valid and deserving of the same rights. A sectarian view thinks of one walk of life (usually one’s own) as the Real America, and this walk of life is one society should trend towards: that America is a Christian nation, English should be the national language, or the ideal family as nuclear and heterosexual. I think it’s obvious which ways the Parties lean.

But, again, these are human traits. Everyone is balancing both these impulses every day. And I don’t want us to split these into “tolerant good, in-groups bad.” Democrats who over-commit to the melting pot run into the Karl Popper’s Paradox of Tolerance: that, if you treat every group as equally valid, including Nazis, fascists, and the Klan, you create a less tolerant society. And treating one group as a greater priority than others is logical when that group is persecuted; there is a degree to which all minority activism is defending one’s family. So it’s a matter of knowing when to be tolerant and when to be familial, and coalition-building is all about being both at the same time.

End

Um. So. I’m not sure how to end this. Uh. 200k subs! Wow! I find that number very humbling. Thank you all so much. And back me on Patreon, if you want to and if you haven’t already. There’ll be a proper video soon. Uh. What do people usually do in these things, they do Q&A’s, right? People ask you “what’s your favorite movie, book, game, comic, anime, musical, poem, album, joke”? I’ve been wondering what it says about me that all my answers would be things I experienced in my 20s, or earlier. Is it that I don’t love things the way I used to? Or is it just that, the more art you experience, the harder it is to be blown away? Like, something can be better than anything I’ve seen before, but it can’t shatter the record the way it could when I was younger. But I’m not making a video essay about that, so: Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind, The Motion of Light in Water by Samuel R. Delany, LOOM, Sandman, The Melancholy of Haruhi Suzumiya, Hedwig and the Angry Inch, A Woman is Talking to Death by Judy Grahn, a three-way tie between In The Aeroplane Over the Sea by Neutral Milk Hotel, Lincoln by They Might Be Giants, and Onomatopoeia by Jonny 5, and the lemon cookie joke.

[invictus-rp]

Team B Infiltration

Setting the Scene: Team A has already begun the front assault on the large stronghold, drawing a number of the Apokolips army's forces out to the main fight. As the halls empty, Black Canary's previous knowledge of the labyrinthine area will tell you that you need to get down to the subterranean levels. While many of the Apokolips army is distracted, this will not be an easy journey down. If you must fight, the goal is to dispatch quickly and quietly so as not to sound up an alarm and distract from the front assault. Dinah Lance

She breathed through her nose as she approached the lift. The others were doing their part and the distraction was all they needed to get inside. She probably thought there was people better for this job. Hell, she was surprised she was given leadership but she supposed she had to make it count for something.

“I know some of us haven’t worked together before.” She murmured. “But I need you all to keep this tight.” She pressed the button for the lift, hearing the battle start outside. “Our priority are the captives kept on the lower levels. Myself, Gambit and Spider-Boy will form a tight circle around Scarlet Witch when we have everyone.” Her eyes shot to Wanda. “You are the master key out of this place. We’ll cover your back.”

“And if that fails, well, someone will owe me a new jacket.” She mused as the lift arrived. “Come on in.” 

𝐑𝐄𝐌𝐘 𝐋𝐄𝐁𝐄𝐀𝐔 With all Remy's years of experience at getting in and out of secure places, there was no way he would not have volunteered to help out this time. Not that he was not equally good at blowing things up and distracting, but he thought this was where he would be needed more.

"Ah, no worries on dat account, chere," he said to Dinah, "I'm good at adjustin' on de fly." That he was. Even if Remy had not worked with all of them before, he was mighty good at improvising. He only hoped the rest of them were as good on that count. But Dinah was right that getting everyone out of there depended on Wanda. "Uh, yeah, I don' t'ink any o' us wanna be stuck down dere, so I hope your hocus pocus is up t' snuff."

The elevator arrived and Remy stepped inside, adjusting his own coat a bit as he smirked at Dinah's remark. "Hope you got more faith in us dan dat, but I'll be sure t' steal--er--buy you a nice one if it comes t' dat." Wanda Maximoff Wanda nodded, listening to the instructions before letting her eyes slip closed for a moment so she could take stock. "I can do it," she promised. At least, she was decently sure she could do it. "But I have to stick mostly to my hex bolts otherwise. Any other overly taxing magic and my stores might get depleted. Without a means of channeling anything, I'd have to recover naturally." And she very much doubted they would have the time. Still, she gave a wry grin. "Good thing I'm learning to punch." Dinah, Peter, and Remy were all better martial fighters than she was, though. In this case, that was a good thing. Spider-Man Sneaking was what spiders did best, so Peter pounced at the opportunity to work a little more closely with the team - he loved street work, he really did, it was where he thrived, but he also needed to stretch his legs a little and do something that needed a little more finesse. He was glad to see Wanda in their group. The other two he hadn't the pleasure of working alongside until then, though knowing where their strengths were held Peter was hopeful that they'd make it out intact. Hopefully.

He stepped into the lift beside Remy and sucked on his teeth, the sound muffled just slightly by the mask covering his face. After Darkseid's initial touchdown to Earth, Peter's select few who know his true identity grew - strictly, really, to the Avengers and Fantastic Four. The latter were family, the former - coworkers, but people he trusted. The rest had to earn it.

"Don't worry, I think we've got you covered. We're your personal punching posse, after all," Peter returned to Wanda, a little proud of himself at that one. "Also, I know that some of the newspapers get it wrong, but it's actually Spider-Man. You know, like a boy, but grown up.. I haven't been Spider-Boy in like, ten years. It's, uh.. Sorry." His voice waned towards the end as he suddenly felt too anxious to hold the humored steadiness in his voice. Peter was smart enough to be at least a little scared of a lady who could definitely kick his ass. Dinah Lance She pressed the button and rolled her shoulders before she looked over to the Cajun mutant. “Don’t let my boyfriend here that.” She humoured when he mentioned buying her a new jacket. She wasn’t actually too concerned. Inside, it was more the fact she didn’t know these people well like her own. Even then, it took her time to trust Barbara and Helena. To trust the League. She liked the idea of a team but she had fought on the gritty streets. She knew what is was like from ground level that some didn’t get to see.

As Wanda mentioned about her training lessons, Dinah nodded. “Don’t forget to rotate your hips. It’s where the power comes from.” She reminded her as she pressed her back to the wall of the elevator and gestured to the others to do the same. “Most of the forces will be out there but that doesn’t mean this is unprotected.” She told them. The last thing they needed was to be fired at soon as the doors opened.

As Spider-Man began talking, Dinah let him finished and paused before she spoke. “You talk a lot.” She said as the elevator pinged. “Keep it together. Keep it tight.” She reminded them as the doors drew open. 

Setting the scenet: As the elevator descends, Wanda senses the twinge of a number of threads. "We won't be alone once the door opens," she tells them. There are a few waiting Apokolips forces. Tread lightly, heroes.

𝐑𝐄𝐌𝐘 𝐋𝐄𝐁𝐄𝐀𝐔 As Spidey moved beside him, Remy chuckled at his insistence he was Spider-Man. "You sure 'bout dat? Don' you need t' be at least...dis tall t' be Spider-Man?" He held his hand up purposely a good ways above the web-slinger's head as he spoke. He had no idea how old the guy really was, but he could not resist the tease. "Hey, if you're legal t' drink or not don' matter. It only matters how good you gon' throw dose punches when de time comes."

Dinah's comeback made him grin. "Wouldn't be de first time I'd been told dat," he said, which was certainly true. But hopefully they would make it out with both themselves and Dinah's jacket intact, and thus render that problem moot. At her instigating, Remy pressed against the wall. He would not be surprised if there was a welcoming party waiting for them, which was why he reached into his pocket and pulled out his bo staff, promptly extending it.

Wanda's punching ability might not have been tested yet, but her ability to sense danger certainly was. "You got it, chere. Bring on de bad guys, hein?" And when the doors slid open, they certainly did--a bunch of them, heading for the elevator. Remy heard their footsteps, and waited with the others until they drew near enough. Then he finally leapt out, whirling his staff to knock out the nearest one. "Bonjour, mes amis! Hope you don' mind us droppin' in wit'out an invitation!" Wanda Maximoff Wanda was happy to help where she could, as it wasn't exactly her forte to throw herself into the fray. She tended to provide magic support from the back. However, it wasn't the same now that she didn't have unlimited access to her magic. But, like she had said, she had her hex bolts. Quickly, her eyes darted around the area before she stepped back to give Remy room to work. His words almost would have made her laugh if the situation weren't serious. Red power thrummed in her palms before she called out: "I count eight!" Setting the Scene: Blasts begin to fly from the eight guards in the area. The Apokolips army is extremely fast, their speed difficult to track. Hiding behind the martial fighters, Wanda's hex bolts provide support, taking down a few of the attackers from the back.

Dinah Lance Seeing the oncoming forces, Wanda and Remy helped thin out the approaching members. As they got close, that is when Dinah stepped in. She landed an uppercut that Ted would be proud of before performing a  Krav Maga elbow strike to the face. The enemy stunned, she gripped the large arm, drawed herself close and manipulated his weight into a Judo throw to the ground, flowing into a high drop axe kick.

Like water, she flowed into combat easy as her clenched fist smashed into her next target before her leg launched into a low kick, causing it to hunch over. Rolling across their back, her arms linked theirs, manipulating their weight over herself to then collide with the floor, finishing it off with a direct blow of her forearm.

Standing up, Dinah braced herself. “Cover your ears!” She called out before, her face contorted. Her jaw clenched. Then she released that signature sound. The sonic waves made the walls vibrate as if a train was running right by then, the lights flickering and bursting as bodies went flying back. 

𝐑𝐄𝐌𝐘 𝐋𝐄𝐁𝐄𝐀𝐔 As soon as Remy had jumped out of the elevator, he had been knocking back as many of the oncoming attackers as he could. Wanda's magical attacks helped immensely, as did Dinah's fighting skills. He definitely would not have wanted to end up on either of their bad sides. "Remind me not t' get either o' you mad anytime soon," he remarked, never able to refrain from quipping as he fought.

That became even more apparent as Dinah gave them a warning before unleashing her real weapon. Thankfully Wanda had put up some sort of magical barrier to protect them from the vocal equivalent of a grenade. "Eh? What was dat?" Remy said afterward, smirking at Dinah as he pretended to clean out his ear, "Not sure I caught what you said dere, but wow, dat's some voice you got, chere." It sure was, because it had taken out most of the attackers, and left the others seriously disoriented. Flipping his staff, he knocked out one of the few left standing. "Wish I could jus' scream at someone an' make 'em fall down!" Setting the Scene: The attackers have fallen. Down the hall is a thick door that will require either picking or a hacking job to open. Likely, this is where the prisoners are being stored.

Wanda Maximoff Grinning a little at Remy as he finished the last of their attackers off, she nodded about Dinah. "She's incredible, isn't she?" the witch praised. "But you're pretty good yourself." She let the field fall that she had put up to protect their ears, taking a slow breath as she felt her magic dwindle. She'd have enough. She had to. But Wanda hated these restrictions. It really took her out of the game.

"Can we get that door open?" Dinah Lance Despite her usual cockiness, she was never sure how to take compliments like this sometimes. These were people she deemed much more powerful than her, praising her. She was a fighter with a sonic bird call. These guys were on a whole other level. “A bird call.” She mused as Remy asked what the hell she just let out. “Yeah? Well, even Mariah Carey has days off.” Approaching the door, Dinah knocked it gently. “I can’t scream at this range. It could kill them. “ She looked at the others. “Don’t know if you have a hacking spell or something under your sleeve. Computes aren’t really my strong point.” 𝐑𝐄𝐌𝐘 𝐋𝐄𝐁𝐄𝐀𝐔 "Ah, I jus' seem t' end up in de wrong place at de righ' time," Remy said with a grin in response to Wanda's compliment. But he had a little difficulty wrapping his mind around Dinah's vocalization being a bird call. "Dat's some kinda bird you callin' den. Don' t'ink I wanna see it."

Now that the attackers were out of the way, he took a look at the door. It was a pretty tough one, and while Remy might not have been a hacker, he had bypassed plenty of security systems in his time. "Pardon cheres, but I t'ink I might be able t' handle dis." Smirking, he reached into his coat and withdrew a lockpick. "I might not be officially thievin' dese days, but I still never leave home wit'out one o' dese."

Kneeling down, he took a moment to study the lock before starting to work. It definitely was not easy; obviously these aliens were better at keeping their valuables secure than humans were. But there was not a lock made yet that could keep Remy LeBeau out, and in a little while, this one joined that list. Hearing a click, he smiled and said, "An' dere we go! See, a gentleman always opens de door for ladies...an' Spider-Boys," he added with a chuckle at Peter. Wanda Maximoff Watching Remy work, Wanda let her eyes closed, her mind reaching out to display the threads of reality around her. If she could find the threads connected to the people they were seeking, it'd be easier. They'd have a clearer trajectory. Her eyes glowed red as she focused. "Down. They're further down. But we're nearly there. There's... hm..." Her brow furrowed before she focused on the room again.

Remy had the door open and Wanda nodded to the long hallway. "We're lucky," she murmured. "We have a gentleman, a freedom fighter, and a witch. I only hope there won't be any more parademons waiting to see what we're made of." Spider-Man "There's.. What?" Peter trained the large white lens of his mask on Wanda, worried both for her and for their situation, though the click of the door unlocking stole his attention. He focused beyond it for a breath of a second before offering the group a shrug. "I don't sense anything on the other side, so we should be good to go," Peter remarked, ignoring Remy's comment but he found himself smirking at it despite himself. Dinah Lance She glanced between the all of them before shrugging to Remy. “Yeah, well, when it comes to the queen of Amazons and an alien god then, yeah, it’s a sonic bird call.” She mused. She didn’t compare herself to the likes of Clark or Diana because she would severely outmatched, even with her vocal power.

As the door opened, Dinah glanced to Wanda who seemed to be locating the group. “Then we head down.” She stated before frowning slightly. “Why did you hesitate?” She asked, the others having not mentioned it.

“Don’t forget. Keep it tight. One of us goes down the rest will fall.” Though Dinah had already planned that if it meant the mission would be complete then she would stay behind in the thick of things. 𝐑𝐄𝐌𝐘 𝐋𝐄𝐁𝐄𝐀𝐔 Proud of his opening the door, Remy smirked as they started to walk past it. But he agreed with Dinah; he had not liked the way Wanda had paused. He was not in tune to magical stuff, so if something was bothering her, it was probably not good. "You know somet'ing we don', chere? Should we be 'spectin' more o' a welcome wagon? Or somet'ing else?" He still had his staff in his hands, and plenty of cards in his pockets, though he was trying to avoid using them in such close quarters, especially once they found the people they were looking for. Wanda Maximoff She wasn't as accustomed to reading minds as a telepath, but she could do it if she focused. Trouble was, more focus meant more power used, and she was conserving. Still, she looked between the three others. "There are more Parademons, I believe. But something... else, too. Altered. Like their reality has been changed." It was cryptic. She gave an apologetic smile. "I can't investigate too much. I want to be able to do the teleport."

Setting the Scene: As they reach the bottom of the elevator shaft, the door opens to a large handful of parademons with their weapons. The presence that Wanda sensed is a pair of parademons in strange helmets. Wanda can't get a read on them, but she throws up a forcefield to guard her allies. Inside the room is a large caged off area full of prisoners. This is your objective, ladies and gentlemen. You've done it. Now you just have to make it out. The forcefield will hold, but the longer Wanda holds it, the more magic she saps. Act fast!

Spider-Man "Sounds like a party," Peter returned - altered Parademons? That really was the last thing they needed, but he felt confident in their group that they'd pull through. Still, Wanda was an integral part of them getting out in one piece, so he was pretty okay with relying on a bit of mystery. He had to rely on his 'feelings' one way or another; so instead of pushing, he waved away Wanda's worry with a slight wave. "Hey, no worries. We want you to be able to teleport, too," he finished with a sheepish laugh.

Though the sound was cut short when the elevator door revealed, indeed, a party of Parademons ready to turn them into swiss cheese. The two with those funky headsets were Peter's top priority, if only they'd caused quite the concern earlier. The instant that Wanda's shield went up, Peter already had his web spinners aimed at the pair - webbing was quick to shoot out and landed its mark. He kept the line tethered and pulled hard as he leapt forward into the fray. The goal was to drop the first two and bounce around the room to avoid random fire. Dinah Lance Her lips formed thin lines as Wanda described what she had sensed. Wanda was a finite resource at the moment which meant she could only be used sparingly. “We are all wearing costumes and doing something stupid. I think we can all handle this.” She mused though she was concerned in the back of her head.

As the gunfire began, she watched the bullets bounce off Wanda’s force field.  “We’ve got to handle this fast. If Wanda runs out.” She didn’t need to add anything other than that. Stepping forward, she released her Canary Cry again, knocking several parademons back and keeping the pressure on them. “Remy, you’ve got nimble fingers.” She called out, her leg firing into a push kick as she was charged into a frontal assault. “Think you can get these cages open?” She asked as she threw an elbow back into another enemy.

𝐑𝐄𝐌𝐘 𝐋𝐄𝐁𝐄𝐀𝐔 Any magic stuff was out of Remy's realm, so he was not going to press Wanda for more. "You already doin' plenty, chere. I don' need t' know more more dan 'it's somet'ing weird'." A bunch of Parademons was plenty weird, so how much weirder could it get? Coming out of the elevator, they found more of them, though the ones in the helmets were certainly weirder. Clearly Remy should not have wondered about things getting weirder.

Wanda had put up a forcefield, which was good, and Spidey was shooting webbing at the helmeted Parademons, and Dinah was giving her "bird call" again. Remy was still reluctant to use his cards in such close quarters, so he was ready to start knocking Parademons with his staff until Dinah spoke. "Oh, I been told dat quite a lot, in more dan one situation," he said with a wink, "So yeah, I t'ink i can do dat."

Thus instead of readying his staff to hit the Parademons, he used it to vault over them, landing close to the cages. One of the nearest enemies figured out what he was trying to do, but a quick knock from Remy's staff took him out of the equation, and thankfully the others were occupied with trying to attack his comrades, so he turned his attention to the cages. "Jus' a moment, mes amis, an' we'll have you outta dere," he said to the people closest to the doors as he took out his lockpick again and went to work. After a moment, the lock clicked, so Remy opened the door and moved on to the next one, then the next one in quick succession. Now that the people were free, they just had to get them--and themselves--out of there. Setting the Scene: As Remy gets close to the people in the cages, they seem terrified. One of them whispers: "The helmets. The ones in the helmets can do things."

As if on cue, one of the helmeted enemies engaged with Dinah throws her back before raising their hand and beginning to murmur something. Around them, strange symbols begin to form, almost as if they are on fire. Single versions of the inscrutable glyphs fly toward Dinah. When they hit her, they seem to affect her mentally.

Wanda Maximoff

As the doors clicked open, Wanda let magic flow through her to appear in the midst of the frightened civilians. "You're safe now," she promised, trying to let her magic calm them. As the scarlet energy glowed in her eyes, however, several were afraid as they staggered toward Remy. "Is she like them?" they ask him.

Wanda was about to ask what they meant when her hazel eyes shot to Dinah as a new sort of power... not quite magic but not exactly mundane filled the room. "Peter!" she shouted. "Stop them!" There was something Wrong about it. Something thick and dominating. Dinah Lance Her fist collided with another monstrous jaw before she kicked them back, her leg firing like a loading gun. “We can’t keep this up.” It was like a small tickle in her brain to start with. Then it grew and grew and it was like she was drowning. Dinah froze as her breathing was hard, looking around her. “I…I can’t do this.” She whispered. “I’m not strong enough to save them. I can’t-“ A sob caught in her throat as she fell to her knees, being overwhelmed by the outside force. 

𝐑𝐄𝐌𝐘 𝐋𝐄𝐁𝐄𝐀𝐔 He had expected the people in the cages to  be nervous, worried, scared. Remy could only imagine what they had seen. Obviously they had seen something from the helmeted Parademons. "Quoi? What can dey do?" Weird magic shit, apparently, as one of them suddenly sent a bunch of blazing symbols to attack Dinah. "Merde. Why dese t'ings always have t' get weird?"

At least Wanda was nearby with her own, and reassuring, brand of weird. Some of the people were concerned about her, though, and Remy was quick to tell them she was good. "Non. Whatever dey are, she ain't dem. She got magic, yeah, but she's here t' help you. I promise."

Dinah definitely needed some help, but now with the people right there, Remy definitely did not want to throw any cards. And he did not fancy his chances fighting hand-to-hand with someone who could do magic. "Wanda! Can you do your t'ing an' get us all out? Or at least do somet'ing t' combat whatever dat shit is? 'Cause I can't exactly blow up somet'ing dat ain't really dere!" Spider-Man Things certainly took quite the sharp left turn in the wrong direction, something they all really should have anticipated a little better - okay, maybe there was really no way of knowing that the bad guy's had some crazy mind altering Parademons under their sleeve, but they'd all dealt with worse - right?  With Black Canary faltering quickly and everyone else tied up, Peter steeled himself and set his aim on the helmet twins. Using the Parademon he'd just knocked out as a sort of diving board, he leapt through the air and careened himself into the first one. The idea was to at least break the mental connection it had on Black Canary; the taste of success only lasted for so long before his attention was on the second demon. He made short work of it with a wad of webbing to the face, incapacitating it momentarily - or for however long the webbing held.

Wanda Maximoff

Wanda used the moment that Spider-Man incapacitated Dinah’s attacker, her eyes glowing bright red as she let power flow around the people in the cage, around Remy, around Dinah and Peter. It was a lot of power, draining her resources down to the quick as they all moved. When the scarlet power cleared away, she went to her knees, exhaustion going through her. But they were done. They had made it. And the other teams were going to need communication soon.

[whenisitnottimeforbed]

Unscheduled Change in Procedure

So I wrote this for @koreanrage but I didn’t know it wasn’t going to show up for anyone else, and I know it’s not what I usually write(I’ve only done Sleepy Hollow fics up to this point) but I’m a bit dry as far as that well is concerned and among other things, this incited my inner writer so, I present to you something I’ve been working on. Or at least a peace of it. A Clintasha domfic

"What? Why are you making that face?" Clint snorted a bit, yanking a shaft from a body. While the head of this, an incendiary bolt, was used up on the half charred remains of a 6'10" monster of a man, the reinforced, double folded titanium shaft was still quite usable. Rubbing the edge of it, where a bit of cooked flesh had seared to the alloy, he reached over his shoulder to load it into his mechanized quiver, watching his partner as she rolled her eyes at him.

"I thought we agreed no more ending the exchanges with explosives?" She lifted a dead man with her foot, rolling him to his side. Beneath him was her knife, damaged and seared from the blast and thereby rendered useless. Letting the corpse fall back over, Natasha dipped down to scoop up some concrete rubble and walked downhill on the precariously leaning floor to a wall with so big a piece removed a bus might be able to drive through unhindered. Were they not on the twelfth story. She turned and rested her elbows back on part of the hole that reached up to her waist watching the Hawk pick through the wreckage they had wrought together for his recyclables.

"I counted 15 knives and 45 bullets loosed." He smiled, pointing another scavenged shaft at her teasingly, "you were out of ammo."

"12, 13, 9, 2-"  Natasha nodded at the varying array of guns littering the floor under, beside, in the hands of, or strewn around the dozens of neutralized enemies, announcing the remaining magazines. “And you don’t ‘loose’ a bullet or a knife.” Clint knew there was no need to check for error.

"So, you were going to be able to grab those from where? What was the plan to get out of that pit- rocket up onto the ceiling?" He tipped his head toward a collapsed piece of floor where the blackened floor indicated the arrowhead had detonated near.

"You don't think I could have taken those eight guys? Really?"

"I think you were being a body-hog; when we're not with the team, I'm not a- we don't have to be 'heroes', just agents. Besides, I'm not allowed to use my toys just because you don't want to get new knives?" Clint had to cut her off, walking over to her and resting on his own elbows, looking out passed their concrete barrier over the dilapidated and abandoned looking buildings that extended for blocks and blocks in this direction.

"New knives are always better. What I don't enjoy is this red mist that hangs around.  I'm just- ugh-  coating my lungs and my suit- not to mention my hair." She smiled, scoffing, turning her head out into cold air and watching her exhales condense.

"Ha. How can you tell?"

"You can't smell it? Come on, Beethoven." She smiled, turning back to face him, where even with her unheightened sense of smell, she was more than close enough to whiff the scent of his physical exertion, the oil that lubricated his bow and bowstring, and every so often when the small breeze allowed it, his breath. He seemed to watch her for a moment before he tipped on one elbow leaning toward her, resting his nose in her lightly frazzled curls and inhaling, his eyes closing.

"Cherry-" he quietly announced, beyond ruby locks and into her ear, "Almond. Gunpowder. Iron..."

"-Blood." She corrected him, standing back up and pulling her head away from his, slowing as she took more steps away. It was a small feat mentally forcing her hand to keep from straying to her ear where, somehow, his breath still tickled her, "And viscera. If you have to use it, use it when we're in the open, or when you're solo."

"Hey, I'm down one sense, I'm not a dog- but, I  did get you a window." He chuckled rubbing the edge of the blasted wall-hole as though it were a fine piece of craftsmanship.

"Don't expect me to praise that," Nat gave him an eyebrow and a smile as she moved backwards, "Not after what you did to the stairs, Handyman." Taking a small hop, she leapt from the precipice that was the threshold to this room where steps would have been, and fell about a story down. Where there had once been glass that she might have landed on, there was now an opening and she straighted herself through the whole, to descend half a floor more to the leaning building that this one was now tipped against. The black leather clad woman crouched on impact and slid down the roof of this structure as it was forced at an even less stable angle, getting further and further away. Clint was right behind her, though instead of allowing the slide, he pushed off to drop through a hole not very far away in this roof. He fell inside, and watched her form drop outside a most still transparent pane of glass. It was officially a race.

Jumping off some of the crumbled roof rubble, Hawkeye used some of the exposed fire sprinkler piping and swung himself up over a partially blocked doorway, letting himself slide to the end of the tiled hall where there was a staircase with a few sets missing. He jumped with loud clangs from handrail to handrail down the hole at the center of the spiral. In response, he heard some glass break about a floor lower than him. Chancing it, he leapt from where he was to the floor and ducked out of a opening created by the tipped building's bricks no longer being able to line up in proper stacks. There she was waiting for him,

"Taking your sweet time?" she turned, walking toward the sounds of populace a few alleys down.

"Thought I'd enjoy the scenic route- why, you got somewhere to be?" He followed her.

"You know me- just that wonderful 'home sweet home'."

"Yes, and so big what with only the bed, fridge, chair, and closet taking up space."

"Minimalism."

"Right, yeah, of course, sure."

"Just open the jet."

They'd made quick and purposeful work of getting outside the small, mostly abandoned city, out where the forest began, which is where they'd parked the secretive Quinjet. Clint obliged, clicking the remote control that opened the hold so she could walk in. As she went, she clicked the appropriate switches to get the vehicle ready to be started up.

Once seated in their chairs, both began to click about, hitting buttons, raising bars, turning dials, and checking readouts silently in the specified order. With the turbines starting up, they'd have been up in the air in no time at all, were it wasn't for the sound of voices. Clint, of course, only noticed after he saw Natalie freeze, clearly concentrating on her auditory sense before leaning forward to peer back through the side of her window. He stood too when he heard the distinctive pop of a gun.

"What are they doing here?" Nat sat back down quickly, trying to finish up her half of the launch sequence, "How'd find us out?"

"Better question is why would they be chasing us? Didn't we just get rid of the biggest source of trouble they had? Can't we just be the heroes for once?" Behind them were not the uniforms, body armor, or automatic firearms of a rouge rebel crime faction, but plain clothes and improvised weapons of average citizens and townspeople.

"Wait, look-" she stopped him, and both of them noticed that there were two forms clearly ahead of the mob, one with short white hair, and the other with longer red. Small forms. Visually assessable at eight and five years of age probably, leading the flood of angry faces. Clint looked while both he and Natasha momentarily froze, at the larger form- the boy with the white hair, and two big, adrenaline fueled eyes looked back at him. He stared into them and he saw a look he had encountered before, but had felt unsettled by until he saw a child so young giving it to him. He could traits as if they were listed in writing on his head- anger, desperation. The terror of facing death.

"Let's go." Natasha brought him from his trance and he looked away for only a moment to help her try to get going, but glanced back for the boy and saw nothing. Instead, now he too could hear what she had listened to earlier.

"--Witch!"

"--Demons!"

"--Kill the mutants!"

"--They're a curse!"

"Wait! Wait!"

Both of them snapped around toward the voice at the Cargo hold- the boy had crawled up onto it, pushing the girl he was clinging to further in.

"Nuh-uh-" Natasha got up quickly to relieve them of their stowaways, the turbines raising in volume and speed. The boy could read her face and posture.

"T-Take my sister, please- just her! Up in the air with you! I'll catch up and take her back!" He pushed the little girl further in, a voice accented in the Russian of the land but with an otherwise spotless record in terms of grammar and vernacular. The female child sat stiff, nearly fetal, eyes so paniced and afraid they might have belonged to a rabbit in its final hour, the chase lost. She pinched her small fingers into her brother's jacket sleeve, her knuckles and nails still somehow paler than the rest of her.

"No-" Nat answered him curtly as she moved back to shoo them off and around the side while Clint began the takeoff sequence allowing for a slight foot-high hover, turning the hold door another direction. Once the kids were off, some time could be bought if they faced the crowd.

The young boy turned from this rock to look back to the hard place and caught sight of a barrel point toward him and his sister. In a flash that was quicker than Nat expected, as fast as the sound of the shot, he seemed to teleport to the girl, pushing her back further inside the jet. Natalie's eyes shot up to the aimed weapon immediately, but her peripheral vision and linked reflexes forced her to reach out and catch the red headed girl by the shirt before the girl fell back on her head. She wasn't quite quick enough to catch the brother before the bullet passed through his leg and lodged in the floor near the cockpit.

"Nat!" Clint shouted back. She'd pulled out a gun from the handy wall compartment, walked passed the groaning boy who cringed as she passed, and to the edge of the cargo door where she slammed her fist on the button to close it. Through the squishing window, she began opening fire on the crowd, turning them away while Clint tipped the jet up and away from the mob, forcing all passengers inside to stumble or slide toward the cockpit, and quickly took off. There was the distinct sound of bullets being blocked by the jet's fuselage for a few seconds before the maximum range of hand weapons was exceeded.

Moaning and whining, hissing through his teeth and trying hard not to cry outright, the boy's tears began pooling on the floor under his cheek or on the collar of his stained and well used baby blue, velvet jacket he was wrapped in. He clutched his thigh where it trickled blood steadily onto his jeans, and the girl at his side got to her knees, pulling her thin, once-white dress under her and tried to hold his head, stroking his hair with shaking hands covered almost completely by stretched, burgundy cardigan sleeves. She jolted though, when the short haired woman headed toward her and cowered behind the injured boy, holding his jacket over her face. For his part, the young boy quickly tried to sit himself up, extending an arm behind him flinching visibly with the effort and pain. Natasha stared at them in the white noise of the air rushing past the vehicle for a moment and the hum of the turbines and their engines, eyeing the quivering girl and the angry, tearstreaked boy, and strode away from them.

"Wait-" the boy called, surprised, "Will you take us, too?"

"No." Natasha answered him.

"But-"

"No-"

"Then-then, just my sister- she's only five-"

"No." She'd gone over to her captain's chair and returned with a small box. When she came down to her knee in front of the children, the girl who had peeked in the very slightest of fashions clung once again to her brother, burying her face in his back, and the boy pushed at her, trying to back up in a panic. He'd forgotten that he was using his leg for that, though, and wheezed through his teeth when the muscles returned with screams of pain. A hand shooting out immediately, Natasha snatched his calf and pulled it to try and look. He fought her.

"Stop! Let me go! Aurgh-!" She said nothing, but she was much stronger than him. He groaned, trying to pull his leg away and from behind him, the girl tried to reach forward and pull at him too.

"Don't- No!" he protested, clearly in pain, but steeped in anger, and she slapped away his hands. He tried to push or peel her fingers off, and she shoved him away again. It seemed in fact, that he was more upset than in pain now, but once she popped open the box, a clear death grip on his young calf, and pulled out a bottle, a tube and a roll, he stopped. He could see what the things were, and yet, after a moment he continued the struggle. She grabbed and ripped the leg of the pants, rolling the pieces back, poured the bottle onto some cloth and then pressed it to the sides of the wound. He jolted as though it hurt, and she gave him a look. He quickly tried once more to pull away,

"Leggo! What are you doing? Is it poison?! Are you trying to kill me too?!"

"I don't want you bleeding all over the hold. Be still." She ordered, snatching his leg close again.

"No! Get away from me! What are you doing?"

"You wanna get an infection, kid?" Clint called from the pilot's chair.

"She's pinching me! With her claws!"

"Claws?" He was laughing, but the boy had little time to notice, as the woman had leaned forward and grabbed his shirt, pulling him in,

"You're gonna be still, or I'm going to drop you from 32,000 feet, and superspeed isn't going to save you from a fall. Do you understand?" He could muster no response save for biting his lip in fury and growling back at her. She took that as submission, threw his shirt back at him, and began swabbing the area with the tube and another part of the fabric. Finally she began wrapping him up. Now that he was silenced, he took the opportunity to display some passive protest. She'd lean his leg up to get around it and he'd let it fall to a side. She'd pull it near and flatter and he'd pick it up toward him. Natasha glowered at the boy and he glared back as if to say threatening looks meant nothing to him. They clearly terrified the pair of eyes behind him, though. Natasha quickly finished and let the boy snatch his leg away while she stood and went to the front to click on a com.

"Sit down-" She ordered behind her while she picked up the walkie phone.

"We are sitting-" the boy retorted snidely.

"In a chair," Clint cut in, "Put some seatbelts on." They looked up toward him, but the girl began to move, crouching to help her brother. A bout of turbulence shook the cabin, forcing her to stumble, and quickly both of them began to move. Both Natasha and Clint could hear clicking from behind them where he situated his sister before hopping into one of the row of chairs lining the side of the hold.

"Q1 contacting Base. Come in base."

"Base here. What is it?"

"We're coming in with a load."

"A load? This wasn't a recovery mission."

"Stowaways."

"You can't drop them?"

"No, unfortunately, I don't think we can. We're bringing them in."

"Agent Romanov-"

"They're mutants, Hill."

There was a pause, shorter than anyone actually realized before,

"Understood." and both ends hung up. Everyone remained silent. No one seemed especially keen on said silence. Well, almost no one.

"So, what are your names?" Clint broke it for the rest of the group.

"You don't need to know that."

"Well, what are we supposed to call you then?"

"What do you care, why do you need to call us at all?"

"What, you wanna ride in silence- we've got a while till we get there, kid?"

"Better than talking to some dirty agent murderers and kidnapping monsters-"

"Look-"

"Now, I get that you're in a bad mood-" Clint turned in his own chair to face the children, his face beyond serious, cutting off Natasha and looking back into the boys eyes, "but it's no trouble at all to turn around and drop you back off where you came from if you want to be disrespectful. This isn't a kidnapping mind you- and it doesn't have to be a rescue." The boy stared back into his eyes defiantly for as long as he dared, but turned his head away, admitting defeat. His sister's small hand reached far from the very rigid seats to grab his and Clint turned back around.

"My name is Pietro. My sister's name is Wanda."

From next to a soft harumph, he responded with, "We're Clint and Natasha."

In no time at all really, but much longer than anyone in this particular group would have chosen to spend together, the party arrived at their destination. The children were forced to follow without explanation as Natasha and Clint unbuckled themselves and turned the jet off, heading out through the hold. Pietro groaned, putting weight on his leg, so Wanda tried to take on some of his weight, barely managing to keep up with the adults. Around them was a bare hanger, dark except for bright spotlights produced by high powered bulbs. There was little time to look around though as Natasha and Clint seemed to be cutting them no slack.

Outside the circular islands of light, in darkness black as a suit, who knew what might pop out and attack them? Though he was the one being helped, Pietro led his sister forward, keeping his eye on the adults. They headed down the gangway- the only plank of stability over a vacuumous abyss, trying to both fit on the thread of walkway that seemed to get thinner and thinner, and even though a guardrail was fastened to each side, the gaps between the two bars and each of the thin columns was far too big, and just invited children to slip through them like water helplessly flushed down a drain. Having successfully stepped down from this they passed hydraulic doors, the mouth of a sideways, silver monster, with jaws that opened so wide that it must be a trap, and doors that shut so fast you could probably be chopped in half. Into a hallway next with pipes slithering around the walls so tightly together they looked like a swarm, burying someone as small as they were, hissing with menace, gurgling hungry threats and sometimes shuddering as though readying for the strike. Finally they ascended a few tricky stairs, hurrying to avoid being left behind but dreading whatever it was they were growing near to, not unlike the trip to the stage for a hanging. Then it was to a big double doorway, and through another one of the same kind, this time opened with a passcode and a card. Ones just like in a prison. Inside was a much brighter room made seemingly purely of pale, creamy concrete with boxes stacked all around and some big cars parked in docks. Pietro could smell the scent of the outside through all the motor oil and stuffy recycled air somewhere nearby and Wanda began looking around, trying to see if she could find the bright, warm light of day.

"Where are we going?" Pietro finally asked.

"Check in." Clint didn't turn around.

"Check in what?"

"Unexpected cargo." Natasha answered.

"Where are we going?" The boy demanded now. Glancing back, Natasha could tell he was forming an even more uncomfortable take on the facility.

"Somewhere safe." her voice was more tired than reassuring. There was a quickened, stumbling, patter of feet before the children pushed past her and Clint and then stopped before them. The face Pietro wore clearly displayed his willingness to fight. His nostrils flared as he panted through his small nose and his eyes shifted between the woman's and the man's. Beneath his arm, Wanda's tiny nostrils pulsed too, but her eyes was quite plainly afraid.

"We won't." Pietro asserted, "We'll leave, we'll leave like you wanted. We don’t need your help. Show us how to get out of here, and we'll go-"

"That won't be necessary," Startled into jumping, the children nearly fell spinning around and looking up into the clean cut face and pressed suit of the Agent Coulson. He came to a curt stop hardly a foot behind them, perfect posture and hands clasped behind his back, a bit of a smile on his otherwise strategically common face. The way they acted, one might have assumed the boogeyman had suddenly materialized at their flank when the two children reeled, stumbling in reverse into Clint and Natasha and hugging the black clad "murdering kidnappers" close with their backs. Pietro pulled Wanda's head close to him to keep her from seeing.

Both Natasha and Clint watched the moment's long events transpire before exchanging cautionary looks until Coulson required their attention again,

"Mm, smaller than anticipated." he commented casually.

"Don't let the appearances fool you, they don't think they're small." Natasha nodded back.

"W-we won't go with the evil agents-" Pietro managed to voice, and Wanda even shook her head from where it was tucked. The look he was giving must have been amusing because the agent in question chuckled quietly.

"You're using 'Evil' as relative term." He briefly rebutted before he raised his head, "Where'd you find them?"

"They found us." Natasha nodded.

"What's the situation?"

"Isolated, possibly volatile-"

"Possibly?" Natasha made something of a gesture, questioning Clint's assessment.

"My personal opinion?" he continued, and Coulson gave a nod, "Threatened and on the brink."

"And you believe protection is required?"

"Yes." Both Clint and Natasha answered.

"Agency protection?"

"Yes." There was a pause, heavy among everyone who knew what was  transpiring as well those who didn't, but Coulson took a breath and seemed no more phased than if an ant or a spider had crossed his path.

"Good. Fury agrees with you. We'll take them on."

"Great." Clint nodded.

"As Assets."

"Alright." Natasha agreed.

"They'll receive training, protection and surveillance around the clock, and be placed in a discreet location with their handlers."

"Sounds like a good plan to me? Nat?" Clint spoke more to instill confidence in the children looking up at him now that they were being included in the conversation, than to his partner.

"Couldn't be any better." She didn't seem to care as much, agreeing, but making no moves to be a comfort.

"Spectacular. Your things are already en route. There will be more specific instructions on arrival."

"Wait, what?"

"Huh?"

"Think of it like a vacation." Coulson turned, heading away, "Where you're working."

Some vacation. Putting aside that it was, in fact, a work detail, when they were told they were headed to Vegas, at least there had been a glimmer of hope. Well, Vegas indeed is where they landed- in a small airport hangar for personal crafts- and loaded into a minivan cab that smelled like cabbage mostly with hints of other things- frying oil, burnt rubber, maybe feet- and overlaid with incense that was clearly meant to counteract the first volley of scents but only managed to mix with it into some sickening new olfactory safari. And then they arrived.

Standing in the Nevada sun, the children stood while their cargo was unloaded listening to a soundtrack of dog barks, muffled, blasted music from somewhere far off, tires screeching off maybe a block away. Here, there were the smells of cannabis drifting in and out over the hot breeze where the smoke of a small fire hitched a ride, and as the taxi abandoned them, all four members of the "Shields" family stared at their new neighborhood and new home.

***End of Part I***

[serene-gale]

Reunion Part 1: A Warm Welcome

Previous Story

A hazy fog beset the Chocobo forest as Serene walked brisky into the expansive treeline. It had took her roughly a day or so to traverse from the frigid cold Coerthan Highlands to the much more temperate, but still chilly landscape.

Serene took her time, simply too tired to rush any more, the Roegadyn took in the sights, the odd looking trees, the plethora of wild Chocobos roaming the flora, the decidedly less friendly looking bandersnatches lurking out of the corner of Serene’s eye, a fascinating place, surely, though Serene’s attention was torn between it and her stomach, the Roegadyn desiring a place to rest before continuing her journey.

Fortunately enough, her legs eventually took her to what looked like a place of establishment, a large gate, a few houses and barns strewn about, a village, just on the cusp of being a hamlet even, in the distance. Serene picked up her pace, eventually breaking into a jogging pace as she got to the village gates, throwing her hands in the air as she did so.

“Finally! A proper settlement. Maybe now I can get a proper change of clothes.”, Serene exclaimed, sighing in relief as she let her arms down, moving further into the confines of the village, where she was promptly approached by a Elezen man, surprisingly not as tall as her, with a small amount of stubble and a warm smile on his face.

“Welcome to Tailfeather stranger, not often we see Roegadyn in these parts come and go, but you’re welcome to stay a while all the same.”, he greeted Serene , who waved in turn.

“Hey! How are you? I’d be happy to stay for a bit, need a change of clothes and something warm to eat, do you guys have anywhere for me to get set up?”, Serene asked, only for the Elezen trapper to scrunch his face up a little.

“Not really missus, we’re hunters and trappers, not got much hospitality for those on the outside, but then again, we’re not wont to shove you off. We got bunks if you need to rest your head and clean up, and if you want some food I’m sure you could haggle with a travelling merchant if they happen on by or ask one of our boys if you can buy a cut of his catch. Eeh, Bandersnatch meat is shite, but it fills you up.”, the trapper explained, to which Serene nodded, beaming a smile at him.

“Hah, I’m not one to be picky, unless I’m allowed to be picky, any meat would be happily accepted and eaten in full.”, Serene said, her stomach growling as if on cue, “Mind showing me around so I can grab this meat and get myself stuck in?”, Serene asked, to which the trapper nodded, beckoning Serene over to a small congregation of other men by the river.

“Oi Esbyrne! You got any spare bandersnatch meat you can throw on the pyre for this girl here, she’s willing to pay!”, he called out, a older man, Hyur, gruff looking with a grey beard, slowly got up, nodding.

“Eyup, got some just rotting here, should be good for another day or so though, you want this dryin’ or just cookin’ lass?” the old man Esbyrne asked Serene, to which she shook her head before replying.

“Just to cook thanks, need something in the tank asap, how much you want?”, Serene asked, to which the man held up his hand, fingers and thumb outstretched.

“500 gil, not gonna go higher, this stuff is shite for ‘actual’ food, used for Gnath hunting if anything.”, he grumbled, taking the coin Serene handed over as he got up fully and picked up a slab of Bandersnatch meat, sticking a metal rod through it and putting on a heavy duty glove.

“Will be a while, rest up or whatever, I’ll get one of the lads here to call yeh when I’m done.”, Serene simply gave the lethargic old man a thumbs up.

“Will do!”, she affirmed as she headed off towards the barracks that the Elezen trapper mentioned prior.

Serene yawned, taking herself aback by her sudden onset of tiredness. A dull pain radiated from her side, the Roegadyn figuring that she was still somewhat out of it from her previous fight, nothing bad, she surmised, surely, but still something to rest on.

The room she entered was dark, with a few people sleeping in their respective bunks. Serene took off some of her more cumbersome belts and lay down on the wooden frame of the bed as quietly as she could. The bed frame was rough, but it did the job well enough for the Roegadyn to fall into a slumber. A slumber that had Serene dream about her old life, pleasant memories, memories she’d rather forget but would still treasure, as that was all that had been left for her.

An indeterminate amount of time later, a great bang had Serene jump out of bed. She rushed out to the daylight of Tailfeather, it only having been an hour or so since her arrival. Small, localised fires and continued, smaller bangs rang out all around her. For a brief moment the Roegadyn Monk pondered on whether she had been cursed to have misfortune follow her every step, though she quickly snapped out of it and ran towards the centre of the village.

As quickly as she arrived, Serene found the source of the commotion, a small group of queer, bug like entities where attacked the trappers and hunters of Tailfeather ferociously, using their improvised, crude, but effective weaponry to deal heavy damage to their humanoid opponents.

Without a word Serene leapt into action, engaging with a small group of the ‘Gnath’ that had surrounded a wounded trapper, the Elezen from before. The Roegadyn spared no mercy, sending one of the three Gnath flying into the nearby log cabin with a swift, but decisive roundhouse kick that rendered the bug unconscious. The other two turned and aimed their weaponry at Serene, only for her to lunge at the closest Gnath, grab it’s rifle and swing it and the Gnath on the other end into it’s ally, a crunching sound accompanying the crumpling of the two bodies on the floor.

Before Serene was even able to speak up, a sharp pain shot through her upper arm, a pellet of what she assumed was buckshot hit her from a Gnath behind her, who was in the process of reloading. Without hesitation, Serene aimed the gun she had disarmed from the other Gnath and fired a shot directly at her assallant, hitting it square in the chest and causing it to fall back motionless.

Dropping the now empty gun, Serene went to the Elezen, who was, despite his coughing fit, alright.

“H-help...Esbyrne, old man...’gainst a bunch o’ them...I’ll be...fine.”, he gasped, to which Serene gave a curt nod, beckoning over a nearby hunter who was looking for injured. After seeing off the trapper, Serene sprinted off the direction she was told Esbyrne was in, hoping the old man was still safe.

What Serene saw as she approached Esbyrne caused her to panic, a group of four Gnath, all of them with their rifles pointing at the old man with intent to end him. The Roegadyn’s eyes flashed for a brief second before her form was enveloped in a golden glow for again, the briefest of moments as she sped up to a speed the Gnath around Esbyrne couldn’t perceive.

One, two, three four. Serene neutralised each Gnath with a single strike for each, the first falling to a full power punch that sent it flying. The second getting grappled and slammed into the ground with such a force that if not for its thick carapace, would have broken its face. Next the third was dealt the receiving end of Serene’s boots as she vaulted on the body of her last victim to  deliver an especially powerful boot to her would be assailant. Finally the last Gnath, backing up, would be caught by a back handed strike by the Roegadyn, slumping to the floor like the rest.

“Are you harmed?”, Serene said, the aetheric glow fading quickly as she rushed to Esbyrne’s side, the old man nodded, using Serene to stand up, propping himself on her shoulder as best he can.

The two made the first step towards safety, the Gnath had their ranks broken, the raid a failure as those who were still living or conscious began to all collectively panic and run. Serene didn’t know why for a scant few seconds until a deafening roar and what felt like a piercing shouting in her mind made her all to aware of what the hive minded bugs were afraid off.

‘*noise...that noise...must stop...*’

Serene heard these words in her mind, as did everyone present as she turned to face something that gave her pause.

A Wyvern, perched on the rooftop of the Chocobo Nest, it let out another howl and took to flight, using it’s tail to smash the nest under it before launching a fireball at the nearby storage building Serene and Esbyrne were next to, forcing the two to fall to the ground to avoid debris that was launched by the firey attack.

And as soon as it started, everything was.

‘*quiet*’

Next

[rkxangel]

REACH FOR YOUR DREAMS; ROYAL SURVIVAL INTERVIEW!

interviewee: jung soojung / krystal valentine jung episode: 2

( tw: mention of loss! )

              zero stage presence.

              you have zero stage presence.

              she knows that, she can’t lie to the world saying that she has a strong aura when it comes to dancing because she really, doesn’t. generally, the time she has shone is when she’s confident and believes in herself. what pushes her through the tough times is working hard, remembering that everything’s worth it if you’ve given it your all. although, things may not always be perfect all the time but it’s the dedication and trust in music that soojung pursues. ultimately, that’s why she never gives up.

              there’s also the underlying fact that soojung is a modest and demure girl, keeping to herself which is probably why she doesn’t stand out as the other girls do. she has trouble smiling but she’s very delicate. she’d like to think herself as a diamond in the rough. before diamonds, there is the ugly charcoal. through pressure and heat, a beautiful gemstone is created.

              she’s gotten better at answering these interview questions for sure. being aware of what to say at the right occasion is a plus, especially to the viewers and if anyone did support her in the first place. besides her boyfriend oh sehun, someone she can’t talk about publicly ( obviously ).

              the first question strikes up, the camera is recording and she’s prepared for this setting. familiar with it that she doesn’t shake herself up internally for any sorts of questions that they were going to ask, it’s a survival show in the first place anyways.

what would you change, if anything, about your performance?

              soojung purses her lips together, taking a moment to think carefully because there’s just so much she could’ve done to improvise her performance altogether. it’s clear for a fact that she should’ve rendered herself in a position where she had more limelight but at that point, she didn’t throw herself out there positively, more like on a neutral standing. she nods, “ah, there’s a lot i wish i could change about my performance.” a nervous smile cracks in, “i wish i could’ve been out there, you know? i did have fun but you can tell that i’m more of a person who likes to keep things to herself and i’ve been trying to open up. trust me, i think if i opened up more then i would have a lot of fun being a performer, ya’ know? besides having fun on the stage, there’s having this alluring charisma that makes people admire you. i wish i had that.”

              the next question isn’t going to jolt her gut feeling, she wonders if it’s about herself or the vtr though. unknowingly, she doesn’t expect the question to be anything, but letting life flow for whatever happens instead of overthinking is the best method to ease any sorts of tension left inside her heart. she isn’t angry but disappointed at herself with the results.

tell us about your personal motivations/inspirations that led you here today.

              this is a question that she can answer way better than the previous one for sure. because of the fact that soojung knows what she wants for herself, being adamant consistently with her hard work and endeavours. “what motivated me here today is to keep on reaching, aiming for the stars that i couldn’t reach. i remember when two years ago, i thought to myself that i really wanted to be in the royal garden!” she smiles genuinely, a big bright curve not only on her lips but her eyes are forming crescents as well. “besides that, it’s the love i have for music! when life gets for the worse.. and tough, i think of my mummy and dad who would want me to be a successful person. they’ve wanted nothing but the best for me.. especially my mum.” 

              her heart was tingling a bit the moment she mentioned her mum. the woman who was her heart, now gone and in a safer place. gone from the world. “i’m always going to try to be strong for her sake.” with the smile still there, it grows smaller and smaller. a teardrop was rolling down her cheek. she shouldn’t be crying on national television but this was the inevitable.

              why did it have to be about family? she’s too fragile to answer that wholeheartedly, not that she didn’t but she couldn’t let out too much of her shell because she’s well-aware of society. the whole world is watching, eyes scanning on her coldness and labelling her for being a half-breed or ice princess. sad to say, she isn’t too surprised and has adjusted to how judgmental people can be.

              hopefully, there would only be another question left or two.

              the third question was, 

what about the others? tell us a little about your family, friends, or those who are supporting you on the show.

              still, a light topic to talk about. she didn’t have too many friends, her step mother was in france ( but that is someone that soojung can give no care about ), and she wasn’t sure if she had a enormous support base in the first place. soojung answers it with the first few people that come to her mind, “gary oppa! he’s very supportive. there’s sehun.. also jihoon, i think she supports me. i’m sure my auntie and brother are watching me out there!” she lets out a small smile, “for those who are supporting me, i’ll work hard for you guys! harder and harder! thank you.”

lastly, what do you think of seeing your performance on the final version of the vtr?

              “what do i think about it?” she tilts her head left to right, contemplating for a moment before answering. she’s paused momentarily but she knows what to say, “i think i look pretty cool honestly.” letting out a light laugh, she presses on with her opinion of her performance. “i love hip-hop dancing but let’s get serious, ah. i could be better for sure. i am aware that i can be a good dancer if i learn choreography very well but.. i didn’t slay like i should’ve. so i’m disappointed in myself, honestly.”

              before leaving, soojung bows her head down and then gives her gratitude to the cameraman and the staff.

[tzaya]

May 4 - PART 19

Author: tzaya Pairing: Shizuo/Izaya, Shinra&Izaya Rating: G Parts: (1) (2) (3) (4) (5) (6) (7) (8) (9) (10) (11) (12) (13) (14) (15) (16) (17) (18) Words: 1,481 Summary: “It’s for his birthday, so I hope you’ll take part.” Shinra had his gaze fixated on the retreating figure of his friend, making sure no crimson eyes were watching and it never crossed his mind that this step he was taking, improvising a mere party into this scheme he brought up from nowhere would lash Izaya right about his brittle heart. He pushed his black-rimmed glasses up the bridge of his nose, lips curling into a smile as he finally turned to face the crowd encircling him. “Don’t you want to let him have a taste of his own medicine?” (RaijinDays) Chapter Summary: Shizuo was complex in the way he was too simple.

“Now I have an excuse.”

Izaya was the first to break the silence, the pad of his finger brushing across his injured lips; they felt chapped, with a bit of dried blood stuck to them. His body felt fatigued, and every part ached but he had to put on an act of nonchalant in front of Shizuo. He couldn’t risk Shizuo (who was now walking alongside him) curling up into a ball and shut him out again. They’d end up being in that alleyway until tomorrow if Izaya hadn’t succeeded in coaxing Shizuo to leave, especially before Haruhi wakes up.

“To meet Shinra,” he continued when Shizuo looked puzzled.

“Can you go like that?”

Shizuo noticed the pain he was in despite his attempt to hide it. Well— that was probably because of the grimace on his face and the fact that he was dragging his leg across the ground as he walked. The rocky road sent pain shooting up his body every time he crunched the rocks under the sole of his shoes. It made him wonder if he should ask Shizuo to set the bone back in place, although that could attract attention to them since he was sure he’d end up letting out a scream. It’d be amusing to see Shizuo being accused of assault. That he couldn’t deny.

“Do you want to carry me?”

He could see that Shizuo was definitely considering it, to Izaya’s surprise.

“I was just kidding!” Izaya chortled, but his steps came to a halt anyway, “Is Shizu-chan feeling that bad? He’d never felt such remorse before.”

“I’ll carry you.”

“Eh?”

“Here, just get on.”

He could never understand Shizuo. What goes through his mind—what he feels when he’s faced by complicated issues. Shizuo was complex in the way that he was too simple. Once Izaya thought he had Shizuo all figured out, Shizuo would just surprise him with an unexpected move. He could predict what others might do, but not Shizuo, despite the said others also being simple-minded.

Heh, the only difference is that he’s a beast, he thought as he climbed onto Shizuo’s back; arms circled around Shizuo’s necks.

“I can’t believe I’m on a monster’s back! Scary!”

“Stop calling me that.”

It was odd to be this close to Shizuo, to the point where their bodies were pressed up against each other, putting aside the rooftop moment evening earlier, which by the way, he’d like to forget.

“Don’t make me drop you,” Shizuo warned him further.

“Then what is the point of Shizu-chan carrying me? I’m like a sheep being sent to the wolf’s home, anyway.”

“Shinra’s not that bad.”

“…”

“Ah, I can’t believe I’m saying this, but you’re right,” Izaya let out a huff, running a hand through his hair, which felt stickier than he thought. Was his head bleeding? He didn’t even notice, “What about me, Shizu-chan? I’m not that bad either, right?”

Hazel eyes stared back at him, and Izaya never noticed how the light made them appear gold, only then he had the time to actually scrutinize Shizuo’s facial features— like the 5 o’clock shadow he had and the small scratch at the temple of his head, probably from Izaya’s own nails when he attempted to freed himself from Shizuo’s chokehold earlier.

“Yeah, today.”

The answer brought him out of his stupor, causing him to be aware of how his fingertips almost grazed the defined jawline of the other that his gaze fell on before it trailed back up to Shizuo’s eyes once he realized what he was doing.

“Only today?” he asked Shizuo, fingers retreating to rest against his own cheek in a casual manner.

“But only about 50%.”

His nose scrunched up, Izaya leaned back as another huff slipped past his lips, hands now holding on to Shizuo’s shoulders for support.

“How awful, Shizu-chan, to be biased towards Shinra but not me. After all, I’ve been keeping you company for the whole day.”

“Heh,” Shizuo decided against saying anything, only allowing himself to let out something akin to a half suppressed laugh; uncaring of how it ended up with Izaya pestering him, asking if Shizuo really did find his joke funny for once.

“Iza-nii!”

“Iza-nii… Shizuo-san…” (Iza-nii is on Shizuo-san’s back?)

“There you are!”

The sight before him rendered him speechless. He hadn’t even realized that they already reached their destination, the place he dreaded the most— or to be more exact, Shinra’s apartment. Mairu and Kururi were there, with Kadota who exhaled a sigh of relief upon seeing them still in one piece (despite Izaya being on Shizuo’s back, he was more glad to see all the limbs were still in-tact and Izaya was still breathing). It seemed like Shizuo had notified them. Why else would they be down here instead of partying back in Shinra’s place, like he’d imagined them do even if the birthday boy wasn’t there.

“Where have you been? You’re always late!” Mairu stomped her foot on the ground, much like she did this morning. It almost made him smile, if he didn’t know they were in on the plan as well.

“Miss…” (We missed you.)

Kururi was the first to take a step ahead and touch him, nimble fingers reaching out to tug at the pant leg of his black jeans, as she was too short to hold his hand.

“Happy birthday to me, eh?” Izaya tipped his head to the side, eyes forming crescents when he breathed out a gleeful laugh.

“I’m sorry, Izaya. It wasn’t supposed to be like this and—”

“I know, Dotachin. I’ll accept another coffee as an apology.”

Kadota gave him a nod before flashing a smile. Truthfully, Kadota had always been good to him, which was why Izaya wasn’t sure at first if he was also the perpetrator of this chaos alongside Shinra, but he’d figured that Shinra couldn’t have done it all by himself. If it wasn’t Shizuo… who else was close to Shinra?

You should always expect the worse even from the kindest people.

“You got it. Tomorrow I’ll get you the latte one!”

“Why…?” (Iza-nii, why are you being carried?)

“Yeah! Kuru-nee’s right. You have legs, Iza-nii.”

“Mm? Shizu-chan was too rough with me.”

“Eeeeh? What was Iza-nii and Shizuo-san doing?”

“Yaoi…” (Yaoi things like in the magazines back at home?)

“Yao— Ouch!”

The hiss naturally came out with the punch to his nose. It felt like his nose was going to bleed, but Izaya was unfazed by it, his index finger and thumb rubbing the bridge of his nose while he chuckled, shaking his head, “Haha! Can you see this? The proof is laid out for everyone to see!”

“Stupid shit got into trouble ten hundred times.”

“Ten hundred times? Shizu-chan, I know you didn’t know how to count but— Ouch!”

“Confirmed…” (Confirmed, it was yaoi.)

“Iza-nii didn’t deny it! But ten hundred times? Kuru-nee, we need to consult those people who did the Guinness World Records! Shizuo-san should get an award!”

“What the hell is yaoi?” Shizuo’s brow arched in confusion.

“It’s what Shizuo-san always do with Iza-nii!”

“Right…” (That’s right.)

“Huh? Fighting, then?”

It only took a glance at Izaya’s smug face to know that that wasn’t the case, that it was something deeper than that. Shizuo racked his brain to see if he could remember seeing the word somewhere else before, since the Orihara siblings weren’t much of a help at giving him a definition of the word. What he could vaguely recall was Kasuka showing him something on the internet, claiming it was the craze among the girls at school, and on the images he pulled up was of two guys k—

“Fuck.”

“It’s not good to curse in front of children, Shizu-chan.”

“Do you want to go home?”

Kadota, who’d been watching the little banter from the side, asked. It did worry him a little to see all the injuries on Izaya’s fair skin. Those would take a while to heal, and judging from the last time he saw Izaya (Izaya was still free from scars then), he probably got them all after school ended. Had Izaya even rested before coming here?

“Home…” (Home would be nice.)

“But we haven’t eaten any cake!” Mairu frowned at her sister’s reply before turning to look at Izaya again, “Do you really want to go home, Iza-nii?”

There was still blood on the blade when he brandished his knife out in the public, flipping it open with a flick of his wrist; crimson gaze trailing from the presences before him to the windows which were opened (he recognized it as Shinra’s), curtains slightly flying to and fro due to the breeze. He was sure some red got to his chin as he casually rested it on the blade, lips jutting out as though he was contemplating.

“Go home? The fun has just started.”

[martywurst]

My First and Worst Year: Producing A Show

I get caught up in the gossip. Shitting on comedians that I barely know. I'm trying to stop that. Early on, I was one those guys that would say something negative because I was trying to start a dialogue and reinforce any negative feelings I had about someone. Usually based in nothing; maybe one lousy first impression or through the grapevine on Facebook. Unfortunately, talking shit is a major way to bond with other inexperienced comics. A lot of miserable, sarcastic, unmotivated, boring comics. Or 10+ year comics that bitch about how unfair everything is. They can't talk to you for 30 seconds without shitting on something.

Now I know that's not me. I never feel good about it and it never helps.

The comics I look up to are modest, rarely say anything bad about anyone because they're just focused. They don't feed the fire. I'd rant about something and they wouldn't have anything to add to it. Maybe something along the lines of,

"Yeah, that can happen," kind of response.

I'd see the look on their face. I'm the problem.

I was the same way in Junior High. Picking on the popular kids and being obnoxious because I was so desperate to be a part of their circle. Afraid to be myself. Afraid to put in that kind of work.

I'll be obsessed with some idiot for hours on a Facebook thread, so tempted to participate in the attack, but where is it going to get me? Fuck, I could've written something. I should be writing jokes now, but I think I know something about blogging and comedy! I feel like I'm just regurgitating boring opinions that have been voiced on hundreds of podcasts already, I'll try to pepper this section up! Check out this sweet ass pimp kitty vest!

 I always want to prove myself to other comics. An audience of strangers is always amazing, but I do feel the pressure of an all-comic mic. It's way too important to me. I don't want to be written off, I know I can be funny. Maybe not the last 20 times you saw me, but I'll get there, don't write me off!

When I had a decent set in front of someone I respected, I felt like I could check that off. Okay, that person doesn't think I'm a piece of shit anymore. I proved myself. Getting closer to being an actual comic! Every good set is a stepping stone. My bad sets would just temporarily render me useless. Instead of doing my homework and adjusting, I would just write something new or beat a bad joke into the ground. Maybe it'll work the 27th time.

"The people that go to Burning Man only need these two words to communicate: Burning...man!"

*crickets slashing wrists*

I bombed in front of Sean Conroy and took it kind of hard. Intimidating dude, (like the Ron Perlman of improvisation) he was sitting in the front row at Echoes Under Sunset with his arms crossed, waiting for his set and just watching me hang myself. He'd probably seen a thousand variations of the heckler character I was doing. I picked on him in character, but he wouldn't roll with it. Why would he? It was more fun to watch me squirm.

Every time I asked him a question he would answer,

"Sure."

Which is sort of the "fuck you" version of "yes and,"  It's an improv thing.

I was berating the audience for being a bunch of hipsters. Yelling out,

"Well I got something for ALL OF YOU!"

Then I started handing out free coffee coupons from a local coffee shop. Sean politely declined.

I had my bombing routine where I would call up Claire afterwards and tell her I just ate shit. Or who I ate shit in front of. She would convince me that it was okay, everybody bombs, and remind me that I'd had good sets before. She would tell me that she loved me and make me feel better about what had happened. Oh, there is life after tomorrow, I forgot! Thanks, baby!

Claire understands the grind. She's a fan of a lot of the people I look up to and we listen to a lot of the same podcasts now. She got into Jen Kirkman and The Longshot Podcast early on and now she subscribes to more comedians than I do. We went to Power Violence and a number of shows at The Improv. Pete Holmes, Todd Glass, Ron Lynch, Eddie Pepitone, Maron, Sebastian, Ian Edwards, and Tig- we love Tig. She pushed me to go on the road. She encouraged me to stop using the train and take her car instead. She makes this all possible. It's unbelievable. She even made cookies when I produced my own show.

I'd done a couple of shows at The Lexington with Tony Bartolone where I did some character stuff. I played a wrestler, a heckler that takes on Mr. Goodnight and a squarish Steve Allen type talk show host. Anyway, the owner liked me enough and said if I ever wanted to use the space, hit him up.

Tony was nice enough to help me too, he ran sound for me. Uggh, I didn't even give him a fucking spot and he ran sound for me- that's how great a guy he is and how SELFISH I can be.

 I think the best thing in comedy after doing standup is booking your own show. Reaching for the stars, pulling in friends, what a great position to be in! Compiling a fantasy list of mostly male comics and shooting them a message on Facebook.

So if you're a new comic wondering, how the hell do I get booked on a show?

Well, a moron like me could accidentally see you at an open mic and then end up liking you! And I'm the guy who did a shitty set before you, remember? You never know who could be running shows.

Most people got back to me pretty quick. Comedians love a full calendar. 

I adored The Walsh Brothers. So original and twisted. They blew my mind at TigerLily and I finally met the guys through a mutual friend.

Brian Scolaro was someone I had talked to outside of The Comedy Store. He's one of the first comics to give me any kind of advice,

"Don't move To Long Beach."

I was a fanboy of Dean Delray. I heard Matty Goldberg on Danny Lobell's podcast and dug his book about his friendship with Angelo Bowers. Ron Babcock was one of the friendly guys on the scene, loved his standup. I'd worked on a webseries with Paul Danke. Just met a lot of the other comics at open mics. I worked with Jeanne Whitney at Arclight Hollywood and we started standup around the same time. I watched Timika Hall do her first set at Echoes Under Sunset and she was great! Ester Steinberg cracked me up at The Palace and then I wanted to book her after I saw this sketch. She just happened to be hanging out with Neel Nanda when I was booking him, so I got both of them right then and there.

Robert Vertrees was brand new like me, but I just dug his story.

I knew I'd never have to worry about Ken Garr.

Just read his awesome blog entry "One Year Later and Why I Should Quit"

I should've taken note and made my blog shorter! That dude is a complete professional and will never hesitate to give you his tour dates at the MGM in Las Vegas.

Jak Knight was edgy and exciting. Jon Durnell was the best thing about a bringer show I did at the Formosa. I didn't even know Lisa Landry, but Brian asked if she could be on. Same thing with Kevin James Moore, a buddy of Matty's.

  Maagic Collins is one of the kindest souls I've ever met. I love his standup. He would show up to my afternoon Tribal mic on Saturdays. Very supportive guy.

I think I saw Rick Wood at Power Violence and he just blew me away.

Anyway, you get the fucking point, this was just an excuse to drop everyone's links. Jesus Christ.

One time I made the amateur mistake of messaging too many people at once and then having to tell one comic I'd put them on the next show. I got a lot of grief for that and I was pulling my hair out. I was getting a guilt trip from the disappointed comic and now I didn't want to book him at all. It was totally my fault, but I was just getting through the learning curve. Book carefully, and wait for your damn responses.

Another recurring thing that kept coming up is a comic wanting to bring a friend for a guest spot. It's a good rule of thumb to keep a spot open for a possible drop-in. Or just book less comics Marty. Aren't you glad you paid $200 for this helpful comedy workshop tip?

I was also planning on doing all these wacky sketches and transitions that had nothing to do with the stand-up comedy. I wanted to make it an event. I asked Chris Walsh if we could have an extended dialogue where the Walsh Brothers get in an argument with me and then pretend to shoot me from the audience...so now I'm suddenly on the level of The Walsh Brothers! Proposing bits. Chris was really nice about it and declined in the best way possible. He made me realize that I should only work on the hosting- not all this extra dressing. I'd be stressed out enough. Plus, The Walsh Brothers have their own thing going on and it's hilarious.

Claire helped me with some basic PR stuff; shooting out emails to various websites with LA calendars of events. Lot of people check online for free entertainment. I hit up LA Weekly early enough to get this delightful blip:

Did I pay anyone? I paid Dean Delray. I paid Brian Scolaro. It seems a little unfair now, I had The Walsh Brothers, Ron Babcock, Paul Danke, and Matty Goldberg, who all have a shitload of experience.

I got this dumb idea that I should write thank you notes to everyone else. Looking back, I gave comedians false hope of money in those envelopes, only to find a badly scrawled "thank you" with some shitty stick figure doodles. At least there were cookies at the gig.

Brian mentioned the 50 bucks onstage and I was really embarrassed. It exposed the inner-workings of my inexperience and that I was holding out on everyone else. I think I would do it differently now, but it was a free show.

Tony watched me have a mini-meltdown. I was stressing out because there was a band that was booked on a show immediately after and it was clear that I was going to run over their time. I thought if I gave up my own set and kept bringing the next comic up, we'd finish on time without cutting anyone's sets down.

Tony explained to me that I shouldn't of worried about that, that it was worse to bring the comics up cold. It's better to keep the audience warmed up, but I was hopping back on stage saying,

"Give it up for Ron Babcock, and now let's keep it moving- Matty Goldberg!"

I didn't get it. I thought running over my time would fuck things up and I'd never get to do a show again. I shouldn't of booked so many comics anyway- Paul Danke was going on dead last, and he'd been waiting around so long, I felt horrible. I should buy his album.

So don't sacrifice your time for the sake of the next show- be a good host, Wurst.

But that first show had a great turnout, especially for The Lexington. The comics were kind of impressed. That extra leg work paid off.

I remember I wanted to bring Dean Delray up to a Led Zeppelin song and I kept bothering Tony about it when the order changed. Then when the music came up, Dean was clearly stoked and that little moment meant a lot to me.

On his way out he yelled,

"Congratulations on your 1st year of stand up!"

Speaking of which, I asked Melina Paez if I could be in her "DropTheSoapTV" series, where comics do stand-up in her shower. It was a fun way to cap off my first year.

Okay, that was rather manic. Just a couple steps away from Denis Leary- uggh. Anyway, I STOPPED doing that. Here's a message to myself as I time-travel back to the shower,

Horrible jokes, asshole! Your taint is hilarious by the way.

I just want to thank the people that encouraged me or gave me useful information when I started bumbling my way through open mics that first year (July 2013-2014)

Brett Gilbert, Ric Rosario, Matty Goldberg, Tony Bartolone, Jason Van Glass, Ron Babcock, Dean Delray, Chris Walsh, Matt Walsh, Danny Lobell, Mollie Gross, Melina Paez, Brian Scolaro, Jamie Flam, Jeremiah Watkins, Mike Celestino, Justin Alexio, Neel Nanda, Mikey de Lara, Paul Danke, Ari Mannis, Lydia Robinson, Ryan Doolittle, Maagic Collins, Don Barris, Elissa Rosenthal, Rob Antus, K-von, Jarrett and Emily Galante, Christiane Georgi, Hiro Matsunaga, Greg James, Carly Craig, Matthew Hilton, Sally Mullins, Matt Sauter, Matt Gamarra, Donald McKinney, Ryan Kain, Jeremy Fultz, Del Weston, Derick Armijo, Alisha Morine, Nicole Malina, Devon Schwartz, Andy Salamone, Barbara Gray, Sean Conroy, Myles Weber, Ricky Winston, Frankie Ma, Rishi Arya, Brandon Birckz, Sean K., Mike Menendez, Jamar Neighbors, Mr. Goodnight, Erica Rhodes, Matt Champagne, David Gerhardt, The Martin Duprass, John Silver, Ryan Pfeiffer, Kevin Anderson, Whitney Melton, Kym Kral, Jared Levin, Kenneth Lion, Alex Croll, Adam Carr, Trevor James, Deon Williams, Amber Brashear, Pat Regan, Brad Silnutzer, Rob Weissman, Marty, Graham Curan, Eddie Pepitone, Quincy Johnson, Blythe Metz, Willie Dynamite, Freddy Morales, Marcela Perdomo, Nick Kaufman, Atelston Fitgerald Holder The 1st, Bruce Boiman, Tom Allen, Melissa Villasenor, Maria Bamford, Todd Glass, Lou Perez, Allison Anders, Jeremy Bassett, Tony Alfieri, Laura Niles, Tamoy Sherman, Chaliss Robinson, Eddie Whitehead Jr, Brent Weinbach, Jill Maragos, Jodi Miller, Luz Pazos, Brianna Murphy, Sasha Kapustina, Alain Villenueve, Brad James, Lauren Kiang, Yoav, Ken Garr, David Gregorian, Jordan Leer, Stefano Della Pietra, Down Under Comedy Club, Mike Garrison, Brad and Sara Harris, Thomas Hussey, Harold, Chino, Tiffany Gomes, Simon Gibson, Joe Wagner, Scott Luhrs, Jay Weingarten, Joe Kardon, Pedro Salinas, Willie Dynamite, Robert Vertrees, Amber Kenny, Karah Britton, Alison Tafel, David Hill, Andy Kosec, Micah Lile, Chris Putro, Kris Rubio, Jade Thom, Brodie Reed, Ryan Talmo, Kevin Lee, Kellie Ann, Jeanne Whitney, Jake Kroeger, Nikki Riordan, Tim Mars, Christian Chavez, Jake Adams, Louise Hung, Michael Donato, my Geffen peeps, all my Arclight friends, Stella friends, childhood friends and family that came out to support.

Or if you're just generally nice to me thanks. You gave me the strength to go out and bomb one more time.

Shout out to Mike Celestino's great documentary "That's Not Funny".

and finally To Claire:

For every time I called you up to moan out my discontent, only to be dissuaded from my stubborn misery because of your constant light, love, and gentle reasoning.

For those open mics you'll never be able to unsee.

I love you more than open mic comedians love pussy jokes.

And as you know, that's a hell of a lot.

[ciathyzareposts]

Black Crypt: Won! (with Summary and Rating)

The box prominently featured the Ram Demon, the easiest of Estoroth’s lieutenants.

               Black Crypt

United States

Raven Software (developer); Electronic Arts (publisher) Released 1992 for the Amiga

Date Started: 27 December 2018

Date Ended: 20 January 2019

Total Hours: 29

Difficulty: Moderate-Hard (3.5/5)

Final Rating: (to come later)

Ranking at Time of Posting: (to come later)

Summary:

Black Crypt is a descendant of the Dungeon Master (1987) line. The player controls four characters of fixed classes (fighter, druid, cleric, and mage) on a quest to find four ancient artifacts necessary to defeat an ancient evil named Estoroth. Gameplay takes place across 28 levels of varying sizes, up to 40 x 40. Like its predecessors, it couples first-person, tile-based movement with fast-paced, real-time combat. Character development occurs by leveling and acquiring new spells and equipment, but (as with all games on the Dungeon Master tree) standard RPG considerations frequently take a back seat to a variety of mechanical puzzles involving buttons, switches, pressure plates, teleporters, and other navigational obstacles. Although fun, it breaks little new ground and thus offers few reasons to play it over the games that influenced it.

******

I should never underestimate my readers. I had resigned myself to putting together this final entry based on YouTube videos and had actually drafted a “Summary and Rating” without the “Won,” but Zardas came through. He did a bit of surgery on my save disk put together a save that worked out of non-corrupted parts of the disk.

Having found the four artifacts, I only had to solve a pressure plate puzzle on Level 13 to get access to the final levels, 27 and 28. The mechanical puzzles disappeared on those final levels, and they were small enough that I didn’t bother to map them.

Level 27 had a couple of conflicting messages, one suggesting that Estoroth couldn’t be damaged by magic, and one saying he could only be damaged with magic.               

     The “Reveal Truth” spell showed that the first message was the accurate one. Enemies on the two levels are completely immune to spells. That was a bit disappointing. I don’t know what purpose it serves to render that aspect of character development meaningless on the final level. 

On Level 27, I had to defeat six skeletal guardians. Their magic attack was too powerful for my party to withstand more than two blasts, so I had to waltz them to death. (For new readers, the “combat waltz” is a maneuver by which you attack then quickly side-step and turn before the enemy can retaliate.) I can’t see how it would be possible to beat them otherwise. All the videos I consulted online showed the players doing exactly that. I suppose I could have used two Potions of Invincibility on my front characters, but I was saving those for Estoroth.               

These guys were so hard I couldn’t stop for a screenshot without dying.

             I can’t remember if I mentioned in a previous entry that waltzing is a little harder in Black Crypt than other Dungeon Master clones, largely because the enemies don’t follow a predictable pattern. You can’t side-step until the enemy has already committed to turning and facing you; otherwise, he could easily go the other direction. For some players, this would mean simply adjusting their fingers and switching the direction of the waltz. For someone less manually dexterous like me, it means flailing randomly at the keys and, in a best-case scenario–running to the other side of the dungeon so I can catch my breath, settle down, and figure out a new pattern.

Once the guardians were defeated, I armed myself with the four artifacts and took a stairway down to Estoroth himself. At this point, I naturally forgot to use my Potions of Invincibility, but Estoroth was curiously easy. After I’d hit him just a few times with my melee weapons, the weapons began to sparkle. This was a sign to use their special attacks. It took a few tries to get the order right. Protector (the shield) protects the party from further damage; Soulfreezer (the staff) holds Estoroth in place; Vortex (the sword) opens a portal to another dimension; and Forcehammer (the hammer) sends him through.            

Sending Estoroth to hell.

         The endgame text is first a short paragraph:            

What made this banishment of Estoroth successful permanently?

          But afterwards, the player gets a scene-by-scene recap (about 15 scenes total) of the major game moments, including the various “boss” creatures defeated along the way: the Ogre, the Dracolich, the Medusa, the Possessor, the Ram Demon, and the Waterlord.            

In case we had forgotten.

          After one final concluding paragraph . . .                

The final screen shows the Black Crypt destroyed.

              . . . the party has the option to reload the final save and just poke around the dungeon. There really isn’t anything to do, but you can find the four ancient heroes’ skulls on Level 28, plus a few high-powered items.

I had a reasonable amount of fun with Black Crypt. It’s a clone, but there’s nothing inherently wrong with clones. Without them, we’d have about a dozen total RPGs, and half of those would be weird one-off French titles. Clones allow you to get started without any confusion, let you settle in to familiar territory with a contented sigh. And despite the term, no “clone” is a 100% likeness. It’s fun to see the different variations the developers take with a common template, like listening to a new jazz band improvise on a number you’ve heard a million times. Even when its worse, it can still be interesting.

But Dungeon Master-style games face a unique challenge when it comes to this improvisation, because they’re mostly about mechanics. They tend to feature framing stories–that is, stories that have few references in the game itself, and could easily be swapped with a different frame–and no NPCs. With an Ultima clone, even if the game plays the same as Ultima III or IV, you can still enjoy the new story and the variety of NPCs. Lacking such narrative options, a Dungeon Master clone has to rest all its improvisation on combat, exploration, and puzzles. That’s where Black Crypt falls a little short.             

Just like Dungeon Master, all I can tell about a weapon by looking at it is its weight. At least the door image is cool.

          Only in its somewhat extensive ending does Black Crypt really distinguish itself from its predecessors. Oh, its graphics and sound are marginally better, but these are the things that an RPG fan–particularly a Dungeon Master fan–ought to care about least. Some of its puzzles also went in different directions, but rarely to the game’s credit. More often than in Dungeon Master or Eye of the Beholder, I found it difficult to judge the results of various actions. I particularly didn’t like the invisible pressure plates. There’s little point to mechanical puzzles if you can’t see the elements that make up the puzzle. 

Meanwhile, Black Crypt fixed none of the problems that I had with Dungeon Master–inability to see equipment statistics and a needless food system among them. Even worse, it went in Eye of the Beholder‘s direction with character development, while offering none of Beholder‘s improvements, such as NPCs and side quests. The magic system is done a bit differently here, although in the end I found it neither better or worse than its predecessors. For all of these reasons, I expect it to GIMLET lower than Dungeon Master or Beholder.

1. Game World. As usual, we have more of a framing story than a backstory–a fact not changed by a few call-outs within the game (mostly in the form of messages from Estoroth that you find). The plot is derivative, and like most Dungeon Master clones, there isn’t much of a “world” here. But the levels are well-designed, with both textures and puzzles organized around themes specific to individual levels or small groups of levels. Score: 5.

2. Character Creation and Development. As noted, it takes a fairly major step back. You have to play four fixed classes. There are no significant choices during creation except for the portrait. Because the dungeon is linear and the number of enemies is mostly fixed, characters level at fixed intervals, and leveling doesn’t really do very much for them. I vastly prefer Dungeon Master‘s action-based leveling, in which each character can attain various levels in all “classes,” to Crypt‘s (and Beholder‘s) experience-based leveling. Score: 3.              

Using single classes and experience-based leveling was a regression.

             3. NPC Interaction. There are no NPCs in the game. Score: 0.

4. Encounters and Foes. There are about as many different enemies as the typical game of this genre, with about as much variety in strengths, resistances, and special attacks. Most of the monster types and portraits are original to this game (or at least not taken directly from its sources). I just wish they had names. As is my custom, I’ll also use this category to throw in a couple of points for the puzzles, which serve in the place of role-playing “encounters” in this sub-genre. As above, I didn’t always like them, but they were pitched at the right difficulty. Score: 5.

5. Magic and Combat. I’ll never love combat that relies more on manual dexterity than attributes and tactics. Dungeon Master at least provided a variety of different types of attacks with its weapons, plus hand-to-hand combat, plus a more useful in-combat spells system, plus the ability to attack from the inventory screen, plus other useful tricks, like the ability to swing around and use the two rear characters to attack the rear. Black Crypt‘s only innovations are to make waltzing (and similar patterns) more difficult and to introduce a different take on the spell system. It’s lack of buffing spells is also a negative. Still, it offers an arguably better experience than Eye of the Beholder, where you never got feedback on attacks, and waltzing made it possible to win with a single character. Score: 4.

6. Equipment. I liked the variety of equipment slots but almost nothing else. Looking at items offers less information than even Dungeon Master. I guess I’ll give a point for some originality with the “false” messages and the ability to right-click on most weapons for a special attack. Score: 5.            

As with most RPGs, I ended this one with plenty of unused equipment.

        7. Economy. As usual for Dungeon Master clone, none. Score: 0.

8. Quests. The main quest has some fun stages, with various boss creatures every two or three levels. It also offers a little nonlinearity in the order you approach Estoroth’s lieutenants, but it otherwise has no choices, no alternate endings, and no role-playing. In this it under-performs its predecessors. Score: 4.

9. Graphics, Sound, and Interface. Some improvements here. The game is still a bit too mouse-heavy for my tastes, but at least you can customize the movement keys. I feel like there were a few more sound effects and slightly better graphics than Dungeon Master, at least, but perhaps not enough to make a difference in the score. The auto-mapping system is a nice addition, and I like how it’s logically integrated with the spell system (even if it took me a while to figure out). Amiga-philes will want me to note that the game uses an enhanced graphics mode (“extra half-bright”) that allows for 64 colors instead of the usual 32, but even the original 32 colors is about 24 more than I can discern. Score: 6.

10. Gameplay. It’s as linear as most dungeon crawlers, but at least offers some flexibility after Level 13. Unfortunately, the fixed character classes make it less replayable than its counterparts. Otherwise, difficulty and length were both good. Score: 5.

That gives us a final score of 37, just north of my “recommended” threshold, but below the 41 I gave to Eye of the Beholder and the 47 I gave to Dungeon Master. (I must say, reviewing my Dungeon Master scores, I was a bit generous in several categories and I think it would likely rate closer to a 43 if I rated it now. I didn’t have a lot of perspective during my first year.) Fans of this subgenre would argue (not entirely without a point) that perhaps it shouldn’t be faulted for lacking NPCs, a dynamic game world, and an economy, since that’s not what this subgenre is about. If it thus makes you feel better, you can think of it as rating closer to a 44 (and Dungeon Master closer to a 58) with those categories eliminated the rest of the values rescaled accordingly.             

As an Amiga game, Black Crypt was heavily promoted in Europe.

            Computer Gaming World offered a “sneak preview” of the game in the February 1992 issue, but it never seems to have offered a review. The preview, written by Allen Greenberg, is extremely positive. Nothing he says is wrong, exactly, but he suggests that the game is better than Dungeon Master, and I find it difficult to imagine any fan of this subgenre agreeing with that. In particular, he seems too infatuated with fairly modest improvements in graphics and sound. Greenberg sets up the review by suggesting there’s a war brewing between keyboarders and mousers, so I’m at least glad to see that the interface issue was heavily debated in the day. Amiga-specific magazines tended towards high scores, with .info coming in at a perfect 100 and Amiga Action giving it 93/100. Non-English Amiga magazines were, as usual, a bit more conservative, with scores in the 71-90 range.

Black Crypt was the first title from Wisconsin-based Raven Software, which still exists as a subdivision of Activision (it was sold in 1997) and is currently in charge of the Call of Duty series. The company’s co founders, Brian and Steve Raffel, reportedly began outlining the game in the 1980s. They enlisted two programmers, Rick Johnson, and Ben Gokey, and had a demo ready for the 1990 Gen Con, where it was picked up for distribution by Electronic Arts. (I had originally thought that Crypt owed its lineage to Dungeon Master via Eye of the Beholder, but the game would have been mostly finished when Beholder came out.) It was the first game for almost everyone on the team.

An Amiga-only game in 1992 was bound to make a small splash in the United States, which probably explains why the company abandoned the platform for future titles. At the same time, they also mostly abandoned RPGs in favor of first-person shooters, some with light RPG elements. Whether we ever see them again on this blog depends how I rule on games like ShadowCaster (1993), Heretic (1994), Hexen (1995), Mageslayer (1997), and Hexen II (1997), all of which are on my list preliminarily. Today, the company is better known for its Soldier of Fortune (2000-2003) and Call of Duty (2010-2017) titles as well as its work on later entries in id Software’s franchises including Quake 4 (2005) and Wolfenstein (2009).

Any RPG fan is going to want to read Jimmy Maher’s survey of Dungeon Master descendants, published a few weeks ago. Based on his review, we only have four left (at least until a more recent surge of “retro” games): Lands of Lore: The Throne of Chaos (1993), Dungeon Master II: Skullkeep (1993), Eye of the Beholder III (1993), and Stonekeep (1995). (And maybe Liberation: Captive II [1994]? I’m not sure if it uses the same engine and approach as Captive.) It doesn’t sound like any of them are likely to outperform the original. It’s too bad that this subgenre never reached a true peak before it was subsumed by real-time movement in the vein of Ultima Underworld (1992), but given its forthcoming demise, I’m not sorry that it had one decent 1992 entry.

source http://reposts.ciathyza.com/black-crypt-won-with-summary-and-rating/

[flauntpage]

Still Can’t Get It Done – Observations from Celtics 121, Sixers 114 (OT)

Merry Christmas.

Let’s talk about the final play of regulation.

If you were like me, you were probably thinking that the ball would end up in the hands of Jimmy Butler or Joel Embiid, but JJ Redick took and missed the shot instead. If he hits from 18 feet, we’re talking about a wonderful road win. Instead he missed, the Sixers went on to lose in overtime, and the reactions were borderline apoplectic, at least on social media.

I don’t have too much of a problem with that play call. Sure, you can go isolation with Butler, who has hit a couple of tough three pointers at the buzzer this season. You can run the two-man game with Embiid and Redick.

Brett Brown decided against using a timeout and instead wanted Redick on the baseline, running that “inverted pick and roll” with Ben Simmons.

Watch it once while focusing on Redick and Simmons, then watch it again and check out Embiid’s body language:

I put “inverted pick and roll” in quotations because that’s only maybe 50% of what the play is. Sometimes it looks like a brush cut and sometimes it looks like a dribble hand-off. It’s a little bit of all three of those things at once.

Whatever the case, it’s a set they’ve used before with success. All you’re really doing it spreading out the floor and putting the onus on two defenders to navigate the brush, or else Simmons is going to drive the lane. JJ ended up with the ball and got a mid-range look that really is a higher percentage shot than those iso three-pointers Butler made earlier in the year.

The only problem I have with using Ben in that situation is that he’s obviously not a threat to shoot, so if you cut off the lane, you know he’s going to dump it off to Redick instead. And in this situation, he really didn’t get any contact on Gordon Hayward, nor did JJ do a good enough job of running Hayward into Marcus Morris. It was rushed and poorly executed:

Hayward can’t just round Simmons there, you need to get some body on him or drive him into his own man.

In hindsight, the skill sets of Butler and Embiid allow for more improvisation or flexibility when you’re in a crunch time scenario like that. Butler can drive OR shoot. Embiid can get to the foul line. You only needed one-point there, and Redick was not having an amazing shooting night, yet that’s where they went.

The other thing is this:

They didn’t need to take a timeout. Taking a timeout allows Brad Stevens to sub in Marcus Smart and Terry Rozier and take Hayward and Kyrie Irving off the floor. It also allows the crowd to sort of whip themselves into a frenzy. Letting your team go down the floor, seeing the matchup, and calling the play you want is fine in that instance. I didn’t think that was a huge deal at the end of the day.

This all leads us to Brett Brown, who unsurprisingly took a lot of flak last night, not just for that final play but because of the overtime collapse.

Let’s start by taking a step back and defining Brett Brown.

Brett likes motion, movement, rhythm, tempo, and sharing of the basketball. His base offense takes bits of things he learned under Gregg Popovich in San Antonio and also incorporates some Mike D’Antoni concepts as well. It’s space and pace, right? They spread the floor, sling the ball around, and get out in transition.

All of that is fine for 45 minutes, but it runs antithetical to late game NBA basketball, which is about slowing things down and executing half-court offense. Sometimes you just have to put the ball in your best player’s hands and let him do his thing.

I know I’ve used this analogy before, but it’s kind of like a spread offense football team doing well for three quarters. They throw bubble screens and hit you with read options and really kill you in space. Then, all of a sudden, the situation changes, the defense tightens up, and you need to line up in I-formation and just give the ball to your 240 pound fullback and let him bulldoze somebody for a difficult first down.

The Sixers aren’t great with that, that concept of changing pace and slowing it down and closing out a game. I don’t know if the base offense and some of their more common sets interface well with late-game basketball. They certainly aren’t running the floor and getting transition three-pointers with 45 seconds left on the clock, and a lot of times that renders Ben Simmons as more or less useless in the half court.

I don’t think all of this makes Brett Brown a “bad coach” per se, but philosophically the late-game approach has to shift. He needs to micro-manage more than he does. It’s nice to trust your team in a hands-off way, but a younger squad can’t just feel their way through these games, they need guidance from the sidelines.

This quote from Embiid last night I think sums it up a bit:

Joel Embiid had this to say about what he thought went wrong against the Celtics. pic.twitter.com/LYKvpptdl6

— David Murphy (@ByDavidMurphy) December 26, 2018

No player should ever be saying that they don’t feel like they’re in the right situation. I know Joel is putting the onus on himself to do more, but this sounds like he’s still not fully on board with whatever the Sixers are doing right now. He also needs to not turn the ball over six times, but it’s hard to criticize a guy who put up 34 points and 16 rebounds on 59% shooting while going 12 for 12 from the foul line.

One more little Embiid nugget from David Murphy’s Inquirer story:

Any ambiguity that may have seemed present in those sentiments was quickly dispelled when Embiid was asked why he thought the ball did not find him down the stretch.

“Don’t know,” the big man responded. “Got to ask coach.”

Hmm.. I dunno. Joel sometimes has these emotional knee-jerk types of reactions. He just did this a few weeks ago and it was squashed. We’ll see if anything comes from this round of griping.

For what it’s worth, I do think the “perimeter” stuff is a bit overblown, because Joel more often than not finds himself in the post after the Sixers go through their motions in the base offense. He gets post looks off elbow sets and they find various ways to get him in the block. A good sidebar story would be to look through the film and analyze every double team he’s received over the past three or four games.

Anyway, in the overtime period they hit one of eight field goal attempts, which obviously is not going to get the job done.

They were:

Redick open 3 (miss)

Butler tough turnaround mid range jumper (make)

Simmons tough layup from behind backboard (miss)

Wilson Chandler 23-footer after offensive rebound (miss)

Butler relatively open three-pointer (miss)

Redick contested three-pointer with shot clock expiring (miss)

Simmons transition layup against Al Horford (miss)

Butler three pointer with a hand in his face (miss)

The Sixers didn’t even hit the rim on those last two possessions, with 45 and 30 seconds on the clock respectively while down by 4 and 6 points. They really just did not execute well in overtime and they missed some open shots, rushed their sets, and looked really uncomfortable in the half court.

This one stood out to me:

Butler and Embiid pick and roll? Great. Love it.

They’re just a little sloppy going through it. Butler picks up his dribble early. Embiid has Chandler wide open in the corner, but picks out Simmons who is also open under the basket. Ben ends up catching the ball behind the backboard and has a tough finish there.

On the next trip down the floor, they did this:

That’s not a bad look at all.

Yeah, Chandler might have been able to get Embiid down low there, but you can live with an open Butler three.

They just didn’t get it done when it mattered last night. If Kyrie misses at the end of regulation or JJ hits his shot, again, we’re sitting here talking about a great win. The Sixers really had some promising patches of play last night and I thought they played some ferocious defense down the stretch. They went on some nice runs to erase Boston leads, and they even built leads late in the game. They just couldn’t finish the job by executing in the half court.

Other notes:

The Simmons jumper wasn’t a big deal. He shot it because he had to. He’s not taking that shot during a normal possession.

You see the clear difference in depth in these games. The Sixers got 13 points from their bench while Boston got 26.

Mike Muscala couldn’t hit the broad side of a barn yesterday. His 1-8 three point total really killed them.

3-7 for Ben from the foul line doesn’t get the job done.

Chandler had a nice game. 15 points on 5-11 shooting while going 3-6 from three? You’ll take that any day of the week.

The defensive rebounding in the third and fourth quarter was very good.

Boston didn’t shoot that well. Credit the Sixers for some of that, but you’re not gonna get a ton of 42% shooting nights from them at the Garden.

The national broadcasts are underwhelming.

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