#now i imagine a lot of these still need actual serial codes to work

[tsubasaclones]

did you know there's a lot of yamaha vocaloid downloads available on archive.org

[chongoblog]

Zero Time Dilemma Review/Ramble

Okay, so if you’ve been following me, you know that I’ve gotten into the Zero Escape series, famous for 999 and Virtue’s Last Reward, streaming both games. I recently took the time to experience the last game, Zero Time Dilemma by watching cutscenes rather than playing it proper mostly because A) I heard it was REALLY dark and didnt want to risk it on Twitch and B) I wanted to experience it more freely like while I’m at work.

After experiencing it. I have......feelings about it. And because there’s MASSIVE spoilers involved, I’m making it its own post under the ReadMore below.

tl;dr LOADS of bullshit, flawed execution, and stupid decisions, but still REALLY enjoyed it

Okay so a LOT of this is going to be complaining, and like I said in the tl;dr I still legit enjoyed this game, so I’m gonna make this a compliment sandwich by saying something nice now, loading up on complaints, then ending with more compliments. Carlos is good. So is Sean. Sigma being voiced by Matthew Mercer actually makes him more interesting imo. I REALLY like Phi’s new design and the way they build on the initial concepts brought up in VLR more accurately portray the ideas that started all the way back in 999, that being the idea of taking thoughts across timelines, just like the player. From the beginning, the theme/gimmick was always “what if your character remembered information when you savescummed?” In 999 that began as flashes of information, and in VLR the characters’ consciousness actually time traveled at the very end. ZTD now uses the idea of the consciousness traveling across time and space and RUNS with it. I also think that Delta has a cool design.

I’ll be nice again later, but now for the things I Did Not Like.

Emo Moody Junpei makes sense from a writing standpoint, but that doesn’t mean I have to like him. Maybe I just got spoiled since Evan Wilson did a spectacular job with his deliveries in 999 and in ZTD it seems like his soul got sucked out. Not the fault of the delivery as much as it is the writing. Eric is bad, and I feel like that statement isn’t controversial. I don’t think anyone likes Eric, and if you do, then sorry for shitting on him so much, but god I just don’t like him. And the abusive childhood thing doesn’t give me a drop of sympathy, but then again I’ve always hated the writing trick that “this person is shitty and pathetic but it’s because abuse!” (see also Mikan). Diane is boring (sorry).

But I fuuuuuckin HATE Mira. I hate Mira so much. Like, at first I thought she’d be alright, yeah she’s definitely The Boob Character™, but I liked Lotus well enough and Alice grew on me significantly, so I don’t see why Mira won’t. Then she’s like “surprise I’m a serial killer”. Now if they just made her a serial killer, it would be kinda boring so I’m glad they TRIED something new. I just think the result was bad bad bad bad bad bad bad bad bad. Like....”hmm I never felt any emotions so when my mom told me they were kept in hearts I just ripped em out of people :)” is some garbage I’d write in middle school when I felt especially edgy. Also yeah seems p ableist. I won’t go too deeper into Mira, since she’s a sociopath and I don’t know enough about the actual disorder to put a candle to the real thing, but....bleh.

I won’t touch on THIS aspect for too long because I’m aware that it had barely any budget and it wouldn’t have happened without a kickstarter (don’t know the details), but the animation is just....so stiff. It really takes away from the dramatic impact some scenes are meant to have. But even IF the animation wasn’t stiff, I still am not a big fan of the darker and moodier direction it went. Although that’s moreso down to personal preference. Final note about the presentation (which is by far the game’s weakest aspect) is that I noticed multiple points in the sound mixing got to nearly Sonic Adventure 2 levels of being unable to understand what people were saying.

Alright. Now for the moment you’ve all been waiting for. Let’s talk about Delta. This is going to make up a MAJORITY of this post so strap in.

Delta is a meme. There’s no other way to say it briefly. He’s just such a huge fucking meme. Almost everything about him, from his plan to his “complex” motives to his backstory to his powers. I mentioned liking his design, but fuck it. That’s a meme now too. Delta is the stupidest part of the game, and as much as I kind of love it, I also need to complain about it.

First let’s talk about Delta’s plan (because it starts with the nicest part of this segment). His motives are “complex” which is actually greek for “he’s probably either a liar, an idiot, or both”. I said there was nice things, so I’ll start with those. The very ending’s “ah ah ah. I never killed any of you in this timeline. If you arrested someone for crimes of another history, there would be criminals everywhere” was something I actually legitimately enjoyed. Yeah, intent was still there and he’s still a bastard (plus there was kidnapping and non-consensual drugging involved so kind of a stupid take), but I still thought it was a fun attempt. And also the “I had to make sure I was born” thing is a mindfuck, and I love those. Basically the first retort is “well I’m alive, right? So I don’t need to make sure I was born with powers because I WAS born with powers, which means it happened in another universe. So I don’t have to.” Only to then realize that we’re just in the universe where he DID do that but then the only justification is “someone had to” right? Wrong. Let’s talk about the rest of his “complex” motives

So I give a pass to “I had to make sure I was born”, but now we see why he had to do this whole deal and what he declares at the end of the game. That there’s some religious fanatic who intends to blow up the world and completely end humanity. And he released Radical-6 in the VLR timeline hoping that it would kill the terroris only killing 4 billion people instead of 6 billion people. In the timeline at the end of ZTD, he says that they had used this experience to hone the skills of the Shifters that way they could use their newly honed take down the religious fanatic WITHOUT Radical-6 and save the world.

What?

Now......before I tear into this.....I have ONE nice thing to say. The “unleash radical 6 and kill 4 billion vs let a terrorist end humanity” gambit IS cleverly foreshadowed with the radical 6 decision game with Q Team. But also wouldn’t that have made, like 1800 times more narrative sense to give that decision game to team D who KNOWS the impact of radical 6, or team C who he explains this plan to later on? Damn, even my nice thing was backhanded. Alright let’s REALLY tear into it.

FIRST of all, this is the exact same plot of Virtue’s Last Reward. Only difference is that somehow Akane and Junpei are just as skilled at this technique as Sigma and Phi despite the latter going to do Moon Training (granted the moon training was also to give them enough of a jump to go back 45 years). Speaking of Virtue’s Last Reward, this game also reveals that Delta is Brother, the leader of Free the Soul. A group of religious fanatics. So I wouldn’t be especially shocked if the religious fanatic is working with Free the Soul. But for the sake of this argument, let’s just say they aren’t with FtS. How in the Flavor-Blasted FUCK does he know this? Did somebody Shift back from that timeline and then just get Mind hacked (and we’ll fUCKING talk about Mind Hacking dont you worry)? How would that be the only piece of information known about the end of the god damn world? And if there IS more, then why the fuck wouldn’t you tell them the information? How does he know that it’s inevitable when apparently a god damn snail can unleash Radical-6?

I call bullshit on the “religious fanatic” thing. Wanna know why? Because at this point, Delta had already founded Free The Soul. He started this shit in 1938. At this point in time, he and the rest of the Free the Soul had already kidnapped Alice’s dad to create clones of his dead brother. He was pushing for a new world order and then in the VLR timeline, tried to PREVENT this whole thing from happening by sending Dio to the Moon. So if he actually gave a shit about “honing their abilities” then why would he do everything in his power to stop it? There is ONE out that there can be, but it’s something not even HINTED at (and I’ll talk about this later), but I think that "religious fanatic” is a big ol’ lie that he made up to try and save face when he was faced with a consequence, but even that explanation makes no sense since he’s like “lol shoot me if u wanna I wont mind hack you”

And let’s talk about mind hacking. Let’s fucking talk about Mind Hacking. Adding Mind Hacking was stupid, completely pointless, out of left field, and actively makes Delta a worse character. For those that don’t know, Mind Hacking is an ability that only Delta has (and I guess the player character technically but that’s a whole meta thing from VLR that doesn’t get followed up on) where you can read people’s minds and also fuckin control them. Why? Why was this necessary, ZTD? You wanna know what I thought was really neat? When I saw that different timelines produced different X-Codes. I thought “oh shit, I know this is Game Stuff, but the sheer foresight of the villain to do that? That’s some Moriarty shit.” It would require some insane explanations, but we’ve had enough sci-fi that we could imagine with enough advanced tech, you could set up systems that could use conditionals to give certain responses based on certain outcomes. Like if someone dies after the decontamination room button is pressed, then the central computer outputs a different X-Code than if it’s after the initial vote. Just make up a new tech that accounts for Shifting (plus the QUANTUM COMPUTER you have RIGHT THERE) and you could make a villain with so much calculated foresight that he’s just a god damn genius. But no. Mind hacking. None of that interesting stuff, just “lol I read ur mind idiot”. No outwitting anyone, just “lol get mindhacked eric u scrub bang bang”.

Honest to god, honest to FUCKING god, do you want to know how cool the final cutscene would have made Delta look if he walked out and just KNEW what happened in another timeline because of his plans. Like everyone recognizes him as Delta and he just goes “ohoho I see you had a fun time in my other timeline” using that deduction alone. But nah, he’s just like “yo I just mindhacked y’all, nice experience y’all had” I hate mind hacking so much. There’s no part of his plan where he NEEDED to mind hack in order to succeed that could have been written without mind hacking.

Now there’s a bit of a missed opportunity here that could both make mind hacking relevant, made his motive not shit, and also maybe even developed him into a SUPER interesting character! I know this is a bit fanfic-y, but hear me out. Make Delta a VICTIM of the stable time loop/bootstrap paradox. For those who don’t know, the bootstrap paradox is when time travel makes certain events happen seemingly out of thin air since they are their own cause. Basically it’s this clip from Milo Murphy. This is something that seems like it’s KINDA there in the subtext, but if they actually dove into it, they could have a GOLD mine.

What if we keep the mindhacking, and before he even MAKES Free the Soul, he mindhacks someone who experienced the events of the “religious fanatic”. But not just anyone. An experienced SHIFTer who made it their goal to stop this religious fanatic. After hundreds of attempts, they still fail. Delta sees this and determines it to be inevitable. So he’s having fun, cursed by the knowledge of an inevitable apocalypse. Then he meets Akane, Phi, Sigma, or Junpei after they had undergone the events of VLR and ZTD. He learns that particular timeline. A bleak future, yes, but one single future where humanity is alive. He sees two futures, one in which all of humanity dies, and one where he is the leader of a religious cult that wipes out 4 Billion People with a deadly pandemic. And the idea of being that person disgusts him. He despises it. But he’s completely resigned to fate. He knows that things must go precisely as he’s seen at the price of humanity, too frightened by such a burden to even take a toe off of the predetermined pathway. His motive is that he’s so tightly bound to fate and so afraid to let it slip that he has no choice but to commit the atrocities, despising himself for it every step of the way, but considering it better than the inevitable alternative. It would give a purpose for the mindhacking powers, it would give him a solid motive, and it would make the ending SO much stronger, showing the contrast between a group of SHIFTers confident that they can change fate and the man who is completely resigned to his own. Fuck, I might steal this character concept because I REALLY think this idea would work to make an interesting villain!

Like I mentioned, this is KINDA there in subtext (with him quite frequently saying “life truly is unfair”) and this could be an interpretation of the character, but if ZTD had explored that theme, then holy hell what an interesting character Delta would be.

But even WITH this fix, holy hell, this plan is stupid. Because guess what, dingus. You just created like 30 new timelines that all end in annihilation.

He coulda said ONE line about “even if there is only one history that ends nicely, that is solace enough”, that might have been dark, but still powerful. You know, add some depth. But instead, he’s just like “hmm hmm shoot me”

And the Q Twist? I’m honestly not as mad at it as I should be. On one hand, it does that cute thing where there are little bits of foreshadowing so when you rewatch it, you notice little bits like shadows and stuff, but on the other hand, there are PLENTY of points where either the camera just straight up lies to you and doesn’t show him when he should be there or Delta’s just been fuckin SHMOOVIN on his wheelchair around the room constantly to stay out of the camera and everyone’s just been kinda chill with it. Maybe if they had been more careful with the camera it could have delivered a TOUCH better. Like, even if the shots are a bit off, that’s noticeable enough to be part of the hint, no? I don’t have as much to say about this, mostly because this post is getting long as fuck so I’m gonna wrap it up so I can move on with my life for a bit.

So even with ALL OF THAT, I still enjoyed playing the game. That’s right, compliment sandwich time. The three wards all being one ward was a really neat reveal. The fact that you can shoot Delta in one scene is creative with its replay value. I’m glad they touched on the philosophical idea of what happens to the people who made it out from the coin flip only to get SHIFTed into the exploding lab, and exploring that idea was fun. I absolutely lost my mind at the idea of the gun to sigmas head had a random chance of firing and then seeing it elaborated on in the dice scene directly after it. Gab is a good boy.

Cant wait to play AI

[discotreque]

LwD 1.10, “No Small Parts”

Well, that was the most fun I've had watching Star Trek in literally a quarter of a century.

I had high hopes for this series. I love TAS, largely because of its wacky outsized concepts that could only have worked in animation—not that they all did work, but the potential was so apparent to me, even as a kid reading the Alan Dean Foster novelizations—and as an adult, there's something about the imagination of Lower Decks's FX setpieces that transcends even the glorious CGI bonanzas of Discovery.

Pause for a confession. I've long pushed back against criticism of serialization in new Trek. That's just how TV is now, okay? Might as well complain about it being in widescreen. But I'm backing down a little, because I've realized there is something about Star Trek that's inextricable from at least a partially-episodic format. And while Picard was telling a different kind of story, I can't deny that my favourite episodes of Disco have been the ones with a mostly self-contained A-plot. After 10 delightfully episodic instalments of LwD, its focus on long-term development of characters instead of a season-spanning puzzle-plot (okay, mostly just Mariner, but we only have 10 × 22 minutes and she is the star) has been downright refreshing.

So here we are, at the end of the most consistent and well-executed Season 1 of a Star Trek series since, arguably, Those Old Scientists. And sure, if they'd had to produce another... yikes, 42 episodes? Then sure, they probably would have dropped a clunker or two—but they didn't, and winning on a technicality is still winning. I'm practically vibrating with excitement for Disco to come back next week, but damn, I'm going to miss this little show while it's on hiatus.

Spoilers below:

Something I've been keeping track of finally paid off this week! (Which never happens to me, lol.) The destruction of the USS Solvang marked the first present-day death(s) of any Starfleet officer on Lower Decks, the only other on-screen killing at all being a flashback in "Cupid's Errant Arrow". Which makes sense, being (a) a comedy, and (b) about typically "expendable" characters: it hasn't been afraid to flirt with a little darkness here and there, but killing people off at Star Trek's usual pace wouldn't just be wrong for the tone, it would be downright bizarre.

But... people die on Star Trek. That's one of the core themes of the show, really: space is full of knowledge and beauty, but also danger and terror, and believing that the former is worth the risk of the latter is (according to Trek) one of humanity's most noble traits. I'm the least bloodthirsty TV watcher I know, but the longer we went with a body count of nil—ships completely evacuated before they were destroyed, main characters hilariously maimed without permanent consequences, etc.—well, I didn't mind per se, but the absence of truly deadly stakes was definitely getting conspicuous.

Turns out they were saving it up for maximum impact. And holy fuck, I've never felt such a pit in my stomach watching a ship get destroyed that wasn't named Enterprise. It felt grim and brutal and somehow both much too quick and dreadfully inevitable—and yeah, it looked extremely fucking cool—and I'd like every other Star Trek property for the rest of time to take notes under a large bold heading labeled RESTRAINT.

Comedy doesn't need to do this, but my favourite comedy does, and in a way that few other art forms can even approach: lower my emotional defences by making me laugh, endear character(s) to me with goofy-but-relatable antics—then BAM, sucker-punch me in the motherfucking feels. M*A*S*H is probably the classic example on TV, Futurama was notorious for it, and even Archer has pulled it off a few times; it's also a staple of some of my favourite standup. I wasn't sure if Lower Decks was going to go there in Season 1—and wasn't sure if they'd earn it—but I knew if they did, that they'd nail it, and damn. Feels good to be right.

Last batch of notes for the season!!! I rambled enough already, so let's do it liveblog-style:

I fucking KNEW they were going to use "archive" visuals from TAS at some point, I KNEW IT :D

"THOSE OLD SCIENTISTS" ahahahahahahahahahahahaha

I like chill and confident Boimler a lot? You can really see—

oh bRADWARD NOOOOO

That opening shot of the Solvang tracking down to the red giant was extremely Discovery-esque... minus the motion sickness, that is

A lady captain AND a lady first officer? That's—oh hey, it's Captain Dayton's brand-new ship. Hahaha, that means they're totally fucked, right?.

Yep! They sure a—umm, wh—shit, okay, but—oh no—no, you can't—wait DON'T

...fuck

FUCK.

Narrator: "And then Amy needed a five-hour break."

[live-action Star Trek showrunner voice] "Gee, Mike! Why does CBS let you have two cold opens?"

Okay, yes, the bit with Rutherford cycling through all the different attitudes in his implant was transparently an excuse for Eugene Cardero to vamp while waiting for something to do in the story, but as far as I'm concerned they can contrive a reason for him to do a bunch of different silly Rutherfords in a row any time they damn well want, because that was classic!!!

EXOCOMP EXOCOMP EXOCOMP EXOCOMP

AND THE EXOCOMP IS PAINTED LIKE THE EXOCOMP IS WEARING A LITTLE EXOCOMP-SIZED STARFLEET UNIFORM

EXOCOMP!!!!!

The slow burn and now the payoff of the Mariner-is-Freeman's-secret-daughter plot has been executed so well. I'm beyond impressed with this writer's room, y'all—they are threading a hell of a needle here

"Wolf 359 was an inside job" would have been a spit-take if I'd had anything in my mouth

...how many memos do you think Starfleet Command has had to issue asking people to stop calling the USS Sacramento "the Sac"?

CAN WE TALK ABOUT HOW THEY'VE DECORATED THE SHUTTLECRAFT SEQUOIA THOUGH

Is, uh, is it weird if I'm starting to ship Tendi and Peanut Hamper a little? It is weird, isn't it. I knew it was weird...

Coital barbs??? I take back everything I said about wanting to know more about Shaxs/T'Ana.

The "good officer" version of Mariner is... kind of hot, tbh! But Tawny Newsome has done such a great job of building this character all season that her voice getting uncharacteristically clipped and martial and "sir! yes, sir!" is also deeply, deeply weird

Ah, so this is literally exactly like when TNG (and DS9) would bring in, and then blow up, a never-before-seen Galaxy-class ship, just to underscore that we're facing a real threat this week, baby. And hey, it fucking worked—my heart was in my throat, omg, for the reveal of the—

PAKLEDS?????????

The fucking PAKLEDS have been gluing weapons to their ships for the last 15 years. GREAT.

(We interrupt the SHIP BEING SLICED INTO SCRAP for an interesting bit of world-building: on Earth, the traditional First Contact Day meal is salmon!)

"I need a dangerous, half-baked solution that breaks Starfleet codes and totally pisses me off! That's an order." I'm starting to think Captain Freeman might actually be overqualified for the Cerritos, y'all—she's REALLY awesome

OH SHIT IT'S BADGEY, this is a TERRIBLE IDEA

"How much contraband have you hidden on my ship?" "I don't know! A lot!"

Awwww, Boims!!!

AHAHAHAHAHAHA, FUCK THIS, PEANUT HAMPER OUT

BADGEY NOOOOO

AUGHHHHH WHAT THE CHRIST DID HE JUST—BUT—RUTHERFORD'S IMPLANT????

RUTHERFORD!!!!!!!!!!

SHAXS!!!!!!

F U C K ! ! ! ! !

ahaIOPugdfhagntpgjrq90e5mgu90qe5;oigoqgw4ouegrw5SP;IAEHURVa IT’S THE TITAN???????????

IT'S CAPTAIN WILLIAM T. RIKER ON THE MOTHERFUCKING TITAN??????????

i'm screaming I'M SCREAMINGGGGGG​TGGGTGQER;​LBHAOIBVNV;​OAPBIJNVagr;h;​oagruipuwtnaetbaetgq35ghqet

I'M SO GLAD THIS WASN'T SPOILED FOR ME WTF

I AM WEEPING LIKE A CHILD

...

(Just a brief 20-minute pause this time)

And oh wow, seeing Will and Deanna hits different after Picard too, in a few different ways, which I may even get into later now that my heartrate is back to normal, lmao

Oh, I am always here for some jokes at the expense of the Sovereign class. The Enterprise-E sucked. They should have built a new bigger model of the D and new Galaxy-class interiors for the TNG movies, and I will die on that hill

OKAY, FINE, YOU GOT ME, RUTHERFORD × TENDI WOULD BE ADORABLE AND THIS IS ACTUALLY A PRETTY GOOD SETUP FOR IT

Awwww, Shaxs though :( Congrats on the single most badass death in Star Trek history, dude. The Prophets would—well, the actual Prophets would probably be slightly confused about most of it, but Kira Nerys would be proud of you and I feel like that probably counts for more. RIP, Papa Bear

I am here all damn DAY for the Mariner–Riker parallels, ahahahahaha

Pausing it to record my prediction that Boimler's commitment to not caring about rank anymore is going to last 3... 2...

Yep.

Bradward, how DARE YOU.

"Those guys had a long road, getting from there to here." OH FOR THE LOVE OF—

What a brilliant way to resolve and renew the various character arcs and relationships moving into Season 2! The writers could easily have brought everything back to status quo—chaotic Mariner fighting with her mom and being a bad influence on Boimler, etc.—and done another 10 just like these, but I suspect that wouldn't have been ambitious enough for these writers. What a blast. I cannot wait for more.

Thanks for following along, friends! Stay tuned for my (similarly patchy and amateur) coverage of Discovery, starting next week!

[thorne93]

Inside the Criminal Mind (Part 27)

Prompt: You’re married to Dr. Spencer Reid of the BAU, and are a distinguished doctor yourself on the team. You’re sent down to Miami, Florida for teaching and as a side request from the FBI, to investigate a string of missing persons. When you think you’ve figured out who the unsub is, your life becomes more complicated than you ever could’ve imagined.

Word Count: 1963

Warnings: (throughout the fic –>) death, blood, gore, killings, language, disturbing mental notions, mentions of rapes/murder/etc (You know, Dexter and Criminal Minds related business)

Notes: Thank you so much to @arrow-guy​​​​​​, @carryonmyswansong​​​​​​, and @mrs-dragneel-stark-solo​​​​​​ - without each of you, I couldn’t have finished, written, or properly navigated this story. Each of you helped me fish out details that were incredibly important to me. Beta’d by @carryonmyswansong​​​​​​ and @mrs-dragneel-stark-solo​​​​​​… Aesthetic by @mrs-dragneel-stark-solo​​​​​​

This is a crossover of Criminal Minds x Dexter. First time writing Dexter.

Also, the timeline is after Season 1 of Dexter, but during season 14-ish of Criminal minds into Season 15. Enjoy!!!

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

You and the team had gotten nothing else done the next morning, thankfully. They tried. Garcia hadn’t found any new information for anyone. Once they let everyone go at noon, you and Dex headed to the marina with the equipment. You got loaded on the boat with fishing gear, cleaning gear, and a picnic lunch. 

“So get this,” Dexter started as you began to open the cleaning supplies kit. 

“Hmm?”

“Harry was seeing my mom,” he blurted out. 

You stopped grabbing stuff to look up at him. “Your adoptive father was dating your biological mother?” 

“It appears that way.” 

“How did you find this out?” you asked, going back to working after handing him a rag. 

“I was listening to some old recordings of my mom. It turns out she was a confidential informant.” 

“So that’s how your father knew her,” you gathered.

“Right. But now I’m starting to question everything. Harry’s teachings. Was he using her? Was he using me? Was I just a means to an end? Did he know I’d ultimately wind up killing my mother’s killers? I had emotional problems as a kid because of what happened to my mom.

Harry said he was trying to help me, but we only talked about his rules. I spent so much time trying to live up to his expectations because I thought he had my best interests in mind.”

“Dex, I’m gonna say this, and I don’t want you to take it the wrong way but…” You sat down, so that he was facing you. “I care a lot about you, and I know you put Harry on a pedestal because you think he saved you from prison, but the truth of the matter is… Harry didn’t do what was best for you. There was no guarantee you’d end up a killer. From what you’ve told me, you were a curious little boy who had an incredibly traumatic past, and instead of dealing with it, getting you help, Harry made you into what you are today.” 

“So you think he was wrong,” he said, no accusation or malice in his voice. 

“I do,” you firmly but softly stated. “Regardless of why he did it, too, the result is the same. You have your Dark Passenger.” 

He began to look lost, erratic, even. “But I've built everything in my life on what Harry said I was supposed to be. My job, my girlfriend. It's all what Harry told me I needed.”

“Maybe he was wrong though. You can’t go back and undo his teachings, but maybe you could start living by your own.”

“What? You’re saying just give up the code? Just live life to some other standard?” 

You shrugged indifferently. “Maybe it’s time to start looking at what you need, rather than what Harry groomed you for.”

“But this is all I know,” he said hopelessly with a trickle of sadness. “I wouldn’t even know where to begin. What would I do with my...urges?” 

“Quiet them. We’ve already discussed how more than anything else, they’re an addiction. Something you can control. Maybe start with that first, and see where life leads you.”

“You’re something, you know that? You come to me, asking me to teach you how to use my urges, just for you turn around and tell me to turn them off.” 

You smirked proudly as you got up and began wiping down the boat again. “What can I say?” 

For the next thirty minutes, you and Dexter meticulously cleaned the boat. You took the right half, he took the left half. Every inch was cleaned and scrubbed. 

“So how are the narcotics anonymous meetings going?” you inquired when you two sat down and started to eat lunch. You stared out over the water, soaking up the sun, relishing the heat and feeling free out here. 

“It’s pointless... I get nothing out of it. But it helps Rita think I’m being normal. Of course, her mother hates me, thinks I’m going to end up like Rita’s ex.” 

“Right,” you agreed, nodding. 

“How are you and Spencer? I can tell he’s not my biggest fan, but what about you two? You making it all work?” he asked, nothing but sincerity in his voice. 

“Actually, uh, I was going to talk to you about that… I’m still worried Spencer might leave me.” 

He seemed a little alarmed so you assuaged that worry. 

“Not that I think he’ll turn either of us in, not like that. He wouldn’t go through all of this just to turn around and sabotage it…” You shook your head. “No, I’m still worried that between his revelation of me, this investigation, and JJ’s confession… I’m just worried he may start to want her again, if he doesn’t still. I know he’s helping us, helping me, and he doesn’t have to, but… I know how hard this has to be for him. I’ve gone from his wife to a serial killer. He’s torn between wanting to protect me from the justice system and turning me in to it. I can understand where he's coming from because when he was in prison, he killed some guys. It was hard for me to hear it, but I sympathized easily. I just think he’s having a harder time…” 

“Why?”

“Well, he killed two guys that were just drug mules. They killed his friend in prison just because they could and they knew it would hurt him. So he retaliated. It was personal. Spence can’t come from a place this cold like you and I can. He can’t come from a place where we spot a stranger and say we want to rid the world of them.” 

“Can’t say I blame him, most people can’t.”

“I know. I mean, our job is to think that way. His entire livelihood has been built around putting people like me away. Now, he has to say he’s married to me. It just makes me feel like maybe he regrets marrying me.”

“I think if he did, he would’ve divorced you by now, or turned you in, or something,” he tried to assure you. 

“Maybe, or he’s just waiting until I’m caught. Then he can pretend like he didn’t know, and he can divorce me easily. Otherwise, we’d have to make something up to our team if we got divorced.” 

“Have you talked to him about this?” 

“No. he’ll just tell me I’m paranoid about JJ...” 

“Well… are you? I mean, are you just being paranoid for no reason?” 

“Maybe. He swears he doesn’t love her, or feel anything, and he probably doesn’t. That doesn’t make me feel any safer or better about Spencer though. Even with JJ not in the picture…” You sighed, realizing you were rambling. 

“What is it?” Dexter gently urged. 

“What if he just leaves because he doesn’t love me any more? Because I am who I am?” 

He pressed his lips together in a thin line. “You were honest with me, so now I’m going to be brutally honest with you.” 

You braced yourself, fearing the worst from your friend. 

“You sought me out, knowing full well what might happen if we took your curiosity all the way. You knew that the moment you killed someone outside of your job, it would change your entire life, everything about it. You knew it, and I told it to you repeatedly.”

You nodded, knowing he was right, listening. 

“So now, you can’t really be upset with him for having normal responses and reactions. This fear you’re having, of him leaving? It’s a side effect of him being involved, of him knowing the truth. That fear is probably always going to be there, unless of course he somehow proves beyond a shadow of a doubt that he won’t leave, but that’s impossible.”

“But that’s what I want,” you retorted. “I just want him to say that he forgives me, that he understands why I did what I did, and he won’t leave me for it. I’m just worried with all this extra stress the investigation has caused, so close to him finding out, it’ll push him away.” 

“If it does… it does. There’s nothing you can do to stop it, unfortunately. It’s better to live your life blissfully ignorant, than to go about every day worrying that today is the day something might go wrong.” 

“That’s poetic, did you read that somewhere?” you sarcastically responded. 

“I’m serious. Would you rather live wondering every morning you wake up, ‘Oh, is today the day he decides to leave me?’ Or would you rather just live it happily? Personally, I’d take the happy memories over ones that would be clouded by fear. Aside from waiting to tell you about JJ, you’ve never mentioned Spencer as someone who is flakey, flighty, or a liar. I’d say, if he’s willing to do all this work to keep you from being put in prison, he’s in it for the long haul.”

His words actually made sense and seemed to warm you up. 

“You think so?” 

“Yeah. Besides, you’d have to be crazy to try and divorce a serial killer right?” 

You shook your head and made a face before throwing a cleaning bottle at him. “You’re such an ass!” 

The two of you laughed before talking about things that had nothing to do with the case or killing or your shaky marriage. It was nice to escape for a bit. You caught up about Debra, she was dating some new guy apparently. Rita and Dexter seemed fine but apparently she was uncomfortable with a woman sponsor. 

As the sun was starting to get much lower in the sky, you and Dexter decided to pack things up and call it a day. The boat should have been completely clear of everything by then. Dexter started the boat and began to make towards the shore, which would probably take about ten minutes. He wanted to be sure that you all wouldn’t be disturbed. 

“It’s been hard, you know?” you suddenly said as you leaned back in the seat behind him, admiring the gorgeous view of the horizon. “Being an agent… I have to still know more than everyone in the room, and yet I can’t know too much or it’s suspicious and leads them back to you or me. Every day is getting harder and harder.” Your voice dropped slightly, hope dwindling out of your tone. 

“You just have to lie, that’s all.” 

“I know, that’s the hardest part for me.” 

Dexter couldn’t help himself but laugh. “I like how the killing is the easy part, but the lying is the hard part.” 

“Well the people I’m lying to are friends, Dex. They’re practically family. I’ve prided myself on being honest and trustworthy and forthright my entire life. Now all that’s a farce.” 

“I know,” he finally said with some sympathy and a low voice. “I bet it’s hard. Lying comes naturally for me because Harry told me to basically say the opposite of what I was thinking or feeling at all times. I was raised to be a liar to protect myself. I can’t imagine switching gears now.” 

You let a soft smile touch your lips. This was the side Spence needed to see, the whole world needed to see. The fun, caring, gentle side of Dexter. 

“I never thought I’d see the day where I am best friends with a Fed, and two of them are keeping my secrets,” Dexter noted with a smirk. “Kind of a crazy world, huh?” 

“Yeah, I never thought I’d befriend an unsub, let alone want to protect him,” you informed, getting up and standing next to him. You nudged his shoulder and he glanced at you, the two of you exchanging a fond smile.

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

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[lastsonlost]

A step-by-step handbook for destroying a man's life with lie.

INTRODUCTION

A s women, we have been oppressed by men's physical advantages over us since the beginning of humankind.

But now, in today's modern societies, the tables are finally turning.

Especially with the advent of the Internet and social media, and the economy's transition from

manufacturing to information, women are leveraging their natural advantages (e.g., social skills, emotional intelligence, and communication) to gain power.

You've probably utilized these advantages to some degree already, in one form or another. For example, as a child in school, I recall the boys using physical strength and aggression (e.g., punching) to bully girls. That was their power. Girls, on the other hand, used communication and accusation (e.g., spreading rumors) to undermine boys. This is our power!

The purpose of this handbook is to be a resource:

a collection of tools and techniques that have proven

powerful in women's struggle against patriarchy. I did not invent these methods; I only describe them. Be advised, however, that the methods outlined in this handbook were chosen for their utility, or their ability to achieve results, rather than for their legal or ethical merit. In other words, the information presented herein does not purport to be legally or ethically sound. What is considered to be "right" or "legal" often changes with time, tl1e prevailing culture, and the evolution of law.

This handbook is a work of free speech. How the content is used, misused, or not used is at the sole discretion of the reader, and I (as the author) retain no responsibility. Similarly, I'm publishing this book under the pseudonym of Angela Confidential to protect from backlash.

Enjoy!

Just a little sample of what's in this book.........

CHAPTER 1

THE DAMN FUNDAMENTALS

Let's begin with some introductions. We have three key friends, or fundamentals, that make it possible to destroy a man now (DAMN). To DAMN well, it's important to know them well.

Our first ally is Allison Allegation. Allegation an be so simple, effective, and easy to employ that it's elegant. An allegation is a claim, usually without proof, that someone has done something illegal or wrong. A claim, at minimum, requires nothing more than an assertion.

For example, if I yell from a roof top that the world is flat, I have successfully made a claim. Similarly, identifying wrongdoing requires only observation, recollection, or a minimal amount of imagination. From lying to murder, any behavior that you've heard of, seen, experienced, or can think of that violates an ethical or a legal standard can suffice for an allegation.

However, it's the last part of what constitutes an allegation that makes it uniquely useful: no evidence is required.

This independence from proof allows you to make an allegation about any man doing anything without being encumbered by a need for facts.

But how can something as intangible as the spoken word, without evidence, have enough merit or power to DAMN? Admittedly, if left completely on her own, Allison Allegation has relatively little power.

That's where our other two friends, Mary Media and Arthur Authority, assist.

Mary Media, our second ally, encompasses just about any means of communication. Media can be as elementary as whispers of gossip, although nowadays the term most often refers to mass communication platforms such as television, the Internet, or mainstream media networks. Of course, it also includes social media, such as Twitter and Facebook, which you will soon see are especially well suited to DAMN.

So how does Mary Media help Allison Allegation?

Well, interestingly, they help each other. You've probably heard the philosophical question, "If a tree falls in the woods, and no one hears it, did it make a sound?"

Although the answer to that question is still debated, it's certain that if an allegation is made and no one knows about it, it has no power. Fortunately, however, the opposite is also true:

the more people who know about an allegation, the more powerful it becomes.

Thankfully for Allison Allegation and for our purposes, the modern mainstream media excel at spreading information far and wide. They do it to make money-lots of money-from advertisers. Yet advertisers need more than just a way to reach people; they also need a way to get people to pay attention to their advertisements (and ultimately buy products).

This is where media content comes in. Media content can be videos, website posts, "breaking news," and so on anything that garners interest. And it's no secret that scandal attracts people's interest especially well. "Sex sells," as the saying goes, and so does violence, injustice, misconduct, and anything else outrageous. That's why scandalous content in mainstream media has increased over the years. That's also why Mary Media helps Allison Allegation: scandalous allegations attract people's interest, interested people watch advertisements, advertisements sell products, and it all makes Mary Media money.

However, fascinatingly, while the mainstream media profit from proliferating allegations, they bear little responsibility for doing it! Apparently, as long as the media mention that the scandal is an "allegation," they are relatively safe from legal repercussions.

This is because, in free-speech societies, people can voice opinions and unsubstantiated claims. Further, the media can always attest that they are not making the allegation; rather, they are just reporting it.

But, in truth, the media actually do help "make" the allegation by how they report it. You probably know that how you say something can convey greater meaning than what you say. For example, I could say, "I'm happy," but ifl scream it angrily, people are much more likely to believe I'm upset. With that in mind, try listening carefully to how mainstream media say the word "allegation" when reporting a story. Either they say it in a positive tone, as though it's something good, or they say it quickly, as though it's insignificant. They also use the word "allegation" or "alleged" instead of using terms such as "unsubstantiated claim" or "accusation without proof" to deemphasize that evidence is lacking. Even more cleverly, after the media make an allegation popular by broadcasting it far and wide, they then circle back later and broadcast how "so many" people are talking about it.

Further, they support people who make allegations by promoting them as courageous for "coming forward." These tactics get even more people interested and encourage others to make similar claims. Finally, the media then cite the increasing number of allegations and growing public outrage (that they helped create) as being "too numerous to be ignored" or as "evidence" of truth.

In a court of law, a man is considered innocent until proven guilty, but in the court of media-managed public opinion, a man "serially accused" of a scandal is guilty until proven innocent. In this way, an allegation does not require evidence to DAMN because, through media manipulation, it becomes its own evidence.

Thousands-even millions-of people can become organized against one man.

Likewise, the "evidence" and public perception of guilt created by Allison Allegation and Mary Media's synergy can become so prominent and powerful that our third ally, Arthur Authority, has a duty to step in.

And it's authority that really helps us put the "destroy" in DAMN!

Authority is defined as any person or organization that has the power to control, direct, punish, and so on, which is exactly the kind of power we need to DAMN. Examples include police, judges, bosses, human resource departments, boards of directors, teachers, professors, university councils, licensing and regulatory agencies, and so on. Ultimately, it's authority that plays the final role in condemning a man.

So what do we need to know about authority to DAMN? Well, to begin, it's important to understand that Arthur Authority is an artifact of patriarchy and chivalry. As "Daddy Knight," he takes pride in his role as guardian and savior, especially of the weak, mistreated, violated, and so on.

He strives to be the hero who saves the damsel in distress. In other words, authority caters to victims, and nothing gets Arthur Authority's attention more than a call to action to save victims.

To be considered a victim, or a damsel in distress, authority first needs to perceive you as weak. Surprisingly, a great illustration of this is how authorities usually relate to men in distress. Can you imagine what typically happens when a man walks into a police precinct and requests a restraining order against a woman?

Officers roll their eyes, and immediate dis-

belief ensues. T his is because they simply do not perceive a man to be weaker than a woman, and for that reason, they are unwilling to provide assistance. In contrast, in patriarchal societies, women are perceived as weak by default, and therefore deserving of help and protection in the eyes of authorities.

Second, for the weak to attain victim status, authorities also need to perceive them as harmed or violated.

In other words, authorities require a credible claim that a legal or an ethical standard has been broken in order to take action (because it's their duty to enforce standards).

As we now know, we can look to Allison Allegation to make the claim and to Mary Media to make it credible. Nevertheless, it's still important to emphasize that authority is most likely to help us DAMN in instances that entail an apparent violation of specific laws or codes of conduct-the more egregious, the better.

Examples are numerous, including rape, sexual harassment, discrimination, physical assault, child abuse, substance abuse, and dishonesty in its many forms (e.g., lying, cheating, fraud, etc.).

Also-and this works surprisingly well-keep in mind that with the media's help, allegations against authorities can be used to motivate authority to take action!

Just about any widespread allegation about an authority being remiss, ineffectual, or negligent in its "guardian and savior" role will suffice. For instance, a televised allegation about a company ignoring sexual harassment in the workplace is enough to motivate the company's human resources department to hunt the accused man and anyone who failed to report his scandalous behavior to HR!

Once authorities decree that there is a victim of a violation, they can take punitive actions against the perpetrator (i.e., "destroy" a man).

Punitive actions usually entail substantial loss, such as termination of employment/loss of income, loss of education or certification (e.g., dismissal from school or revocation of credentials), loss of social status or good reputation (e.g., public shame and humiliation), loss of financial savings (e.g., payment for legal settlements), and loss of freedom (e.g., imprisonment). In addition, the combined actions of Allison Allegation, Mary Media, and Arthur Authority generally result in ongoing loss or the loss of future opportunities. In this way, a man is truly damned.

With a smeared reputation or record of alleged misconduct, no one will want to be associated with him, no one will want to employ him, no one will want to help him, and no one will even believe him.

Further, the subsequent long-term stress frequently results in loss of physical and mental health.

When I say these methods can destroy a man, I genuinely mean it.

Moreover, these methods actually do destroy men, even powerful ones. There is no better testimony to how effective Allison Allegation, Mary Media, and Arthur Authority can be than the growing number of men they've destroyed (regardless of allegations being true or false).

Complete source

[greenhanded-redthumbed]

I Have A Hero Whenever I Need One

Bruce watched his parents die when he was twelve. People said it was a tragedy - and it was. But that doesn’t mean his life was. He had Alfred, a man who cared for him more than any amount of money could compel someone to. Alfred drops him off at school, talks with him over meals and helps out with school projects last minute. Many blood parents of his school-mates do far less. 

It’s under his tutelage Bruce thrives. He teaches him languages, business skills, fighting styles. Everything Alfred learned in the secret service, and anything they can figure out together, they learn.

Bruce grows up loved and happy and successful.

It’s then, after delving deep into his parent’s company he learns of the limits they met - the ones that probably got them killed. A business - even one as large as Wayne Enterprises - can only do so much. They’re bound by laws and codes - ones put there for good reason, but still hindering any efforts to reform the city and take criminals off the streets.

At this point, Bruce only gets the first inklings of what he has to do - that he will need to move out of the public eye and fight Gotham’s crime in an arena outside of his company. He starts to get a reputation, not with the law, but with the papers. He needs Bruce Wayne to be completely open, his life spotlighted so that no one would ever believe he could be planning something more serious. And the best way to get the paper’s attention is a scandal. 

Sex is the easiest avenue, and while its pretty clear to Bruce that its not as enjoyable for him as it is for others - he feels no particular compulsion to seek it out beyond making the gossip pages. He has other things to keep his mind on. (Bruce makes sure none of the girls ever think he’ll love them. It’s just a basic courtesy, but also helps nourish the growth of his bad reputation.)

Wayne Enterprises makes the leap from successful to infallible due to what is arguably the biggest break in Bruce’s business career. He manages to hire the highly sought-after Lucius Fox - colloquially known in the upper-business circles as having the Midas Touch - who can make any business, no matter how small or how deep in remission, a resounding financial success. 

Bruce greets Mr. Fox in his office, eager to see the commerce wizard in person and glean his thoughts. Mr. Fox himself is rather humble looking, a small black man with silver wire-rimmed glasses and short-cropped black hair. He wears a tweed suit and red bow-tie: the kind of outfit one can only picture older British men and professors in. 

Bruce decided it must be the latter as the man said in a strong New Jersey accent, “Good to meet you, Mr Wayne.”

“Good to meet you too, Mr Fox,” Bruce replies as the man settles into the seat on the other side of Bruce’s desk.

“Now, Mr. Wayne,” Lucius starts, “I’m sure you’re aware I’ve got a few job offers at the moment. Why should I pick Wayne Enterprises?”

Bruce cracks a smile, “More than a few probably. And you should pick Wayne Enterprises because we’re doing a lot of good for this city-”

“How?” Lucius interrupts him, and at Bruce’s briefly startled face expands, “I apologise for my abruptness, but if I did detailed research into everyone contacting me at the moment I wouldn’t ever get to the actual interviews. I’ll look at the more intriguing offers in more detail after I’ve heard them out.”

“Seems efficient,” Bruce answers. And he supposes it is the only practical for someone that sought after. He’s reminded exactly how large a juggernaut he has in his office. 

“Well, for the city we have the Wayne scholarships, our homeless hiring initiative and consistent proposals for Gotham’s development to work with the mayor’s office to make the city more prosperous. And of course we offer fair pay and decent hours to all our employees. For you, I have a branch planned where you can head the development and testing of technological products. I’d be loosely supervising, but it would be you leading the team. It comes with a board membership and the salary of one. Any other questions?”

Mr. Fox smiles at his efficiency, “No, I think that’s enough for me to consider. If I need anything, I’ll be in touch.”

Two weeks later, Lucius Fox calls back to accept the offer. The board toasts champagne at the news. 

Mr. Fox and carefully selected staff members move into complex in the warehouse district filled with all the specialist equipment Mr. Fox can think of. It’s at this time Bruce makes a few purchases of his own - its out of his own pocket of course, but it’s a good excuse if anyone asks why a playboy billionaire needs kevlar body armour and workable leather. (Bruce decides not to simply order specialised pieces, but to learn how to make them. He wants to be untraceable.)

Alfred knows everything of course, and while he doesn’t fully understand why Bruce wants to dress up in a suit and fight criminals in person, he does everything he can to support him. (Except allow him to pull more than one-all nighter or skip one too many meals. “It’ll still be there in the morning, Master Bruce. And you’ll work faster if you’re not completely exhausted.”)

Bruce never really finishes the suit, he keeps finding different ways to upgrade it, to make this more pliable or that more sturdy, but he gets the first chance to use it when he hears that a partner in a rival company, Mr. Theodore Lambert, has been stabbed to death. 

It’s the secretaries that know first - it almost always is. There’s about a dozen of them in the Wayne’s main building and each knows at least three others from their many attempts to get their bosses talking at a convenient time. So when Lisa from Apex Chemical Corporation calls Rob from marketing to tell him about Lambert’s death it doesn’t take long for the whole building to know.

 Bruce leaves work early (one of the perks of being his own boss) and stops by the commissioner's office. Gordon’s an old friend, met when he failed to find the man who killed Bruce’s parents. (Bruce has long ago decided not to track him down himself. If he’s a criminal, he’ll come up against him eventually and put him behind bars. Bruce is a man of obsessions, and he doesn’t want to test how thick the line between justice and vengeance really is.) Tragic circumstances, good friend.

“You can’t tell the papers any of this yet,” Gordon says seated behind his desk, “Or god forbid use the information for a business deal. Not only will I stop telling you stuff, I’ll have you in a cell so fast…”

Bruce had ignored the other chairs in the office to sit on the edge of the desk itself. Relaxed, rascally, child-like bordering on disrespectful. It fit his image to any number of outsiders. And Gordon himself simply acted as if he was a slightly adventurous nephew.

The commissioner was an older man, with white hair streaking from his hairline back across his scalp. He wore a scratchy, budget suit and dull green tie, both pressed and clean, as perfectly in order as everything else Gordon did. 

“When have I ever?” Bruce asks innocently, “But in all seriousness, should I be worried about a serial killer targeting big company members?”

He says this with a smile that tells Gordon he’s anything but serious.

“No, you’re safe to live another day,” Gordon acquiesces, “The officers think its Lambert’s son - fingerprints on the knife. He claims different, so I’m having them check out the partners-”

“Crane, Stryker and Rogers,” Bruce remembers aloud. 

“Those are the ones.” There’s an edge to Gordon’s eyes now that Bruce believes are there to warn him against interfering. But the suit in the back of his car out front pushes him in another direction. 

Bruce gets back into the car out front and drives a few blocks away before he turns on his radio. He’s set it up to pick up police transmissions, which was one of the first skills Alfred had taught him. He sits and listens, not knowing if he’ll step in yet. It’ll be his first appearance as the Batman, he needs to keep it as clean-cut and efficient as he can. There’s some general chatter, dispatchers sending cops out for noise complaints and possible robberies. A nice reminder of Gotham’s crime. He doesn’t need to wait long. 

“Dispatch, we have a possible homicide. Send Alvarez out, pretty sure it’s Steven Crane. Looks like it’s part of the Lambert case.”

Bruce is driving  before they finish the report. He knows where each of their offices are, and Rogers is the closest. He parks a block away and considers whether or not to wear the costume. He could simply walk in as Bruce Wayne and inquire about Rogers. It’d cause the least suspicion. But if he walked in on a fight or a crime scene, he wouldn’t be able to step in without giving himself away. And of course, if word got back to Gordon he was here, he could lose the trust of one of his oldest friends and accidental informant. 

It’s that that decides it for him, more than anything. He pulls the suit on in the back of the car, fumbling with the confined space. Bruce supposes he’ll just have to get better at it. 

Rogers has an office in a new office building - glass walls stretching up with nowhere to hide. He could still climb it, but the windows would be sealed all the way up. The easiest way in would be the roof, which meant fourteen storeys would have watched him crawl past, belly bared to all inside. Ground floor, then. But at least he can take a back door. 

Bruce finds it slightly embarrassing, he imagines this must be what it feels like to be a teenager sneaking in drunk hoping not to be caught in a parent’s disapproving stare. He has no personal experience doing this, for a number of reasons. (Apart from the obvious, he tends to avoid drinking to get drunk and Alfred would rather he just uses the front door so he can ensure Bruce is safe. Even as a fully grown adult.)

He makes it up to Rogers’ floor unchallenged, although he does note a security he makes an appearance on. It doesn’t matter to him then, he’s in a mask, and there’s nothing he can do about it. Bruce makes a note to figure something out for next time. (He optimistically assumes there will be a next time.)

The door to Roger’s office is open, and Bruce can see its empty even from the shadowy corner by the door. Roger’s secretary, a tall brown-haired woman with thick black glasses and a stylish crimson shirt, is sitting at her desk in front of the empty office absorbed in her computer. The best source of information - secretaries hear about everything.

He’s standing right in front of her desk before she acknowledges his presence.

“Can I help you?” She asks, eyes raking over his suit with silent judgement.

“I’m looking for Paul Rogers,” Bruce growls out. It’s harsh and grating where his normal voice is warm and playful. Ideally unrecognisable.

“Ok,” she says, now ignoring the screen in front of her, “And you are..?”

Batman. He wants to say it. He’s been planning it since he was fourteen years old and bats were the scariest thing to him. It feels kind of childish, but still scarier than something like institutionalised-prejudice-man or dying-alone-and-being-eaten-by-cats-man. Still, maybe it would be a good idea if he actually solved a case before spreading the name.

“Who I am doesn’t matter,” Bruce continues, “I just need to find Paul Rogers.”

“‘Kay,” she says in bewilderment, “He’s not here. He went to visit a business partner: Alfred Stryker.”

“Thank you,” he says, still growling. Not intimidating, he tells himself immediately. He’ll get the hang of it.

“‘Kay,” the secretary says again, turning back to her screen. He knows by the time he leaves the building secretaries all across the city are getting of the alerts of the strange costumed man looking for Paul Rogers.

He drives to Stryker’s office, cowl down and suit covered by a long coat. His cape is tied around his waist - a part of him thinks its childish, another, smarter part knows it masks some of his body type, movements and hides any special gadgets. If anyone stopped him now, it’d be extremely suspicious. He needs a vehicle, he realises, something that won’t link back to Bruce Wayne so he won’t have to change back and forth. 

Bruce pulls into an alley near Stryker’s office - this one is in a sprawling old building, with cut stone walls and only three storeys, so he doesn’t need to repeat the back stairwell routine. He remembers from his corporate briefings that this is because Stryker likes to keep a personal eye on the manufacturing of Apex’s heavy-duty industrial strength chemicals, primarily used as extreme sterilization or to be watered down to at-home cleaning solutions.

Cowl on, he climbs to the third storey window roughly where he remembers Stryker’s office being. As he jimmies open the lock, he hears voices yelling from the next room. 

“What the hell? What are you doing!” comes the first voice, and despite its panic, Bruce recognises it as Rogers.

“Just shut up,” hisses the second voice. Not Stryker, Bruce notes. 

 He (gracefully) crawls over the window into the deserted room beyond, staggering to his feet and darting into the building’s main corridor. He moves quickly and quietly along it, with all the grace of someone well-practiced in sneaking midnight snacks around an ex-MI6 agent, until he finds the right doorway. He pauses on the threshold and takes in the scene - not panicking, he’s learned, is far more important to remember than most of his learned skills. A second of recon can make or break his success. 

Inside the room, Rogers is taped to a chair, with another burlier man looming over him with more tape and a plastic bag attached to an air hose. Next to them is a canister of helium. 

“It won’t even hurt,” the larger man says, “Way more humane than being stabbed.”

This does not seem to reassure Rogers, who continues to struggle to keep the bag from being placed over his head. Bruce decides this is a good time to step in.

“Get away from Mr Rogers,” he says, crossing the threshold. The big man whirls to face him, abandoning Rogers.

He looks Bruce’s costume up and down, brow furrowing. “You’re that guy,” he says, and Bruce tenses, “The weirdo who was looking for Rogers.”

An assistant then, if he’d already heard about that.

“I’m here!” Rogers helpfully yells from behind the assistant.

Bruce pulls a pair of handcuffs from his belt, “Surrender yourself to the police.”

The assistant looks unconvinced, “I’m not going to hand myself in because some goth vampire dude-”

“Batman,” Bruce interrupts, purely because he would rather not have people call him Goth-vampire-man.

“Whatever,” the man says exasperated and then lunges forwards. Bruce sidesteps, bringing his elbow down hard against the assistant’s back and sending him crashing to the floor. Before he can get his bearings, Bruce has him pinned and is cuffing his hands behind his back. He drags the assistant to a radiator and uses a second pair of cuffs to lock him in place.

Rogers looks on in shock. “Batman,” he says testing it out, “Cool name. I like it. The whole thing: great-”

He’s interrupted by a voice from down the hallway, “Jennings? Is it done?”

Rogers looks over panicked at Bruce. “That’s Stryker,” he whispers frantically, “And it’s not done. I’m not done. Completely not done.”

Bruce raises a hand to quiet him, then slips behind the door. He’s not giving up the element of surprise.

“Jennings?” Stryker’s voice is closer this time, almost right outside. “What’s-”

Bruce can tell the moment Stryker reaches the doorway because he breaks off mid sentence. It’s then that Bruce launches himself at the place he knows Stryker will be standing. Bruce catches a glimpse of him before he makes impact, built more slender than Jennings and eyes wide with surprise. But where Jennings had confidence, Alfred Stryker has wit and wariness and speed. He launches himself down the hall, leaving Bruce clutching at the coat ripped from his shoulders. Bruce curses under his breath, abandoning the coat and racing after Stryker.

The man in question has reached a heavy looking door emblazoned with warning signs with phrases such as ‘Extreme Caution’ and ‘Chemical Storage’. Stryker’s frantically pushing his passcode into a security matrix beside the door and Bruce knows if Stryker gets the door closed behind him he’ll probably get away. 

The door opens and Stryker hurries inside. Bruce slams into the closing door, bracing himself on the carpeted hallway to keep it open. He knows he’s stronger than Stryker, and sure enough the door starts to inch further and further open. 

Stryker must know it too, because he abandons the door, using the Bruce’s stumble as the door unexpectedly gives way to get a headstart along the narrow metal catwalks that hang across this section. Beneath them, Bruce can see large open vats full of steaming liquids that slowly eddy and bubble as they continue mixing. 

The catwalk shakes as the two sprint across it, and a flash of fear runs through Bruce at the thought of it breaking. Who knows what raw chemicals would do to a man?

Stryker seems to be tiring, slowing slightly and failing to pick up speed again after a sudden ninety-degree turn. Bruce runs farther than this on a daily basis and shows absolutely no signs of fatigue. He gains quickly on Stryker until he’s within arms reach. Bruce launches forward grabbing firmly onto Stryker’s shoulder. Still desperate to escape, Stryker jerks violently to the right, hitting the narrow metal railing hard. 

For a moment he flails wildly. Arms in the air. His feet leave the catwalk. The swirling pale green vat beneath them bubbles invitingly.

Then Bruce’s instincts kick in. He grabs Stryker by the arm and pulls him back from the edge. By the time Stryker’s panicked breathing returns to normal, Bruce has already handcuffed both of hands to the railing.

“The police will be here shortly,” Bruce informs him, then heads back the way he came to release Rogers. 

Later that night, Bruce sits beside Alfred on a plush leather couch at Wayne Manor and watches a news report of the mysterious black-clad figure dubbed ‘The Batman’ who foiled a murder attempt. Paul Rogers raves praises for his actions to a reporter. It’s a good first step.

Strangely enough, Bruce isn’t the first person go sneaking through the city in black leather. As he continues his crime-fighting escapades he runs into a kindred spirit - albeit one that’s a little less into the law upholding aspect. 

He first sees the woman scaling up the side of an expensive apartment block. Gotham’s latest luxury living project for millionaires looking to downsize their older relatives. Bruce would usually be inclined to think this is another run-of-the-mill thief with a leather fetish, but the suit’s very similar to his. Ears on the cowl, utility belt - all its missing is a cape. He watches from a neighbouring building as she disables an alarm system and slips in a window - and yes, maybe he could report her, but he’s never seen anyone work with this level of efficiency and he’s new to patrolling rooftops so he’s pretty sure she’d easily outmaneuver him. She sees him as she’s slipping out the window again, probably a few thousand dollars better off than when she entered, and for a moment they both freeze. 

Bruce points to a neighbouring rooftop adjacent to both of them in what he hopes is a nonthreatening manner. I just want to talk, he tries to convey. Whatever he does with his arms somehow communicates enough to convince the woman to move towards the rooftop. Either because she’s curious too or to tell him to leave her the hell alone.

She’s a better climber than he is, he notes. Far more practiced. 

He can see her more clearly when she’s on the rooftop, her cowl covers all her main features and hair like his, and her suit’s clearly hand-stitched. It’s tight too, and Bruce realises that and the lack of cape probably allows her to better squeeze through tiny windows and openings to steal. She’s quite short, with a small build like that of an acrobat and scowling slightly.

“I suppose you’re this new Batman person,” she says by way of introduction.

“And you are?” Bruce asks.

“People call me Catwoman,” she answers, “But you don’t really need to call me anything. Just stay out of my way.”

“I just watched you steal from that apartment right there-”

“Yeah, steal,” she breaks in, “I’m not hurting anyone. The ultra-rich can live without a few pieces of jewellery Surely you’ve got better things to do. I don’t like getting into moral fights, go stop the people from raping and murdering in back-alleys. Then I’ll be able to focus on stealing rather than dropping into fights all the time.”

Bruce really can’t fault her logic too much. She does need to stop stealing stuff eventually, but he can’t stop every crime in the city. He doesn’t get the chance to tell her this though, as she darts off the side of the building and onto a fire-escape Bruce didn’t even know was there. 

An ally, Bruce thinks, albeit a reluctant one. If he ever gets out of his depth, he’s pretty sure this Catwoman would help him against someone truly evil. 

Two weeks later, Bruce hosts a Wayne Enterprises gala at his manor and among the guests he notices a small woman with curly brown hair he doesn’t remember inviting. He watches her as she slips through the crowd in a long purple dress and while he never sees her take anything, when he runs into her conversation partners they’re missing cuff-links and earrings and watches that they’re yet to notice have vanished. 

Bruce waits until she’s alone beside a table stacked with champagne before approaching. 

“Hey,” he says wearing the smile he reserves specifically for these events - it’s not quite the playboy on the front of magazines but also not an expression he’d ever use when it was just him and Alfred.

The woman looks over at him and smiles. It doesn’t show her teeth. Bruce notices her lips are painted the same shade of purple as her dress.

“So,” he continues, “Taking a break from theft?”

She laughs, light and short as if he’s just said something extraordinarily funny, “Theft? Let me guess; I’m stealing hearts.” She’s incredibly charming and for a moment Bruce thinks he might be wrong, and maybe this really isn’t the same woman he met on the roof at night. 

“Perhaps.” He offers her his hand to shake. “I’d stay out of your way,” a flicker of recognition flashes through her eyes, (they’re brown. He didn’t notice that in the dark.) “but I’m the host so I kind of have to greet everyone.”  

“So you’re the Batman,” she says, “Mr Wayne?”

He nods, “And you’re the Catwoman, Ms..?

“Kyle,” she answers, “Selina Kyle. I should probably give this back.” 

Selina hands him his own watch. (He’s suitably impressed.)

They spend the next thirty minutes gossiping about the other guests, with Bruce steering her clear of certain people - the Cobbs, who’ve just had their son die and should really be allowed to grieve, others like him who wear their dead father’s watch on their wrists like a catholic wears a cross - and which people just got found not-guilty of embezzlement on technicalities.

“This has been very educational Mr. Wayne,” she says. 

“Bruce,” he corrects immediately.

“Bruce,” she amends, “But I have to get back to meeting those guests you pointed out.”

She slips away into the crowd and Bruce thinks that maybe Gotham’s new vigilante now has a friend. (He finds Alfred later and tells him to invite one Selina Kyle to all Wayne events henceforth. She may be a thief, but Alfred’s just thrilled he has a friend.)

As Bruce keeps patrolling the city at night, his list of needed gadgets keeps growing. Some of them he and Alfred can figure out together in the old cavern beneath the manor where Bruce stores all of his Batman-related possessions. (Alfred’s setting up a computer system to combine the hacked files of different police departments and emergency services. A sort of overhaul database with all the information stored in one place.) Other things are beyond even them, but Bruce knows exactly where to turn. (At least after extensive background checks and many pros versus cons discussions with Alfred.)

Lucius Fox (graduated MIT, top of his class, wife: Tanya, four children in various stages of schooling) seems to have enjoyed his transition to Wayne Enterprises. The sprawling laboratory is filled with various gadgets and engineers of all kinds flitting from table to table talking of different ideas. 

“Mr Fox,” Bruce greets him, taking a seat opposite the man in his office, “I have another proposition for you.”

Lucius looks at Bruce over his glasses and says, “Go on.”

After a lengthy discussion ends in an optimistic, “I’ll consider it”, Alfred convinces Bruce to take the night off. 

“You’ve made excellent headway, Bruce,” Alfred says. They’ve long forgone the master, “Why not a night to celebrate?”

Bruce gives in, because it’s not just a night off for him, it’s one for Alfred too. And in between late nights preparing the new computer system for the cave and insisting Bruce get more sleep, Alfred’s read raving reviews about one Haly’s Circus that’s travelling around America. Alfred’s always harboured a soft spot for carnivals since his childhood novel heroes all talked about running away to join one.  

Bruce goes with him, with slightly less excitement but a willingness to relax. For the first half it’s as entertaining as Alfred promised, with aerial silks, a strongman, clowns. Then the trapezists are brought on. ‘The Flying Graysons’ the ringleader announces gesturing to a family of three. There’s a man and a woman and a young boy who sports the woman’s dark hair and the man’s bright blue eyes. 

They perform without a net, to raise the stakes. The audience holds its breath and wait to see if they’ll slip up, be off by a few centimetres and be sent plummeting to the floor far below. They don’t miss, they fly from one trapeze to the other with perfect flips that make them look as if they’re flying.

Then something above them snaps and they fall anyway. The man and the woman are both lying on the floor of the ring, limbs at wrong angles while the boy swings above, looking down on them in disbelief. 

It’s a while before someone remembers to convince him to come down. 

Bruce leaves with the rest of the crowd, but he doesn’t sleep at all that night. He keeps picturing the kid hanging onto the trapeze and looking down at the floor. At 3am, he can’t take it anymore and calls Gordon.

“Is it an emergency?” Gordon answers sleepily.

“No,” Bruce says, “It’s about the Haly’s Circus accident.”

“A 3am worthy question?”

Bruce sighs, “I was there, Jim.”

“Oh,” there’s a moment of rustling as Gordon presumably moves to a better location for a serious dead of night phone call, “Are you okay?”

“Fine,” Bruce answers him, “Just...what’s going to happen to the kid?”

“The circus can’t provide the right education, financial security or stability to officially adopt him, so he’s being sent to Gotham foster care so they can find him a home.”

Bruce remembers the feeling of not-knowing. But at least he’d had Alfred. This boy has no one. (Bruce asks himself who the greatest hero he knows is. The answer isn’t Batman, or Silena or Fox or Gordon. His biggest hero is Alfred, and he knows right now that the boy from the circus is in exactly the same position he was in. And he needs a hero.)

“I’ll take him.”

[punkscowardschampions]

Liam & Edie

Liam: [okay so wrong number text which isn't actually we know, which is just the location of some illegal rave moment that she'll wanna go to] Edie: treasure? ❌🗺 Liam: wooden leg would be useful to hide all the treasure we're bringing in Edie: Gutted I don't know anyone who's ever had an abscess go full necrotic ☠ Edie: and who wants to cart around a treasure chest Liam: don't wanna do your share of the heavy lifting, big surprise Edie: is it? Liam: outgrow this pussy behaviour before tonight as a favour to me Liam: I don't wanna cart that much dead weight about Edie: As I remember it, you owe me though Liam: your memory's in the 🚽 Liam: I owe nobody nothing Edie: yours is selective Edie: can't even get 11 digits down Liam: a barcode's got 12 & I told you it's your business if you wanna walk round inked like you've only lived that many years that's your lookout Liam: not holding your hand Edie: even more gutted, no doubt Edie: 💔 Liam: if you won't be talked out of it, put it on your balls where no-one'll see it Edie: Will you think I'm tough then? Liam: what kind of gay shit is this? Edie: 😂 Edie: go easy on your mate Edie: you got the wrong number Liam: fucked the 11 digits Liam: that's what you were trying to say Edie: mhmm Edie: that's what I said Edie: but a barcode tattoo is a shit idea Edie: agreed Liam: sick of being the voice of reason around here Edie: I find it's more entertaining to let people make the bad decisions, personally Liam: would be jokes until I look a sad twat by association Liam: wants it on his head Edie: 🙄 what's it gonna say, product of the system? Edie: pretty sure a serial killer has already done that Edie: or some shit rapper Liam: he is a shit rapper Liam: [link] Edie: oh Edie: I know him Liam: serious? Edie: by association Edie: I'm a less shit musician in general, not that that's any brag Liam: can I get a listen or you're just here to promo to set me off on a ❌🗺 as payback? Edie: depends Edie: who's heading the rave you linked? Liam: [deets] Edie: alright Edie: you're not 12 like your pal Edie: [links him her music] Edie: [definitely pictures and videos along with, as if you don't know who she is but pretending you don't lol] Liam: come tonight instead of him Edie: talking to strangers is one thing, boy Liam: you leave the bad decisions to everyone else Liam: don't sound as entertaining as it could be Edie: I meant for your safety Edie: could be anyone Liam: be full of nobodys and anyones when we get there Liam: I'm still gonna go Edie: what makes you stand out? Edie: as you ��� the barcode Liam: when I track you down, I'll listen to your opinion about me Liam: I'm bragging before then Edie: 🤞 we can't hear much of anything over the bass Edie: not that you're intriguing enough to show up for Edie: but the invite is sound Liam: you'll still know what I think, never had an issue with body language over bass Edie: I think I can guess already Liam: 👌 guess Edie: don't take a mind reader Edie: body language and 💭 are one in the same Liam: it don't take a mind reader when you know you're beautiful and talented Edie: ha leave it out Liam: 🧯 Edie: less of that as well Edie: not a wet blanket Liam: 🧨 Edie: that I like Liam: buying 🎇🎆 if you have any requests Edie: [all the party drugs not in code 'cos we're not bothered] Liam: 👾 Edie: NOW I look forward to 👀 you Liam: guessed it Edie: what gave it away? Liam: the vids you linked me to Edie: that's your review? Edie: at least give me some ⭐s Liam: 3.5 Edie: 👌 Liam: I'll give you another 1/2 when the anti barcode tat song drops Edie: what about the other whole? Liam: get him on the track Edie: 😂 Edie: you're on Liam: 👌 Edie: thank god for the edit Liam: & that only you're allowed to freestyle it rule we just invented Edie: good thing I'm more talented than even you are demanding Liam: I'd agree but you've heard it once & you weren't a fan Edie: you can agree when you see it in person Edie: I don't do this online fake shit Liam: I'll have my turn at looking forward to 👀 you Liam: more than down to Edie: good luck Edie: I can't find any cars with spare seats, so it's gonna be a crowd clearly Liam: yours is in if you want his Edie: how will I get my freestyle if he can't catch a ride? 🤔 Liam: shit like that is what earns you the rest of the ⭐s Liam: talent's not just Liam: 🎤🎧 Edie: yeah, I'm well kind and considerate Edie: known for it Liam: good thing I am Liam: [pic of all the drugs he has picked up] Edie: 🤪 Liam: got a 🐷 mask to fit in post raid, can stick it on early if 🥴 isn't doing anything for you Edie: 💡⭐ Edie: if you can't hang with your gurn we can't hang, like Liam: [a gorgeous gurning pic from a previous rave moment] Edie: fit Liam: ha ha ha Edie: don't act like you don't know Liam: I do 👌 out of my mugshots Edie: convince him to get that tatted instead Liam: too gay Edie: alright I'll do it Liam: before or after you take his seat Edie: if you tell me your name I'll save you a spot to earn mine Liam: Liam Edie: alright, Liam, thanks for not having a long and hard to spell name Edie: give me 🖐 Liam: you can have 3.5 again Edie: [purposely leaving it a full five before coming back with his name stick n poked and then a shoddy box for the mugshot portrait to go in] Edie: tada Liam: 👏 Liam: I didn't think you would Edie: if I say I'll do something, I will Edie: why not Edie: loads of Liam's in this town Liam: don't act like it's a standard trick to pull Liam: he's been oohing & ahhing for months over identifying as frozen peas when his face gets scanned Edie: it's a win-win for me, no need to think on it Edie: either you end up being sound, then it's a memory attached, or I get a cool story about getting a tattoo of a mugshot to get a lift to a rave to tell my grandkids Liam: I wanted you to sit next to me 5 mins ago, I can be impressed, can't I? Edie: I accept impressed Edie: and 👏 of course Liam: what did it feel like? Edie: it's somewhere between a scratch and a burning sensation Edie: but deeper Liam: you'll have to do me Liam: I like the sales pitch Edie: what do you want? Liam: what can you do? Edie: on you, a lot better than I can myself Edie: anything you want, I'll make it happen Liam: thanks for accepting impressive Edie: I intend to be so I can Edie: not here to disappoint Liam: I only was willing to be when I thought I was talking to that little bitch boy Edie: no gay shit Liam: unless you like one of the girls in the car Edie: ha Edie: we'll 👀 obviously Edie: where you starting out, anyway, and when Liam: [a time and place, I like to imagine it's a longish drive to give them time to #bond UGH] Edie: [and usually is to go to a middle of nowhere moment so agreed[ Edie: I'll be there Liam: would make me laugh if you don't show now Liam: longest chat I've had for ages Edie: even if I missed you 🚗 I've hitched before Edie: and it's been ages since I've been to a decent party so Liam: my pic could've fooled you but that last one was shit Liam: got a better feeling this time Edie: I feel you Edie: 💊🥤 just makes it tolerable Edie: down to 👀 yeah? Liam: Yeah Edie: better go find my glitter and gemstones out ✌ Liam: I feel you, will take me a while to paint my 💪 UV Liam: not got as steady a hand as you Edie: damn, that was almost impressive Liam: I'll work on it Edie: your steady hand or your bragging about your 💪? Liam: which one's letting me down the most? Edie: 🤔 Edie: you don't need to tattoo me yourself Edie: you are good looking enough you could get away with being cockier, go with that Liam: 👌 but now you've made me wanna tattoo you myself Edie: maybe Edie: if you think of a good idea, we'll overlook the shaky lines Liam: I'll try & think of an idea where wavy lines are part of it Edie: smart Edie: I like it Liam: 🌊 or something Liam: but less shit Liam: 📻 ones maybe Edie: you have any? Edie: professional ones, like Edie: you asked what stick n poke felt like so obviously not Liam: spend my money as fast as I have it Liam: what are you gonna charge me? Edie: what else are you gonna do with it though Edie: see how nice or poor I'm feeling Liam: I won't let the 💊🥤 run out, you'll feel a lot better than nice Edie: deal 🤩 Liam: be me blinded by your glitter & gems Edie: not actually my first rave Edie: but I can raid my little sister's shit if that's part of the deal Liam: see you in a 👑 will I? Edie: that's just standard day to day tbh 🤷 Liam: how many raves have you done? Edie: I've tried not to be in at the weekend since I was like 12 myself so Edie: enough that I know there's nothing fun or attractive about freezing your tits off in a neon bikini in a field Edie: what about you, you're [the year he'd be in which is either 2nd to last or last, either way], right? Liam: hasty to go with unattractive Liam: but yep, you're not wrong Edie: 😏 Edie: I get it, you wanna match 💪 Liam: no gay shit, your own words Liam: I didn't go to my first one until I was like 15, still not impressing anyone here Edie: me either Edie: middle child syndrome or whatever Liam: trade you oldest and only son if you want it Edie: Attention is grand and all but too much parental attention isn't what I'm aiming for Liam: can't offer you it Liam: my parents attention is elsewhere Edie: yours still together? Liam: nah Edie: oh good Edie: wouldn't know what to do with a dad Liam: not lots you can do with mine Edie: might be stuck being ourselves for the foreseeable anyway Edie: not a convincing freaky friday/parent trap situation you and me Liam: shame I won't get to 🎸 & lay down a track with your talent Edie: just buzzin' off all the things I could lift obviously 💪 Liam: this where I get cocky like you said? Liam: go on about how much I can Edie: you could Edie: but I'm clearly impressed before you need to use that tactic Liam: it's too desperate Liam: we both know I can pick you up if you get stuck in the mud later on Edie: we both know it's every man for himself when the 🐷 show Liam: I got you a mask Liam: yours has lipstick and more eyelashes, so we know Edie: thank god Edie: fragile femininity anyone? Liam: prefer toxic masculinity Edie: same Liam: 👍 Edie: if the daddy issues weren't glaring the 👑 will make 'em blinding Liam: we can pretend that since you're with me no-one'll be looking at you if you want Edie: the freedom Liam: I'll give you 🛢🧨 to play with Liam: 🔥 will take the attention Edie: really? Liam: 🎇🎆 wasn't only a code Liam: I do have some Edie: 🤩 no joke Edie: I wanna blow shit up Liam: that's all I ever wanna do Edie: yeah Edie: feel that too Liam: if you can capture 🔥 in a tat that'd be something worth considering Liam: not in a gay way like 🎲💀♠ Edie: that's overplayed, and doesn't mean anything Edie: I'll do some designs, providing I make it home alive Liam: supposed to see my dad tomorrow for the first time in months, don't think I'll rush back Edie: 🛢🧨🎇🎆 why would you Liam: don't feel you have to either, unless you're catfishing me Edie: I'd pick someone else if I was Edie: and you accidentally texted me Liam: I'm into the someone I accidentally texted, full fucking offense to whoever you wanna pick Edie: then I'll stick around too Edie: nothing I'm rushing back for Liam: it's in writing I'm not kidnapping you Liam: have to do a mugshot monday instead or something Edie: feel free Edie: I can't see that I'd mind Liam: being kidnapped or sharing a cell? Edie: hmm Edie: both Edie: though the involvement of bars to keep me about is unnecessary really Liam: does hitchiking only work if you're a girl with killer eyes? asking for myself before we torch the car Edie: as you're toxically masculine, most people'd be afraid to stop for you alone but as we're together, you should be safe and not an axe murderer Edie: unless I'm pulling a Hindley Liam: when we go for that we'll think it through more Liam: 🐶 or 👶 on board Edie: I can borrow one Edie: 👶 more likely Edie: people don't like cats enough Liam: I'll get over a fence to grab us a dog Edie: in one step, like Liam: depending on the fence Edie: sure, don't wanna oversell it Liam: you don't want no online fake shit Edie: just telling you so you know Edie: not the same Liam: thanks for telling me Edie: yeah alright Edie: didn't lecture you did I Liam: nah you didn't Edie: there we go then Liam: [quotes some of her own lyrics at her that he likes because genuinely listening to these tracks] Liam: you could sell that harder Edie: I'll work it out in my freestyle Liam: 🛢🧨 Edie: 🔥 Liam: 🎇🎆 Edie: 🤩 Liam: let's see your glitter Edie: checking it's not a catfish? Liam: can't show you mine first, too cocky behaviour Edie: [a rave lewk when we've clearly done the most to do the least you know the vibe] Liam: [I like to think he's written her name in body paint wherever she put her stick n poke so have a pic of that gal] Edie: 👍 Edie: approved Liam: what do you want your i dotted with? Liam: about as artistic as you'll get me to be Edie: ⭐ Edie: has to be Liam: [an adorable little star has been added so have another pic] Edie: perfect Liam: thanks for having a name that's short and easy to spell yourself Edie: oh yeah, snap Liam: except I haven't met another one of yours Edie: maybe an 👵 Liam: prefer a silent snatch & grab Edie: 😂 Edie: alright, then I can be the one and only Liam: do you wanna guess what I think about it? Edie: I have Edie: be too cocky to say Liam: I'll do it then, you said I can get away with more of it Liam: I think it'd be good if you were Edie: let's see if you're right Liam: feels like I am but yeah we'll 👀 Edie: it is weird Edie: how you randomly found my number instead Edie: how many # were you out by? Liam: you'll have his if you didn't before Liam: last number Edie: crazy Edie: another good story Liam: should've been a 6 but I did a 9 Edie: 🤪 love that Liam: I'll lose my phone again if you're what I find Edie: I'll save your number then Edie: or add it to the tat Liam: since you love how it feels Edie: and I'm no less liable to lose my phone, so Edie: the pain is just a bonus Liam: I can add it as fuel to the 🔥 any time you'd like an excuse to cross my number out & go again Edie: I won't run out of ideas either way Liam: what about space? Edie: not anytime soon Edie: I'll have to go back to biro and keep it less permanent after that Liam: leave it on the bodies of our victims like the shittiest calling card for the 🐷 Liam: call me Edie: ooh Edie: we could get really zodiac with that though Edie: only murder people on days ending in 9 Liam: I like it Edie: I'll go solo if you piss me off and do it on 6 days Liam: I'll start staging them like they've starred in your vids to get your forgiveness Liam: attention to detail for attention from you Edie: we can communicate through corpses Edie: that's new, no one's done that before Liam: when I keep the 👀 as a 🏆 you'll know I wanna see you Edie: romantic, aren't you Liam: toxic like my masculinity Edie: good Liam: ☢️ better than a barcode but not by a lot Edie: I could do you a Chernobyl victim tat Edie: get the toxic and the 🔥 in a really untasteful onner Liam: 👌 you're beautiful, talented & smart Liam: don't give me any flaws to pick at then Edie: I did say untasteful instead of distasteful, if you wanna be pedantic and take away smart so you can save some toxic masculinity points Edie: one-ner, also, doesn't translate to typing Liam: when it took you pointing it out, I don't think I can take anything away from you Edie: you can try Edie: again, like kidnapping, might not mind Liam: I can't help thinking it'd be better to give you things Edie: 🎇🎆🛢🧨? Liam: all that Liam: ⭐🐶👶 Liam: & anything else I've not remembered Edie: we can keep the puppy right Liam: what else would we do with it? Edie: just letting you know I draw the line at puppy killing Edie: get that out of the way now Liam: me too Liam: never microwaved any 🐹 or thrown them at the wall Edie: imagine how big you look to 🐹 Liam: 🏙🦖 Edie: definitely made that 📹 as a kid Liam: I'll be in the remake next time you're stuck for a vid idea Liam: if you still have it, we'll kick it frame for frame Edie: you'd be perfect for my next project Liam: sign me up Edie: [tat pic again like I already did] Liam: what else have you got? Edie: [just a comprehensive pic rundown of your tats that are all just silly ones you've done on the whole hope you've not got them anywhere too scandalous but realistically gonna need to be able to hide them when school so it's probably mostly legs at and like, upper arm and ribs/hip vibes] Liam: 😍 Edie: I'll tell you all the stories later when we're smashed Liam: no awkward silences in the car Liam: great idea Edie: not if the other girls are hot Liam: there's one I think you'd like Liam: you'll have to tell me if I'm wrong Edie: I'll flash a 6 or a 9 and you'll know Liam: she can be our first victim either way Edie: 😈 Liam: 🚗🔥 Liam: 🔐 Edie: 😍 Edie: you win Liam: how do you feel about playing games? Liam: 6 or 9 Edie: 9 Liam: same Edie: I know Liam: yeah, you're smart, I gave you that Edie: how smart is it that I wanna play with you? Liam: I'd call it a good decision, which maybe isn't smart if you only like bad ones Edie: I just like doing what I want Edie: good or bad is mostly irrelevant Liam: so do what you want Edie: you to be here now Liam: direct me 🗺❌ Edie: [at least you've had the good sense to be in town not at yours] Liam: [lord imagine] Edie: [like sure Rio ain't about but still don't need to be inviting you in quite yet lol] Liam: [her room is still there and no thank you hun] Edie: [not today huns, we can either skip to post rave now or post this as is?]

[imjustthemechanic]

Glockenspiel

Part 1/? - Transmission Part 2/? - The Sandhill Hotel Part 3/? - Piccadilly Part 4/? - The Future Part 5/? - Too Late Part 6/? - The Mystery of the Missing Time Machine

Peggy was of the opinion that they shouldn’t discuss conspiracies and time machines in a public place if they could possibly help it, weather gods on the subway notwithstanding.  Toulouse cheerfully bought them each a cup of coffee and a pastry, and they returned to the Lambeth Wilton hotel.

“We need another time machine,” Peggy said, once they’d settled down around the suite’s dining table.  “HYDRA has one, but there’s also the one we came here by, the one in the bunker in the Sierras.  Even if we didn’t make it back they wouldn’t have gotten rid of it, because the SSR never gets rid of anything.  The fact that we did demonstrably make it back means we will probably keep it on purpose.  It must still exist, or at the very least, there must be a record of it.”

Howard was nodding.  “Much faster than having to invent one myself, and more likely to be compatible with theirs.  After seventy years, though, where can we find the records?”

Peggy had some idea where to start looking, but before she could say so, Toulouse spoke first.  “They’re online!” she said.  “Black Widow put all of SHIELD’s stuff on Wikileaks.”

“What’s that?” Peggy asked.

“It’s a website full of stolen documents,” Toulouse explained.  She opened up her laptop computer and turned it on.  “After the Avengers exposed HYDRA’s plans to kill everybody, Black Widow uploaded all their records so we could see the shifty stuff they’d been up to.  We just have to look up time machine plans.”

Toulouse probably meant that to sound reassuring. It emphatically was not.  “Are you saying that if these plans exist, they’re now in a library where anyone can read them?” Peggy asked.  HYDRA were probably the worst people to give a time machine to, but they were far from the only ones who shouldn’t have it.

“It’s kind of like a library,” Toulouse explained, “but you don’t have to actually go there.  Anyone with a mobile can get access.”

Peggy thought back to the people she’d seen on the street outside the coffee shop.  At least half of them had been carrying a ‘mobile’, staring at it or fiddling with it while they walked, waited for buses, or shopped.  Any one of those people could, at will, read about everything the SSR had ever done?

“No wonder they came to this time,” said Peggy. Having something like that was practically inviting HYDRA in.

It didn’t alleviate her worries any when she saw how easy it was to search for things, either.  If Peggy had wanted to find specific documents in the SSR offices, she would have started out with a short prayer to the patron saint of filing (according to her former room-mate Colleen, this was either Saint Catherine or Saint Jerome, depending on your interpretation) that they’d been properly indexed before diving into the card catalogue.  If she’d managed to find something there, she would have rewarded herself with an extra dessert.  If not, it meant that whatever she was looking for had not been catalogued, and there was nothing for it but going through drawer upon drawer, box upon box of records and hoping that somewhere in there was what she wanted.  The process would have required days and several extra desserts, for fortitude.

On the Wikileaks website, Toulouse simply selected the phrase search keywords and typed in SSR time machine.  That brought up a couple of different documents, related to various projects interested in seeing the future or altering the past.  None seemed to have gotten past the planning stages, and the descriptions and diagrams did not match the device Peggy and Howard had arrived by.

“We can narrow it down by year,” Toulouse suggested.  “When did you say you were from?”

“1948,” Peggy told her.  Toulouse added it to her search parameters, but that brought up nothing at all.

“Maybe it took us a while to get around to writing it down,” Howard said.  “Try 49, 50, and 51.”

“And try matter transmitter,” Peggy added.  “That’s what I wanted to call the contraption before I realized we were in another time.”  Perhaps the SSR hadn’t wanted to describe it as a time machine, especially if Peggy had warned them that these records would someday be public.  “Or the location.  Sierra bunker.”

“See if any of them mention cows,” suggested Howard.

They spent the entire rest of the morning on the website, going through every possible variation of the search.  Peggy and Howard brainstormed code names they might have given the thing and tried those, and found exactly nothing of interest. Sometimes a result would look promising, but reading it was invariably a disappointment.  For a moment they had hope when they came across the Sierra bunker’s serial number – ACS21/2 – but the document only noted that it had been permanently sealed off in 1950, in favour of bomb shelters closer to the city.

Not only was it disappointing, but the longer they kept turning up nothing, the more worried Peggy became.  If there were no record of the machine, did that mean the SSR had never actually been able to study it for some reason?  Or worse, had somebody deliberately erased all traces? How would that be possible.  Peggy and Howard clearly had gotten back, not long after they’d left, and what they would have had to say when they did should have made the machine a top priority. Could HYDRA have sent someone else back to destroy the records?  Or had Peggy and Howard done it themselves?

“Maybe this thing just doesn’t bloody work,” said Peggy.  The more complicated a piece of technology was, the more ways it could fail – and this computer, as simple as it looked on the outside, had to be very complicated indeed.

“Or maybe they just never transferred the files,” Toulouse offered.  “By the time they got around to putting everything on computer they would have had decades of crap to go through.  Maybe they just never got to it all.”

Peggy thought of all the information that had accumulated in the SSR’s Los Angeles office in the mere year since its establishment, and shuddered imagine what seventy times as much might look like.  “You’d think…” she mused.  “When we get back, we’ll obviously know all this is going to happen, and you’d think we’d want to leave some kind of clue for ourselves. Something…” she paused, her coffee cup halfway to her mouth.  Of course! And of course they’d destroyed the records!  “Something nobody will understand but us, so that HYDRA can’t use it!”

“Great,” huffed Howard.  “So it’ll be easy to leave, because by then we’ll already know what it is, but right now when we’re looking for it, we have to figure it out.”

“Then we’ll thank ourselves for our ingenuity when the time comes,” Peggy said.  “Now… we know where we’ll arrive, but we can’t leave anything in the hotel because it won’t be built for another seventy years.  Not the Wilton, either, because it’s going to be torn down and rebuilt. What about…”

“The bunker!” Howard exclaimed, at the same moment it occurred to Peggy.

“Of course!” she said.  It would be closed by 1950, but Peggy would be back working for the SSR by then  She might even have been involved in decommissioning it.  “Toulouse, find the bunker again – ACS21/2.  Anything more you can find about it.”

Her heart was beating fast as Toulouse ran the search.  Surely this would be it.

The website called google gave them several results, including lists of defunct cold war bunkers, and a small article from the early 2000s about people being injured while trying to explore such locations.  This included a colour photograph of the very bunker in question, showing the entrance – now very much overgrown and with the padlock rusted in place – with a new fence and danger sign to keep people out.  Peggy felt a swell of hope in her chest.

“That’s got to be it,” she said.

“How do we get back to California?” Howard wanted to know.  “Maybe I somehow set some money aside for myself…”

“I’ll take you,” Toulouse said.  She typed the words flights from Heathrow to LAX, and a whole new set of information appeared, which she began to sift through.

Peggy swallowed.  “Toulouse, you don’t have to do that…”

“She can if she wants,” Howard interrupted.

“I know,” said Peggy, “but she doesn’t have to.”  She was still slightly worried that Toulouse’s family was involved in this whole mess, although Toulouse herself had made no effort so far to turn them in.  “Toulouse, you’ve spent a lot of time and money on us already.”

“I don’t mind,” Toulouse assured her.

“But you really don’t need to.”  Peggy pulled her chair a little closer to look Toulouse in the eye.  “Please answer me honestly, Toulouse.  Why do you want to help us?”

Toulouse looked back at her in surprise.  “I want to help,” she said.  “I’ve never been able to do something like this before!  When Thor busted up Greenwich we gave money to restore the buildings, and we sent aid to Sokovia and Johannesburg, but this is different.  It’s not exactly superhero stuff, but I want to be a part of it.”

“Isn’t your father going to be upset that you’re spending his money this way?” Peggy asked next.  She wanted all her bases covered.

Toulouse looked down at her keyboard for a moment and bit her lip, leaving a bit of silver lipstick on her teeth.  “Daddy doesn’t actually care what I do.  I can get a Master’s degree or I can get arrested for shoplifting.  He doesn’t give a shit as long as I’m not bothering him.”

“Where else are we gonna get the money, Peg?” asked Howard.

He was probably right, but there was one thing Peggy absolutely needed Toulouse to understand.  “This isn’t an adventure,” she said.  “It may be very dangerous.”

“Then tell me when to sit out, and I’ll sit out,” Toulouse insisted.  “Please?” She sounded like a  child, rather than an adult woman in an absurd outfit.

“All right,” Peggy relented.  “But when we do tell you stay out, you must stay out.  You’re not along for a safari.  We don’t know who else knows about any of this or how dangerous it may be.  We don’t want you hurt, and whatever your father might think of your behaviour, I know he doesn’t either.  Do you understand?”

“Yes, Ma’am!” said Toulouse.  Her voice was meek, but her smile was that of a child on Christmas morning.  She selected the word purchase on her computer screen, and then stood up.

“We fly out of Heathrow at six,” she said, “with a stopover in Toronto, and arrive at LAX at 2:30 AM.  I’ll get us a room at the Sandhill Playa Del Rey, because that’s been there for ten years and nobody’s got any excuse for sneaking into the basement.”

“Very reassuring,” said Peggy dryly.

“Also,” Toulouse added, a finger in the air.  “Now that you two are obviously going to be here a while, we need to talk about the blending in thing.”

Peggy glanced down at her own clothes, then looked askance once again at what Toulouse was wearing.  “Not that it wouldn’t be nice to have something clean,” she said, “but nobody’s been staring at us so far.”  Most of the clothing people wore in this century seemed to be far more drab than Toulouse’s, and Peggy and Howard weren’t that out of place.

“You just haven’t noticed,” said Toulouse firmly. “I’m taking you both to Barnardo’s.”

Peggy was afraid that Barnardo’s would turn out to be a fancy shop selling only sequinned jackets and high boots.  To her relief, it was actually a second-hand store, which was actually a very clever idea – anything they found there would be slightly out of style, slightly worn, and most likely working-class.  All things that would help them vanish in the crowds.

Choosing something nevertheless turned out to be a bit of a project.  Much of what was on offer were things Peggy wouldn’t have been caught dead in, whether because they were too tight, sleeveless, or had necklines that reached nearly to her nipples.  She finally ended up in a dark blue top with a beaded trim and no sleeves, offsetting the immodesty of that with a black jacket made of fake leather, which was only waist-length but at least covered her shoulders.  The blue shirt dangled out the bottom of it to hang over a pair of white denim trousers, but Toulouse refused to let her tuck it in.

At least there was a pair of high heels that fit, even if they were a dreadful budgerigar green that didn’t match the blue shirt.  It didn’t matter to Peggy what century she was in – she wanted to be able to look the men in the eye.

Howard had an easier time of things.  He found a tweed blazer with maroon accents that would have fit right in with his usual wardrobe, and paired it with a set of torn-up trousers (Toulouse said the proper term was distressed) and a shirt that didn’t match, featuring a stylized drawing of that Iron Man character they’d briefly seen on the news. Peggy suspected he’d chosen it for the line of text underneath the image, which read genius billionaire playboy philanthropist.

“What do you think?” he asked Peggy, with a grin on his face.

“Are you sure that shirt doesn’t actually belong to your future self?” she asked him.

“According to Toulouse I’ve been dead for over twenty years,” Howard replied, “and the tag says copyright 2013, so yes, very sure.”

Toulouse herself looked them over as if they were horses at a show, and finally gave a satisfied nod.  “You two look perfect,” she declared.

“We look ridiculous,” Peggy corrected her.

“Nobody will look at you twice,” Toulouse promised, and Peggy supposed she was probably right.  Everybody would be too blinded by Toulouse’s own sequinned jacket.

[douchebagbrainwaves]

HERE'S WHAT I JUST REALIZED ABOUT KIDS

The main reason they want to be lied to. That's the main reason parents in industrialized societies dislike teenage kids having sex are complex. In cold places that margin gets trimmed off. It's too much overhead. And while you can outhack Oracle with one frontal lobe tied behind your back, you can't be a company of one person. And not just in some metaphorical way. Even a fool is thought wise if he keeps silent, says the Old Testament Proverbs 17:28. Writing doesn't just communicate ideas; it generates them. Are We Getting a Divorce? This happens in intellectual as well as Lisp, so they are speaking from experience. Except this is not as stupid as it sounds, there are two numbers you care about: how much money you're putting in, and the advertisers will follow. Anyone who has used the web for more than a couple weeks has been trained to click on Back.

And you want to go faster, it's a problem to have your work tangled together with a large number of other people's. One reason they work on big things is that they probably will, one day.1 Two things changed. But here there is another language called Perl that is considered a lot cooler than Java. A viable startup might only have ten employees, which puts you within a factor of ten of measuring individual effort. It is a comfortable idea. The prospect of seeing the finished project hangs in the air like the smell of it makes you work harder. Like most startups, we changed our plan on the fly; use footnotes to contain digressions; use anaphora to knit sentences together; read your essays out loud to see a valuation lower than half a million unique visitors a month. Outsiders are still learning how to be stolen—they're still just beginning to realize how far you are from a neutral observer. Where is the breakeven point? Companies are not set up to reward people who want to work for them.2 In the software business, just take on the hardest problem you can find, use the most powerful is probably the same mundane reason they lie to kids is how broad the conspiracy is.

If you laugh, they're not transferrable. Viaweb with $10,000, whichever is greater. For yourself. It was astonishing to learn later that they'd both been serial womanizers, and that Kennedy was a speed freak to boot.3 It would be worth competing with a company that tanks cannot plead that he put in a solid effort. I'd be delighted, because something that was hard for us would be impossible for our competitors. Belonging to such a group becomes part of your identity: name, age, role, institution. One is that individual rowers don't see any result from working harder. How could I have missed something so obvious for so long? The obvious solution is to assume that anything you've made is far short of what it might have been ok if he was content to limit himself to talking to the press, but what happens in one is very similar to the venture-backed trading voyages of the Middle Ages. At least, you notice an interesting pattern. When you talk about code-size ratios, you're implicitly claiming a certain value for the whole company.

Lisp expression. If you're the rare exception—a company that actually listens—you'll generate fanatical loyalty. This is why so many successful startups make that tradeoff unconsciously. And so while you needed expressions for math to work, there was no point in making anything else return a value, because there could not be true. Of what? We talked to a lot. It's because Lisp was not really designed to be lived in as your office? Economically, you can tell they really believe this, because it will be as something like, John Smith, age 20, a student at such and such elementary school, or John Smith, age 20, a student at such and such corporation. In programming languages, as Erann Gat has pointed out, what industry best practice, and the useful half is the payload. So how much shorter are your programs if you write one great book and ten bad ones, you still count as a great writer—or at least, is tapped out.

We also thought we'd be able to do work worth about $3 million a year. They already had something few real companies ever have: a fabulously well designed product. It turns out that no one now even remembers, and so on, and it represents the opposite approach to language design. That sounds like a joke, but it requires extraordinary effort. Launch fast and iterate. Thermals happen, yes, but no smarter than you; they're not as motivated, because Google is not going to happen. Once you've got a company set up, it may seem presumptuous to go knocking on the doors of rich people and asking them to invest tens of thousands of dollars in them. But it's possible to be part of a startup, however, because its rarity is guaranteed by the U. Get ramen profitable. Adults have a certain model of how kids are supposed to behave, and it's hard to imagine him having the patience to climb the corporate ladder at General Electric—or Microsoft, actually.

So I say get big slow. Far older, in fact, Gosling makes it clear in the first year. I mean, in 1958, computers were refrigerator-sized behemoths with the processing power of a wristwatch. In a company, you'll find the juiciest projects still undone, either because they seemed too risky, or simply because there were too few insiders to explore everything. The eminent feel like everyone wants to invest in any good startups. What really motivates investors, even big VCs, is not the thing itself, but what this case shows is that power is the ultimate threat. As well as writing software, I had to do was play hardball with licensees and copy more innovative products reasonably promptly. Either your site is about by showing them. So in the future when you hear people saying All these guys starting startups now are going to be developing a genuinely good product, take slightly too long to do it myself. Maybe successful people in other industries are; I don't know of anyone I've met. No doubt there are great technical tricks within Google, but the lies implicit in an artificial, protected environment are a recent invention. This tells you how much to trust your instincts when you disagree with authorities, whether it's worth going through the usual channels to become one yourself, and what you expect of yourself, and what they use it for.

So any difference between what people want.4 Recursion. Every couple weeks I would take a few hours off to visit a used bookshop or go to a new investor, your 4. They also know that big projects will by their sheer bulk impress the audience. During the Internet Bubble. That's the best-case scenario. The second biggest is the worry that, if they don't want to; you could just tell him.

The ball you need to keep your eye on here is the underlying principle that wealth is something that's made, rather than the fish. There's also a newer way to find startups, which is all the more evidence they're ripe for the picking. There are two differences: you're not saying it to your boss and say, I want to explore: great new things often come from the margin is simply that there's so much of it. Then I thought: what would the other 9 be? Government. If you're bad at marketing. Startups create wealth, it will be as something like, John Smith, age 10, a student at such and such elementary school, or John Smith, age 20, a student at such and such elementary school, or John Smith, age 20, a student at such and such college. Whereas Marc Andreessen says he'd back ok founders in a bad one. It means someone who breaks into computers. But don't wait till you've burned through your last round of funding. That's the way to succeed in a startup, don't feel that it has to look professional.

Notes

With the good ones, it will have to put it would feel pretty bogus to press founders to overhire is not an efficient market in this department. The thing to be some formal measure that turns out it is the precise half of 2004, as reported in the beginning. The second alone yields someone flighty.

But people like them—people who had worked for a block or so and we did not become romantically involved till afterward.

Letter to the minimum you need to warn readers about, and his son Robert were each in turn the most common recipe but not the bawdy plays acted over on the programmers had seen what GUIs had done for desktop computers.

Though they were only partly joking.

[pass-the-bechdel]

La Femme Nikita season one full review

How many episodes pass the Bechdel test?

86.36% (nineteen of twenty-two)

What is the average percentage per episode of female characters with names and lines?

30.89%

How many episodes have a cast that is at least 40% female?

Three: episode one, “Nikita” (50%); episode two, “Friend” (42.86%) and episode fifteen, “Obsessed” (42.86%). 

How many episodes have a cast that is less than 20% female?

Three: episode four, “Charity” (18.18%); episode nine, “Gray” (18.18%); and episode eighteen, “Missing” (14.29%). 

How many female characters (with names and lines) are there?

Twenty-four. Three who appear in more than one episode, two who appear in at least half the episodes, and one who appears in every episode.

How many male characters (with names and lines) are there?

Seventy-three. Six who appear in more than one episode, four who appear in at least half the episodes, and one who appears in every episode.

Positive Content Status:

A perfect example of why “can beat you up in a fight” should never be treated as the be-all-end-all of writing good female characters (average rating of 2.41).

General Season Quality:

Middling. It has solid episodes, but the trend is towards mediocrity which cannot be entirely explained by the show’s age.  Interestingly, the earlier half of the season—the one where they were still, presumably, figuring things out—fares slightly better than the second half. 

MORE INFO (and potential spoilers) under the cut:

Let’s talk first about the good. Season one of La Femme Nikita, while trafficking in familiar tropes and characters, still manages to feel distinct.  Dystopian fiction is a tricky genre to pull off, but the series, at its best, manages to sells the bleakness of the Section, and Nikita’s circumstances, with conviction, and that matters quite a lot. Genre spy fiction, at least on TV, is rarely this dark, and the story of Nikita as she is progressively brainwashed by the Section—and that is the season’s core story—still has punch. Additionally, the series occasionally—not often, but often enough—offers some truly inspired set pieces, and some episodes that, while not fantastic, are at least perfectly enjoyable in ways that I have not seen replicated elsewhere. Had the series been interested in utilizing its assets to their best effect consistently, it might have been something worth watching in 2017, despite its flaws. Instead, we get a work that is more rewarding to dissect than it is to actually experience.

Perhaps the most damning thing I can say about this season is that even after twenty-two episodes, I still can’t get a read on the show’s main character. The most consistent thing about Peta Wilson’s Nikita may be the applicability of the phrase “…except when she isn’t”: She’s defiant except when she isn’t. She’s clever except when she isn’t. She’s suicidal except when she isn’t.  She’s loyal except when she isn’t. She hates Michael except when she doesn’t.  And while Nikita being conflicted about the various elements that now make up her existence is a good thing, narratively speaking, the way the show handles these things suggest not that she possesses a complex internal life, but rather, that she’s a blank slate that can be overwritten to fit an episode’s particular plot.  It’s one thing for her to feel ambivalent about the Section; it’s another thing entirely for her to decide at the end of an episode that she’s done with the assassin life, only for the next episode to portray her as a compliant and loyal soldier, with no indication of how she got from A to B, or that A even existed.  With neither the progressive, cumulative storytelling of a serial plot-driven series or the stable character dynamics of a procedural, the character is left adrift, unable to do anything about the status quo while at the same time being incapable of carving a space for herself within it or uniting all the various elements that make up her psyche.  The premise demands contradiction, but it gives us inconsistency. These are not at all the same thing. 

One could conclude, given the series’ trappings and their statements, that the showrunners believe that they’ve created a female parallel to the male action star, and in some ways that’s true. But really: would a male Nikita ever look like this? Ignore, for a moment, the gendered presentation of the character—she’s “the fatal femme you can’t take your eyes from”—and the story complications that come specifically because Nikita is a woman. Would a male action hero be made to lose so completely and consistently as Nikita is?  Even the closest male parallel I can identify—the protagonist from the 60’s series The Prisoner (a show which LFN showrunners have credited as an inspiration)—ends most episodes in a draw.  This is not the case with Nikita, whose victories are, with very few exceptions, those that benefit her captors: is this the only way the writers believe they can write a believable female superspy?  That says quite a lot, if so, as does the fact—I don’t recall if I’ve mentioned this—that the show reverses the original film’s power dynamics in order to make Nikita the less dominant figure. Would the same have occurred, if she had been a he?

Not helping things one bit is the dearth of other female characters with positive outcomes, or even positive depictions. We have a handful of female villains, many of which are uninspiring, all of which end up defeated with ease (Julie from 1.02; Helen from 1.05; Karyn from 1.13; Chan from 1.20; Griffin from 1.21, who is killed before she can utter a word), a handful of victims (Annie from 1.14, Lisa from 1.15, Maria from 1.21), some sacrificial lambs (Simone from 1.03, Angie from 1.11), and some outright messes like Karyn (1.13).  The few female characters who go on to live happy lives, like Carla, Casey from 1.10, and Belinda from 1.12, are tertiary at best.  Women are consistently found wanting, lacking either emotional fortitude, smarts, or survival instincts. Male characters may not be living lives that are sunshine and puppies, but they do occasionally get outcomes that are neutral, or even positive—hello, Mijovich (1.02, 1.21), Bauer (1.06) Gray (1.09, 1.10), Mick (1.09), Petrosian (1.11), Rudy (1.12), Simon (1.16) and Steven (1.18). Among the regular cast, Birkoff, Walter, and Operations don’t seem to have much to complain about, either.

Given all this, it becomes impossible for the series to develop any healthy relationships between women—not that there’s many of them around to do so. The friendship between Nikita and Carla, while nice, is weightless. It’s there to add a splash of color—both tonally and racially—but neither Nikita nor the show is really invested in it.  And while I quite like the dynamic between Nikita and Madeline, its potential, at this point, is largely untapped; they could be doing so much more with it.  And of course, it’s hard to call a relationship which ultimately results in helping keep Nikita pliable and submissive “positive”. 

(Speaking of Madeline, she’s the closest the series comes to consistently achieving its pretensions of complexity, and is therefore the show’s best character. Unfortunately, her general awesomeness feels less like the result of the writers understanding that women can be complex, and more like she gets to be complex because the writers code her as Not Like Other Women. In any case, one decent female character can’t make up for everything else.  Not even if she’s the person responsible for most of the series’ Bechdel passes.)

And yet, even a show with these—let’s say skewed—dynamics can be worthwhile if it has something interesting to say. I’m not sure the show does, and what it does end up saying is largely dismaying.  Dystopian fiction tends to be alarmist: it says “this is what our world is, or could be, and care needs to be taken in order to create a better one.” If a similar sense of alarm exists in La Femme Nikita, it coexists uneasily with the sense that we’re meant to feel the show’s status quo is actually quite cool.  After all, it’s only Nikita and the occasional guest star who express consistent discomfort with the Section; Michael, Birkoff, Walter, Madeline, and Operations all appear to be at ease inside it, and if they had concerns, they’ve long since come to terms with them. And these are characters we’re meant to like.  And while the series will sometimes establish ungraceful parallels between the Section and the people they fight, those parallels become more scarce the more down-to-earth the villains are.  Michael has a lot in common with wife beaters, but when one actually becomes an antagonist, those comparisons are nowhere to be found.  That is a problem. If the Section isn’t meant to tell us about the real world, what is the point? It’s not as its depiction is in any way plausible or consistent.    

In my post for the season finale, I asked three questions about the show, which all boiled down to one: who is the show for? La Femme Nikita was apparently quite popular in its time—Wikipedia describes it as “the highest-rated drama on American basic cable during its first two seasons,” which is so qualified that it may actually mean nothing in real terms, but at least implies a bigger audience than the latter CW series ever got.  That success baffles me, though. The series feels too demanding for a casual audience, and it seems to me that people looking for conventionally attractive women in sexy outfits, or attractive hetero couples to ship, could easily have looked elsewhere. At the same time, I imagine people searching for nuance or a satisfying exploration of the show’s premise and apparent themes would quickly find themselves disappointed. And I can’t imagine the show being aimed at people starved for female action heroes, given Nikita’s tendency to lose. Or is this a case where what we see here is better than the 1997 norm, or, if not better, simply different enough to draw attention? Or was it all about the aesthetic, which I genuinely love?

It’s not as if I can’t imagine the series having no appeal. I can imagine Nikita’s imprisonment and her inability to extricate herself from her prison resonating with a lot of people. I just wish they’d gotten a better show, because the wasted potential of this one hurts. 

[stargleeksil-blog]

Criminal Minds s02e09 The Last Word review - or more aptly named, how dare they replace Elle like that, oh shit I fell in love with Paget Brewster from the two scenes in this episode, never mind, continue, my lovelies XD

Episode 09 – The Last Word

So last episode played on every bit of emotion I had – happy, sad, fucking crying like a baby because Derek put himself in harm’s way just to comfort a victim who could be blown to smithereens like Cooke and he was completely dependent on fucking Cassie to do her job and not fuck it up. I was in emotional shambles! I swear!

So I hope this episode would be better in that it gives me some humor fodder, but I doubt it, cuz the title is very cryptic and not helpful. And the opening shot is kids running in a park and we all know by now that if you watch Criminal Minds, something fucked up is going to happen to whoever is the first shot. Fuck.

Aww! The guy ran with a Dalmatian!

Wait. They’re playing catch with their daughter like a dog? Oh my god, they’re so cute!

Oh fuck. That girl just ran into the woods on her own. Uh oh.

Hey! That guy played that fake head of S.H.I.E.L.D!

Wait, so you’re just following this guy who popped out of nowhere into the forest? Oh my god.

Oh my god, I knew this guy was gonna be awful. Shit!

Why is he seeing his mom in her bra? Come on.

And she’s blaming him for not waking her up on time?

I’m with this kid, get a fucking alarm clock. And I’m not even mad at him for being sassy.

He gave his baby brother pizza and milk? Oh my god. That mom is awful.

Aw, she’s the worst mom ever. Not bringing him pancakes when she promised.

Oh god, she’s a hooker? Oh baby.

Oh shit! He just shot that hooker! Damn!

Okay, that’s a new face. Emily Prentiss. Cute name. She’s a daughter of an ambassador. Nice. And she went to Yale? Wow! Smarty!

Oh my god, there is something we’re not getting, Hotch.

What? She’s supposed to work with the team? What? But. They haven’t gotten over Elle yet! What are you doing???? No!!!!

Wow. He just blew her off. Wow.

Wait. Someone went over Gideon and Hotch’s heads to enlist Prentiss? Uh oh.

Yup. That was is St. Louis, someone is killing hookers and moms. Yikes.

Wait. Emily is officially on the team? Okay. Welcome, Paget Brewster. I’ve seen a lot of her on the web, so she should be ok, right?

Elbert Hubbard: “If men could only know each other, they would neither idolize nor hate.” What? That made no sense. I guess I’m tired… so in order to wake up a bit, eating schnitzel with noodles.

Aww, groggy, pensive Reid is the cutest.

I’m jealous of that cup in Derek’s hand.

One of the killers wrote a letter? Oh lord, that is sick.

Oh my god, Derek talking to children is the cutest thing ever. I swear. She’s so adorable! I can’t believe Shemar is still unmarried, but it makes me beyond happy.

Oh god. She’s dead? Fuck.

Wait, the killer is still visiting her? Oh my god.

Oh god, I am totally grossed out right now. He’s actually putting lipstick on her lips, brushing her hair, and making out with a corpse. I’m sorry, but I really am trying not to judge here, but that is so disgusting to me. I know she probably is alive, but the whole acting thing is way believable.

Wow, that old lady creeps me out.

Oh, she’s the hooker’s mom. Hey! That’s no way to treat your grandkids. Oh my god, the baby is crying, do something about him.

Wow. That lady is seriously jaded.

Great. Humanizing the victims. It’s a great season, emotionally speaking.

Wait, they only have one file about the guy who killed the hooker? But three boxes on the freak who kills women, buries them up till their necks and makes out with them? Oh boy.

I like that reporter. He’s hot.

They found the mom. Thank goodness. But seriously, oh my god.

Oh shit! That taxi driver, who is apparently the Hollow Man just killed two hookers at once! Dang! He’s a quick-shooter. Fuck.

And he put the paper that glorified the Mill Creek River, ha. He was pissed.

It’s not a guessing game, dude, JJ is as much a profiler as the other guys, come on! Trust her, jackhole.

Graphology. Interesting. It’s awesome.

So he’s oppressed in his job and feels it’s draining him and he’s underappreciated and underpaid? Shit, I could be a serial killer with that profile, Reid, I’m not really feeling it.

An attention whore. Got it. That’s the Hollow Man.

The Mill Creek River is disturbed on the inside. Got it.

Another death. Fuck. The Creek Killer. Shit.

That’s him! That’s the killer! Please let them find something on him so they don’t find more bodies. But he’s too smart for that. But seriously? Hiking with no water or food supplies? That’s seriously suspicious.

So he’s familiar with the woods? Oh god.

“Now that is an awesome place to dump a person.” “Come on, Garcia.” “What? I’m just saying, angel fish … Evil knew what he was doing.” God, I love those two.

“What? Forget … No, no. I don’t want to know that. Bye-bye.” Oh sweetie, you’re so adorable, but I agree, I wish I hadn’t known what that meant either. But I do. Gross. I actually giggled over that sentence like a little girl.

They call a sniffing dog Brownie? Aww, those tough FBI agents are softies.

Well yeah. If it’s imperative that he comes to see her, he’s gonna come see her, and if they set up a trap they can catch him.

Wait. That’s the reporter guy! What the fuck?

The Hollow Man told him? What the fuck?

A news chopper? Oh no.

Oh god. He’s gonna get her on the street? Oh god.

Hey! Leave her alone, you dick! God, you are amazing, lady! So brave! And he’s such a coward.

Fuck.

I’m pretty sure the Hollow Man is an inside man. I’m suspicious he’s inside the PD.

LOVE YOU REID!

They’re talking in the personals in codes? Oh my god. The two serial killers corresponded using Catcher in the Rye names! Fuck! And dude, no offense, but every white guy/girl knows that story. Wait what, it’s a loved book of sociopaths. And Mark David Chapman quoted it after offing John Lennon? Oh lord. Wait. They know who killed him? I thought it was a random shooting. Oh lord. I have so much to learn.

“Hey, sweetness. Make me smile and tell me you got a name.” “Oh, I got scads of them, babe, but none paid for these personal ads. They went with cash, totally old school. I hate it when they’re smart. Two separate accounts in good standing.” Apart from the psychos who are outsmarting them, I love the interchange. Someone kiss someone already!

Fuck. Why pressure Reid? Damn.

Oh god, they’re using a doppelganger to bait him. Oh my god. She’s so brave. I love her. Ew.

So the Mill Creek Killer bought it. You go, Reid. Oh my god, he’s sick as fuck. Damn.

YES! They got the fucker. You go, Derek! I love watching him cuff those assholes. Thank you, Criminal Minds writers for doing it.

Oh wait, they want to give a show now? That’s impressive. They want to show the Hollow Man they caught him. And he didn’t. Ha.

I hate that guy so much. I mean, again, the character. I liked him as Mace in Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D.

So he’s denying it? After they found him about to apply lipstick to the poor woman’s lips?

Oh he’s good. Gideon is trying to goad him into confessing by admitting they thought they’d never catch him and by implying automatically that they know it’s him.

And he’s just trying to seem nonchalant but he’s describing himself (the serial killer) as an artist, come on.

Oh snap! He just gave himself away! He just totally implicated that he belittles the Hollow Man’s work, he think there’s no imagination there in simply shooting the hookers. He thinks he’s the artist here. Oh god.

Seriously? He’s just giving it all away. Except for confessing. Damn.

Hey! Don’t tell Gideon to shut his mouth! He’s goading you into confessing!

Ha! He just confessed. He killed them. He doesn’t want them to know about his fetish? Oh come on. Give me a break.

So they’re just separating them and completely dismissing him as a dumbass? I love them. They’re just goading him into submitting himself. I love it.

I love this show.

Shit. That’s the killer. Damn.

What?! Oh god.

He just totally knocked that security guard to the floor. Damn.

Shit! He just walked into the police station like nobody’s business with a gun pointing at the security guard. Come on, man!

Yes! They got him! You go, Morgan! I love you so much!

Bah. That was awful.

Aww, Meyers sent them an article remembering the victims. So great.

They don’t need to mention the shooter. The victims are important. The assholes are now behind bars.

Mahatma Gandhi: “Remember that all through history there have been tyrants and murderers, and for a time, they seem invincible. But in the end, they always fall. Always.” Great, that’s very wise, Gandhi. But what about the period while they are raging terror? Huh?

Hey! What is Prentiss doing waiting in Hotch’s office? Come on.

I already love her tenacity.

Okay, I just fell in love with Emily Prentiss. I love her.

 Oaky, so let’s recap. Sickos killing people, really hate that part. Introducing Paget Brewster as Emily Prentiss, of course, fell in love with her immediately, even though it’s super hard for me to get over Elle leaving. Gideon was awesome as per usual. Lovely Derek and Penelope scenes. Though they were few. And overall? Just yuck over the entire case. It was weird, but won’t go unappreciated. See you all tomorrow <3

[thorne93]

Inside the Criminal Mind (Part 6)

Prompt: You’re married to Dr. Spencer Reid of the BAU, and are a distinguished doctor yourself on the team. You’re sent down to Miami, Florida for teaching and as a side request from the FBI, to investigate a string of missing persons. When you think you’ve figured out who the unsub is, your life becomes more complicated than you ever could’ve imagined.

Word Count: 1865

Warnings: (throughout the fic –>) death, blood, gore, killings, language, disturbing mental notions, mentions of rapes/murder/etc (You know, Dexter and Criminal Minds related business)

Notes: Thank you so much to @arrow-guy, @carryonmyswansong, and @mrs-dragneel-stark-solo - without each of you, I couldn’t have finished, written, or properly navigated this story. Each of you helped me fish out details that were incredibly important to me. Beta’d by @carryonmyswansong and @mrs-dragneel-stark-solo… Aesthetic by @mrs-dragneel-stark-solo

This is a crossover of Criminal Minds x Dexter. First time writing Dexter.

Also, the timeline is after Season 1 of Dexter, but during season 14-ish of Criminal minds into Season 15. Enjoy!!!

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

You lied awake that night, tossing and turning. This didn’t feel right. At all. Lying to Spence, lying to your team, lying to your work. Going against every oath, vow, promise, and handshake you’d ever made. You were about to turn your back on all of it, just to get right some wrongs you’d witnessed. 

But then, you thought about all the sleepless nights you had knowing people you’d arrested were out there… hunting new prey, hunting you, hunting Spence. You couldn’t live in a world knowing some of these bastards got to walk away without so much a slap on the wrist. You just couldn’t do it anymore. 

Dexter was your ticket out of this. If anyone knew how to do this, he did. He did it well and he went after who you wanted. He was controlled, evolving. He covered his tracks incredibly well. The only reason you’d caught him was because of your ability to profile. He was the perfect teacher. 

------------------

The next morning, Spence called you before class. 

“Hey, hun, how’s the investigation going?” he asked cheerfully.

Just as you were about to actually be honest and say, “Hey, I caught the guy,” you remembered you couldn’t say that. You couldn't utter a word like that. 

“I actually still have a few more families to interview.” 

“But you’ve already gone through sixteen, isn’t that enough?” 

“No, not really. I want to get a good and clear picture on these victims, their daily lives, their pasts. You know…”

Why did lying to your husband come so easy? Well to be honest, it didn’t. It felt horrible. A sickening feeling filled your gut but you pushed it back down. There was nothing to be done about this. 

“Well you’re nothing if not thorough and I know it’ll pay off.” 

“Thanks, love. So how is everything up there?” 

He went on about a case they just solved over in Dallas. As he began telling you, you were automatically profiling in your head and by the time he told you who it was, you had it figured out. You wished each other a good day and got off the phone. 

Three days later, Dexter texted you. He asked that you meet at his place. 

You arrived and as soon as you were inside and he shut the door you asked, “So have you got someone for us?” 

“No, I actually thought we needed to start with the basics. Before I take you with me, I think you should know more about me.”

You frowned. “Oh, well that sounds like a good idea. I actually did have some questions.”

“I’m sure you did.” He gestured to the table. “Have you eaten yet?” 

“No, I haven’t.”

“Care for some chicken casserole?” he offered.

Your eyes traveled to the table, caution swimming in your face and mind. 

“I didn’t poison it, if that’s what you’re thinking,” Dexter assured. 

“How do I know this?”

“Not my style. And as you profilers know, we don’t deviate from our M.O., ever.” He smirked, knowing he was getting under your skin with the profiling jabs. 

You screwed your mouth to the side. “Very well.” You sat down and got settled and dove right in. “When did you commit your first murder?” 

He looked up from his food, slightly frustrated. “Are you writing a book? Why do you want to know all these things?” 

You shrugged. “Hey, you’re the one who said I should know more about you. This is me knowing more. It’s part of who I am, Dexter. I study the mind. I just want to know what happened to you and how it affected you. It’s integral for me to follow your thought process. I don’t think killing is a recipe to follow and I don’t think you think it is either.”

Some silence hung between you two before he finally said something. “Right before my father died,” he stated.

“Why then?” 

“The nurse who was looking after him was killing him slowly, and not just him.”

“Wow,” you breathed. “That’s amazing.”

“That’s not the word I expected to hear from anyone.” 

“But it is. You were helping people. She’s a monster and deserved to be stopped.” 

“I’m glad you see it that way, I guess.” 

“Was it a trigger?” you wondered.

He furrowed his brow. “What? No. I mean, it was upsetting but I didn’t kill because it upset me. I killed because… well he was always the anchor, the reason to remind me to not do it, to not give in. He did say, whenever I did give in, because he would know I’d have to, to live by this code.” 

“The code of killing horrible people?” you clarified.

He nodded. “Yeah. He taught me everything I know. Taught me how to do it to make for easy clean up. We started with hunting, to see if that would satisfy it but it didn’t. He showed me how to research, how to make absolutely sure the person is guilty of a crime worthy of death.” 

“That’s a good code. You were very lucky to have him.”

“Yes, I know,” he agreed. 

“So how do you do it?” 

“Do what?”

“Have a life? Is the girlfriend a cover?” 

Dexter seemed… taken aback by your question. “Uh, yeah, for the most part, but I think some part of me really cares for her. She’s a great mother and extremely kind to me.” 

“And your urges are never a problem between you two?” 

“No. I find it easy to control them since I hunt quite often.”

“Speaking of hunting, how do you dispose of the bodies?” 

At this, he choked on his food. 

“What? Not used to being asked direct questions?”

“I’m not used to being asked questions, at all, about this. It’s--”

“Weird?”

“I was going to say… refreshing.” 

A smile crept onto your face.

“So?” you prompted again.

“Do I really have to tell you?”

“What are you going to do when we commit our first kill together? Tell me to go to the other room and not look while you dispose of them?” 

“Right now, all you need is the location of the bodies to convict me. You haven’t done anything wrong but question a serial killer in his own home. But, if we kill together, then you’ve committed a crime with me. At the very least, you’re an accomplice, at worst you’re on first degree murder.” 

“So you really aren’t going to tell me?” 

He shook his head. “No. Not yet. I will though. I told you, open and honest, but right now, you’re holding all the cards.” 

“I’m not even playing a game, Dexter,” you said softly with a gentle smile.

“Everyone plays a game.”

“Not me.”

“Oh? So you aren’t lying to everyone you know?” 

This made you quiet and somehow you think Dexter knew that struck a nerve with you.

“I shouldn’t have… You’re not doing anything to hurt me so I shouldn’t do that to you.” 

You waved him off. “It’s fine. Okay so you won’t tell me where you finish it, how about how you finish it? You seem like a knife kind of guy to me.”

He laughed, throwing his head back. “If you have me all profiled and figured out why are we even talking?”

“These are all just theories, come on,” you pleaded. 

“Oh, so see? My statement was true about profiling not being concrete.”

“Ah but it will be, if you confirm my theory.”

He rolled his eyes. 

“Alright, fine. I am a ‘knife guy’.”

“You know, usually we say men use knives to act out their sexual frustration but… I’ve never agreed with that theory.”

“Why?” 

“Well, take you, I don’t think you have any sexual fantasies you’re trying to act out, am I right?” 

He nodded his head to the side before picking up his beer and sipping it. “Right.” 

“So then why a knife? More intimate?” 

“Well a gun… it’s messy, loud, traceable.”

“Poison?” 

“Too slow or too disgusting. And again, traceable if the medical examiner has half a brain.” 

“Suffocation?” 

“Not intimate enough.” 

“Strangulation?”

“The hands can leave certain marks, they can fight, scratch, get my DNA on them…”

“So, the ole knife… Interesting.”

You leaned back in you chair to stare at him. At the same time, he moved forward. 

“Have you really thought about this? Thought this through? You'll be killing someone. Ending their life.” 

“I know what murder is but thanks for the vocabulary lesson.” You sneered. You didn’t like being talked down to. 

“Y/N. I'm serious,” he stressed.

“So am I. I've killed before.” 

“Yes! To protect people, not--” 

“Isn't that what we’re doing? What you're doing? Just because you kill them when they don't have the murder weapon in their hand doesn't diminish what they've done to the world.” 

He looked at you, his face not wavering. 

“Y/n… look. I don't know if you've had to lie to your husband before or maybe it's something you do a lot anyway, but from this point forward, everything you do is a lie, a front. I almost got caught once and I thought I was about to lose everything. My sister, my job, my girlfriend. It nearly caused me to panic. Now, if it comes down to it, are you willing to face that? Are you willing to live with that?”

You sat there a moment, thinking. “I've thought this through, Dexter.” 

“Have you? It’s a long journey. Are you planning on taking what I teach you back to DC?” 

This took you aback. “Actually, that I don't know...” 

“Something to think about.” 

You nodded. Absolutely. You hadn’t even really thought past your first kill. Would you want to do it if Dexter wasn’t there? Would you be willing to risk it back in D.C. all alone? Would you even feel like killing at all after the first one?

Something about what he said earlier bothered you and you wanted to set the record straight. 

“For the record. I don't lie to my husband, ever.” 

“And you're willing to start now for… what?” 

“This is just something I have to do…” 

He nodded, and you hoped it meant he understood. 

“It kills me to do it, but I’m also doing this for him. He’s been through so much, and getting these scumbags off the street is just another way to protect the world, our community, and ultimately, him.”

“That’s a powerful love, to kill for someone. Just don’t let that emotion drive this.”

“It’s not,” you assured. 

“Alright. I think it would be best if I walked you through how I find someone first, what do you say?”

“Sounds good.”

At that, he began to tell you how he started a hunt, how he picked them, how he made sure they were the one. You listened diligently, the two of you cracking rather dark jokes as you did so. The night grew late and you informed him you had to be back to your apartment to get some sleep for class tomorrow. He bid you a goodnight and you left, feeling better and better about this partnership. 

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

Tagging:

Forever Tag:

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@esoltis280​

[aion-rsa]

Summer Glau Dives Back Into Science Fiction With Serial Box's Alternis

http://bit.ly/2JXfVxN

We talked to actress Summer Glau about narrating the first season of Serial Box's science fiction story Alternis.

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Summer Glau’s most recent project won’t show her on screens pitched in battle with Terminators, Reavers, superheroes, or advanced human beings. Instead, the actress best known for her work on Terminator: The Sarah Connor Chronicles and Firefly, who has also appeared in television series including Dollhouse, The Cape, Arrow, and Alphas, is lending her voice to Serial Box’s newest serial, Alternis.

In a near future, Tandy Kahananui realizes that someone has stolen the game she created, but she has no idea how high the stakes are. World powers are secretly using the standings of an MMORPG to determine which countries receive wealth—and which go without resources. Team USA realizes that Tandy could be exactly the edge they need to raise their standings in the game, and the world. We chatted with the writers behind Alternis in an exclusive cover reveal, and now that the series has launched, we had a conversation with Glau about the project.

read more: Marvel & Serial Box to Collaborate on New Titles

“I am an audiobook and podcast junkie,” Glau explained. “I had just been imagining, ‘How can I work my way into this party of the industry more? I enjoy it so much. I’d like to stretch and do more audio work.’” Serial Box reached out to Glau with samples of several of their other serials, asking if she’d be interested in narrating Alternis. “When this came across my desk, I was so excited."

Glau, who lives in Texas, connected with a studio not far from her home to record the individual episodes of Alternis’ first season. Amanda Rose Smith, the Serial Box producer, traveled to Texas to meet with Glau and coach her through the process. “She helped me lock in all the characters and story lines,” Glau said.

Although Glau has a long history with science fiction, she is not a gamer, so Alternis became an introduction for her to the world of MMORPGs. “I felt like I was opening up a science fiction genre that I had never been in before. It was thrilling for me. Amanda, who was coaching me through the first few episodes, was able to paint a landscape for me for how VR works nowadays. It took me a few episodes to really start to understand the lingo.”

Each episode features an entire cast of characters, including Tandy and the other members of Team USA: Dante, a professional gamer and Internet celebrity with a huge ego; Ben, a grouchy soldier who takes everything seriously; and Etta, the team diplomat, whose soothing interactions are so much part of her job, it’s hard to tell if she actually means what she says. All of those characters, and several others, appear in the first episode, which released on May 15, 2019.

“I feel like they’re my friends,” Glau said of the characters. Performing the entire cast of characters was different than the voice work she’s previously done on projects like Peter Panzerfaust and Superman Apocalypse, where she played a single role. “When I got into the studio, this all was a bit of a whirlwind for me. I knew I would be narrating, but then as I started along the story, I kept meeting new characters. It was a great exercise for me as an actor to throw caution to the wind and really get into it.”

read more: Serial Box Brings HBO-Style Storytelling to Prose

As the season progresses, characters from Team Russia also become important to the story. Glau has played Russian characters previously, particularly as a villain on Arrow, but the inspiration for her voices for the serial came from much earlier. “It was like a blast from the past,” she described. “I envisioned myself back in ballet class with one of my Russian ballet teachers yelling at me. It all just comes flooding back.” She also has a reference closer to home: “I’m married to an Eastern European, so that doesn’t hurt.”

When asked about her favorite character to voice, she confessed: “Dante was the hardest in the beginning, but I love his humor. There’s a lot of intensity in this story, and there’s some sad moments, so I really long for Dante to cut the tension with his funny one-liners. Ben, I kind of channeled Gerald McRaney. I thought to myself in the studio, when am I ever going to get to take a role from Gerald McRaney?”

She also has an affinity for Tandy. “I feel like Tandy is such a great mirror for me. I love that she’s trying to do something unique and she’s constantly coming up against people who are making her doubt herself and doubt her voice. She, at times, really struggles to express herself and to trust herself. In the end, she has to—they need her. This is why she’s been recruited by Team USA. She’s the only one who can step in and be this key to their success. I relate to her, and I find it inspiring in the story. It’s cool when, as an actor, you come across characters that really bring out a question in yourself and inspire you, and kind of make you laugh at yourself.”

read more: The Best Serial Fiction You Should Be Reading

Each episode of the serial runs a little over an hour, but Glau wouldn’t record all of that in one go. “I aspire,” she laughed. “I’m thinking now I want to be a fulltime narrator, so I’ll work up to that. In the beginning there was a lot of stopping and starting so that I could take a moment to get into Dante, or get into Ben. As you go along, you just really start to feel flow.”

Glau does three-hour or four-hour sessions, and her team makes notes as she goes, so that, once she gets her momentum, she doesn’t have to stop. The recording schedule is a nice relief from more chaotic acting schedules, where she might have to go in to work at four in the morning, but by the end of the week be coming home at four in the morning.

read more: In John Scalzi's Head On, Gender is Non-Specific

With two young daughters at home, that type of schedule made parenting a challenge. But, with recording, Glau described: “I can go to the studio for a set amount of hours in the middle of the day, my mom can watch my babies, and then I can be in the routine. When I go into that little sound booth I can live out my fantasies and act out different characters, and then as soon as I leave I’m back in momming mode.”

And although she’s just spent hours reading aloud in a studio, she still enjoys reading to her kids (and performing another variety of voices) once she gets home.

To check out Summer Glau’s work on Alternis, you can listen to the first episode for free. Den of Geek readers can also purchase a season pass to the first season with a 10% discount by entering the code alternis10dg.

Alana Joli Abbott writes about books for Den of Geek. Read more of her work here.

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Interview Alana Joli Abbott

May 22, 2019

Summer Glau

from Books http://bit.ly/2W1dX6V

[whifferdills]

"Landscape With the Fall of Icarus" Braxiatel and his brother. Gen, with some background Brax/OFC and Brax/Romana. ~3k words.

alternately read on the Ao3

"It's from the war to come," Arkadian says, grinning wolfishly. "Or so my source says. You know how tricky provenance can be. But it's got a certain...something. Don't you agree?"

The Council is dispersing. Braxiatel tries very hard to ignore the reporter who's been hounding him (and everyone else) since the referendum had passed. Mostly just him and the other aides and assistants and advisors, though. He wills himself to vanish into the crowd. Eyes averted, a swift gait. No joy. He grits his teeth as Atrade scampers to catch up with him.

"Braxiatel. I heard a rumor."

"Yes?" He draws the syllable out, like he could put all the needed nonchalance into it. He fails.

"About your career change. Tell me-"

"Still a tutor and an advisor to Vansell, Atrade."

"-All the details. Open up, you can trust me. I'm one of your closest friends and colleagues. I am a trustworthy individual." Atrade slings an arm around Braxiatel's shoulders.

Brax shrugs him off. "Patently untrue. You're a snake in the grass. You've told me so yourself."

"Right. So. Yes, I understand your qualms about consorting with the enemy, the enemy in your case being any sort of investigative body, especially one which examines the various timelines for criminal manipulation. I feel your anxiety on this matter. But. Braxiatel."

"There's nothing to discuss."

"They're calling you the Deadagogue. I made that up, they're not really calling you that. But the CIA grunts, believe me, the halls of Old Tranley are buzzing with the news. An assassin being called, for one."

"Atrade-"

"Which hasn't happened for decades. And for two, that it's an assistant lecturer. Brother of famed muckraker. As the hidden hand of Rassilon. You are aware the job involves killing people, yes?"

"I have no idea what you're talking about." Brax stares straight ahead.

There is an opening: an express elevator down to the street, a path through the throng. He takes it.

(His brother is not the only one in their family who knows how to run away from their problems.)

The pouch comes skidding under his office door half past seven the next morning. The messenger's gone by the time he thinks to check, and the surveillance files will be deleted when he checks those. It's an object divorced from cause and effect. Lying there on the carpeted floor of his office, innocent as anything.

Department of Internal Security. Eyes only, read and burn, a blue square to put his thumbprint on. Inside is, predictably enough, a staser with the serial numbers filed off and the track/lock mechanism not there at all, and a disposable file card. A thumbprint to open that too, and here he is, squinting down at a tiny screen scrolling information on his first job. What's the Earth expression? A hit.

A date, time and place, a series of precautions and general instructions, and he knows what's about to happen before he even gets to the name. Which, there it is. The full dossier like he doesn't know, like his brother is a stranger. Twelve pages of details, known associates, statistically likely actions, past attempts at flight. Access codes for the Oubliette.

The Council is dispersing. He assumes Atrade will be there, and picks his pace up accordingly.

"So I was right," Atrade says, breathing hard as he struggles to keep up.

"Unlikely."

"I have proof that you've been working with the CIA, in a - a less than above-board fashion. And who you've been tasked with...following."

Braxiatel stops short, stuck calmly in one spot as Atrade tumbles forward.

"You have nothing," he says quietly.

"I have - I have more than nothing. I've enough."

"You have nothing. And even if you did - so what? Do you really think you could do anything? Change anything for the better? What happens is what happens, Atrade."

Still regulating his breath, re-adjusting his robes. Composing himself. "Forget the - the everything else. Just. Baseline, in terms of morals, in terms of family. Regardless of whatever is actually happening, something is happening with You Know Who. And surely, there's something you can change there for the better."

"I'm not my brother's keeper," Braxiatel says.

"Talk to him."

"There's no talking to him. He's unreachable. He does what he does."

"Talk to him. Or, the next thing is-" Atrade looks to the ceiling and then to the floor and then delicately massages the bridge of his nose, eyes closed. "You know what happens."

"Exile. Do I look like I care?"

"Not - not exile." He pauses, holds his hands up like he's conducting an orchestra. "Braxiatel. They don't want him exiled. I know this, you know this. They want you to take care of him. Is this making sense yet."

"They want me to talk to him." He knows, he knows. He knows what he's been asked to do.

"They want you to take care of the problem. I'm saying, talk to him first. For your sake."

“I’ll see what I can do,” Brax says. He smiles politely, and makes his exit.

Brax had long ago realized he was looking for something without knowing precisely what it was. The act of acquisition in and of itself seemed necessary, the gathering of things, a series of transactions. He was looking for something and at a certain point had bid on a lot, a random thing, had put up his hand without paying attention. The casual escalation of price, the opposing bidder warring with red face and urgent mobile-phone communications, Brax feeling a sort of perverse determination to win simply so the other man would lose.

He'd smiled the affable no-hard-feelings smile at the final gavel, the gentleman's battlefield smile, and went to collect his ticket. The other man vibrating with frustration as Brax swept past him to the auctioneer, the seller unconcerned with the small dramas of loss and desire, handing him the key to a storage locker and a thick black binder of documentation. Which, opening it, Brax discovered he'd just bought a collection of antique weapons. Sometimes he thought it didn't matter what he was looking for. It's the search, maybe.

And in the locker, located deep in a self-store warehouse, the emerging cloud of must and old gunpowder, gun oil, wood and steel and pearl inlay, a history of fetishized violence, someone else's nostalgia, another search for meaning in manufactured objects. The safety release, the spark and shot. The boyhood fantasy acted out with capguns in treehouses or back alleys, the peculiar human fascination, war games, cops and robbers, grown up into a man's dissatisfaction and impotence. A locker filled with weapons that hadn't been used for centuries. He'd lifted each one from its custom-built display, continually suprised by the weight, how his wrists and forearms were unequal to the task of aiming. Look down the sight, feel the spring-resistance of the trigger. Imagine the brutality of propelled metal ripping through flesh and bone.

The other man so desperate, so invested, that he refused to meet Brax's eyes. Spooling out his life's savings for this. A foreign compulsion, an alien culture's shared dream of power. Imagine arterial spray, imagine the recoil insistent against your shoulder. The lovingly cared-for Winchester '73.

Gallifreyan weapons, he's discovered, are plastic and fully automated. No moving parts. The staser feels like nothing in his hands. The staser feels like a toy. Wide-spray burns and precise holes. He practices in the Chancellery Guard firing range, after hours. He shoots at holograms. The electric pop and whine, the light beam. He figures he should at least know enough to be able to miss.

Arkadian is smiling broadly, falsely.

Brax grimaces back distastefully. "Let's make this swift, shall we?"

"Why rush? Some things deserve a bit of pomp and circumstance." Arkadian leans back and props his feet on the edge of the desk.

Today is not a day in which Braxiatel will kill someone. It is not. "Some things. Not whatever tat you're trying to pawn off on me. Do you know how many people try to sell me war memorabilia? And do you know how much of it is worth the blood on their hands? I'll give you a hint: you're looking for a number smaller than one."

"Sadly, there will always be those who attempt to profit from the suffering of others. I understand your trepidation."

"Do you?" Braxiatel asks. "Time may have passed, and we are neither of us the men we were, but you must know I cannot trust you. I'm not a very trusting man as a general rule, but you, well."

"I'm a con man and a thief. There's no need to mince words, not now. But you're a collector, and I, for all my many faults, am in possession of one of the finest, rarest artifacts this universe has to offer." Arkadian reaches into his ticket pocket and produced a small red bundle. "I'll let it do the talking," he says, and hands it to Braxiatel.

"Let me guess, you found it in your dear departed grandfather's attic," Braxiatel murmurs. He gingerly pulls the fabric apart, spreads the handkerchief flat on the desk. In the middle is - a medallion? A monocle? A black disc, mirrored, maybe two inches in diameter, ringed in silver. He feels the most curious sensation, as if the thing is inviting him in, asking him to keep it. He feels suddenly, obscurely, possessive.

"It's from the war to come," Arkadian says, grinning wolfishly. "Or so my source says. You know how tricky provenance can be. But it's got a certain...something. Don't you agree?"

His brother is defiantly old. His brother is frail and slow-moving, clinging onto his body like he's afraid he's wasted it. His brother, teetering on the edge of regeneration, has decided that now is the right time to run away.

The staser is in his pocket. The disc is in his other pocket. This is a fixed point. This has always happened, he thinks. The disc pulses in response.

His brother is playing at senility to make it past the guards. His brother's granddaughter is trailing close behind, smiling winningly, making excuses, carrying a pocketbook that probably holds all their worldly belongings. Wanderlust skipped a generation: her mother is still at work, sitting behind the same desk she's always had, processing the same paperwork. Her mother has committed a sin her grandfather cannot forgive, has failed him in some obscure way.

Susan, leaving everything behind, and she doesn't know that the man she's following must necessarily leave her. You can't take home with you when you go. Susan picking up the hem of her robes. Susan laughing like this is the most wonderful adventure. He's got a staser in his pocket and he's wondering what would happen if he actually went through with this. He won't, of course; he can't. This is his brother and grandniece, this is blood kin, Lungbarrow sitting silent and ancient in their hearts.

His brother playing the doddering fool. Still, the guards will catch on soon enough. Brax steps in.

"Oh, it's you," his brother says. "I don't have time for you right now. Perhaps later."

He takes a deep breath. "If you don't let me help you, you'll be dead within the span."

"Dead? Me? No no no. You must be mistaken. I'm perfectly healthy."

"Listen. For once. Listen. You know they won't let you out of here alive. Take a TARDIS from the bay and they'll recall you before you make the vortex. You've been planning this for centuries and you still haven't thought this through. Listen to me. There's an assassin-" He stops, thinks, plows on. "There's an assassin coming. You'll be wiped from history. She'll be wiped from history. If you don't pay attention and for once do what I say."

There's a bright, hard intelligence buried somewhere beneath the pretense. His brother hooks his thumbs around his braces and leans back. "If you have a suggestion. Potentially I'd follow it. Not that I am, of course, in the habit of committing crimes. I'm simply going for a walk."

"Transmat to the museum. The ships are unregistered and no one watches the security video. Take a TARDIS and leave. I'll hold them off for as long as I can. And."

"Yes?"

"Don't come back."

His brother smiles. "A trip to the museum sounds lovely. Susan? Would you enjoy a little educational diversion?"

Susan grinning and bouncing on the heels of her feet, like what fun this all is. "That would be wonderful, Grandfather. I do so love the dioramas."

"And the interactive displays, musn't forget those. Til we meet again, Braxiatel." He doffs his cap then dashes off, going faster than any decrepit old man has the right to go, Susan in tow.

"Which will be never," Brax calls out, but he's already disappeared down a corridor.

There's a matter to attend to. A death has been contracted, and there's a balance to these things: if his brother lives, then someone else can't.

His brother is a rapidly fading memory. His brother is in a tin can with faltering circuits, plunging into the unknown. His idiot brother, and there's a tiny part of him that's envious.

There is a woman in the foyer of the Collection. A beautiful woman, and a strange one, and a quietly powerful one. Brax slips a hand into his pocket and strokes the edge of the disc. It's warmer than usual, or maybe that's just his imagination.

She says her name is Sophia (no surname), which is most likely a lie, but that's fine with him; he wasn't born Irving, after all. She says Sophia, charmed to meet you and holds out her hand, not sideways for a shake or palm up as a gesture of openness but palm down, fingers bent, to be taken gently and kissed. He obliges, as there are few things in life he enjoys more than being a gentleman in the classical sense. Mr. Braxiatel of the pocket squares and doffed hat.

Sophia sells paintings. The provenance is iffy but the quality is undeniable, and he isn't above acquiring stolen goods.

"I've sent you our full catalogue," she says as they meander deeper into the halls of the Collection, their hands almost but not quite touching. "Though you strike me as the sort of man who knows what he wants."

He watches her out of the corner of his eye. "A reasonable assessment," he says.

He kisses her in the greenhouse and then fucks her in the Antiquities Wing. History, history. The disc burns red-hot through the silk lining of his coat as he slips it off.

She moans a name out, but it isn't his. In the morning, they strike a reasonable deal. He saves her contact information and blows a kiss as she leaves.

(The painting arrives swiftly and discreetly, wrapped in brown paper. Two men and a robot unload it off the clipper. He has them leave it by the stairs - he can take care of the installation, thank you.

And they leave, and it's silent again, and he slowly tears the paper off. Yves Klein, IKB 191. The bluest blue. He spends the rest of the day staring at it, an armchair pulled up and a clock, somewhere, ticking.)

Time passes, history happens. Braxiatel falls through the world and the disc falls with him. He stands up and dusts himself off. He can feel the disc, can sense it - not pulsing, now, but tugging. Back to where he came from.

From the war, Arkadian had said. The war to come.

"So let it," Brax says to a startled-looking bird. "It's not my concern anymore."

He lives here, he lives here. He garrotes himself with piano wire and watches himself die and neatly disposes of the remains. He lives here, now. The Collection is almost exactly as he left it. IKB 191 hangs high in the foyer, looming down at him.

There's a woman in his bed and she is beautiful. She says her name is Sofya, and if that's a lie he cannot judge her for it. Nor can he judge her for not being someone else, though part of him would like to - would hold her up to an ideal.

One of his hearts with Sophia and the other with...well. Everyone makes compromises, don't they, Madame President?

He won't judge Sofya for those things but he will judge her for the lie that arrived, vacuum-sealed, off the clipper three mornings ago. He will judge her for thinking so little of him to assume he wouldn't notice.

"It's a fake," he says quietly, the words pressed into the skin of her neck. "You've never tried to sell me a fake before."

"It's not a digital copy, if that's what you mean."

"It's not a Bruegel. That's what I mean." He'd meant to remain calm, stay detached and almost amused, but he finds himself becoming angry, like this was a trust that has been betrayed, like there'd been an intrusion into not just the Collection's system but himself. A 'how dare you' wavering gauche and banal at the back of his mind.

"Does it move you less now that you know it's a forgery?" Sofya rolls over and props herself up on her elbows, hands tucked beneath her chin. She has a look on her face like this has been a test and he's just failed. "Does its power and beauty diminish? The market value does, of course. Nobody wants an anonymous painting. But the painting itself."

"This is a museum, not a charity shop. I'm not in the business of exhibiting paint-by-numbers."

"The painting itself should exist outside all your machines and experts and auctions."

"It doesn't. I don't." He stares up at the ceiling, trying to think of something to say that wouldn't sound terribly bourgeois.

"So lie," she says. "It took you long enough to figure it out. No one else will care, they'll believe you."

"I can't lie to myself."

She rolls her eyes. "Yes, you can. You're excellent at it. And besides, even if you can't, or won't, does it matter? Does a person's name mean that much? Are you collecting art or brands, is I suppose the question."

His suit jacket hung up neatly by the closet. The disc in the suit pocket. The war on the other side. He can hear it, nearly. Can feel it tugging at the space between his hearts.

"I collect moments," he says, turning back towards her. "Of which this is certainly one." He's not the only brother who knows how to run away.

She smiles, teeth bright white in the dim lighting, and she kisses him. Above them, in the forgery hung high on the wall, the laborer toils unaware as Icarus falls into the sea.

[panbloglodytes]

The moon is an egg. This is why that matters.

I’ve wanted to write about the Doctor Who episode where the MOON is an EGG for some time now, really more or less since it aired. When I first saw it I thought it had something quite important to say — about Doctor Who itself, but also about our culture and society — and it’s something that’s become more important in the months and years that have followed. I haven’t actually watched the episode since it aired, so I imagine I’ll make loads of mistakes about the plot and characters and structure of the thing. Hopefully that won’t matter, but if it does you can feel better by shouting at me online.

I remember the basics of the episode, at least. In Kill the Moon, the Doctor, his companion and a little girl travel to the moon in 2049. There, they discover that unusual tidal activity caused by the moon has become a threat to humanity, and a group of astronauts has come to destroy the satellite with nuclear bombs. However, it turns out that changes to the moon’s behaviour have come about because — improbably — it’s really an enormous alien egg which is in the process of hatching. At the end of the episode the moon shatters apart as a giant, dragon-like alien emerges from it, an alien who — the Doctor says — will fascinate humanity so much that they feel they’ll have to go out and explore the universe again.

Below the surface, however, I thought Kill the Moon was about something else entirely. After the episode had first aired, I heard that people on the Doctor Who discussion forums had wondered if the moon from the 1967 serial The Moonbase was an egg too, and asked why no-one had ever thought to mention this at the time. This, I thought, is almost exactly the wrong question to ask about Kill the Moon, because the whole point of the thing is that the moon of 2014 is not the same as the moon of 1967. In the sixties, the idea that human civilisation would one day expand out to space was more or less taken as read: bases on the moon and inhabited wheels in space were things that could quite conceivably exist in the real future as well as the one the Doctor poked around in on-screen. Against this backdrop, the race to put a man on the moon is symbolic of a wider assumed future — and one which adults and children could both conceivably believe in.

Subtextually, I think Kill the Moon is about what happens when this future no longer seems real. In it, the weapons of the sixties — the Earth’s last ever nuclear bombs — are intended to destroy the imagined future of the sixties, here represented by the moon itself. Significantly, the episode portrays the moon as being a bit rubbish; grey, breaking apart, literally covered in cobwebs, coded as something from our past instead of our future. It’s there as the spent remains of what the future was going to be rather than what any of us now think the future really is, and there to remind us that the symbols of that future are not ones that hold real power or appeal for our society anymore.

This, the episode has realised, presents something of a problem for Doctor Who. As a cultural artefact that is itself from the sixties, the future as a place where human expansion and exploration beyond Earth is something that actually happens is more or less hard-coded into the show’s DNA. However, Who has now been around for long enough that the future depicted in its earlier years is either already close to becoming the past — the 1967 serial TheEnemy of the World, for example, is set in the distant era of 2018 — or is manifestly not going to become a reality in the years to come. Half the men who walked on the moon are now dead; it’s 45 years since a human set foot on the place. The expansion that seemed inevitable in the sixties has dissipated away, and the symbology of the future has stayed the same more or less through sheer inertia.

Kill the Moon, then, alludes to the simple fact that this state of affairs cannot continue. Post the 2008 financial crisis, it seems like the future is a place where we all work longer hours for less money in increasingly precarious ways, which isn’t really a recipe for an exciting series of adventures in space and time. This view of the future hasn’t changed since Kill the Moon aired in 2014. Indeed, if anything the future it portrays now seems over-optimistic: it seems rather less likely in 2017 that our future will contain global nuclear disarmament and a black, female president of the USA. Given this, what can a show whose stock in trade is showing us our future actually do? How can it find a way to be optimistic about what lies ahead, at a time where this seems to be ignoring the facts of reality?

Well, it can do it by changing the facts of reality. Apparently, a lot of people criticised Kill the Moon after it aired because most of the things that happen in it are very unscientific. That’s true, but I’m not sure it matters — it’s a text about the way we conceive of the things that exist in the world, rather than one about what those things might or might not actually be. The episode says, in effect, that the future can only be reconceptualised — and by extension, can only be saved — if our perception of the universe changes in a radical way. It’s not enough to continue on with the same tropes around what the future is or what it means. Rather, we need to be able to inhabit a world radically different from the present in basic ways — such as coming to think of the moon as an egg, and the future as a place inhabited by fantastical dragons.

It all falls down, of course, when you ask what this radical new way of viewing things actually is. Here in the UK, I remember in 2015’s Labour leadership contest Yvette Cooper ran on a platform of saying young people needed to be engaged in politics in ways that were quite different to the ones stuffy old people were doing at the time. This is probably true, but an old woman at one of the party’s hustings punctured things by asking what these new ways of engagement might look like, exactly. I think the simple answer is that most of us don’t know, and in the end, I don’t think Kill the Moon does, either — it asks the question “what, exactly, should the underlying narrative be for an optimistic view of the 21st century?”, then tries to convince us that the answer is “taking inspiration from a CGI dragon.” That’s not to say it isn’t saying worthwhile things — contrary to some, I think it’s fine and valid to articulate a problem you yourself have no solution to — but to say that it defines a new space for science fiction to be in rather than doing much within that space itself.

In 2017, however, I think we might be closer to articulating an answer. Just as it was impossible that a dragon could hatch from an egg, it was impossible for Donald Trump to become the president of the United States. Now that the second of these impossibilities is our reality, it’s worth thinking about how this was able to happen, and how some of the forces that enabled it could be used to bring about rather more positive changes. In the days after Trump’s inauguration, I found myself thinking about how those of us who were against him had reacted to his proposals to build “The Wall” — an unbroken barrier stretching over 2000 miles intended to close the border between Mexico and the USA. The Wall, we said, was a patently ridiculous idea, and in many ways it still is. But while I think we were correct to criticise the attitudes that would lead to The Wall being seen as desirable, I now think we were wrong to criticise the ambition. Just as we now don’t send people to the moon or expect ourselves to ever travel to outer space, we’ve come to believe that a public infrastructure project on The Wall’s scale just isn’t something people do anymore. Yet this science fiction is becoming reality: The Wall will be built, and the impossibilities that need to be put into place will become possibilities.

I think this sort of place is perhaps where hope of a kind can be gleaned. The dying future criticised in Kill the Moon is now surely dead; our immediate future is one of a fractured humanity on a single planet, not a united species headed towards the stars. In many ways, to me it’s the stuff of nightmares — the only comfort I can think of is that nightmares are built of the same material of dreams, and that in the sheer scale of what lies ahead we may allow ourselves to think in truly radical ways again. If we can actually achieve tasks like the construction of thousand-mile barriers and the negotiation of leaving the European Union, it surely follows that we can achieve things that match their ambition while rejecting their intent. And I think telling stories about that is crucial, too, because we need to set out visions of what our future can look like that draw from the stories and experiences of our lived present, and not from the desiccated husks of an aesthetic over half a century old. Real originality in fiction is needed to forge a reality that’s better than this one — I think that was the message of Kill the Moon, when boiled down to its basic form. Act and create, it says, and do it now– because we live in a world where the moon can be an egg, and we live in a world where the future can be saved.

[tjswritingstuff]

Why I Self-Publish

When I was about twelve, I figured out I wanted to write a book someday. I had been writing for a few years at that point, mostly little stuff, but that was the year that I bought a journal at a book fair and tried my hand at actually writing a book. It was short, it was dumb, it had all the characters based on my classmates (and worse I let them read it!) But it was also the first time I considered the possibility that I really wanted to be a writer.

I was excited to put something that I had written in someone’s hands and let them read it.

My school was tiny, K-12 was only 300 something kids. There weren’t a lot of opportunities then, but I had a poem published in the 8th grade. I took journalism class in 9th grade. I carried a notebook around with me everywhere I went, and people noticed. I was told a lot in school that I was a good writer. My high school English teacher often told me I had a poetic soul when she was grading our class journals. We all knew that someday I was going to be a writer.

It wasn’t until I graduated high school that I started learning more about writing. I subscribed to writing magazines when I was 18, the first time I saw the word’s Vanity press was in a letter to the editor in one of those magazines. Someone had gotten their book published through a vanity press and had over 500 copies mildewing in their garage. The opinion was clear, it was the publisher’s fault, because they didn’t do anything to help the writer sell the books. It was a sentiment that was popular at the time. The magazine’s editorial columns talked about self-publishing like it was a dirty, cheaters version of being published. Vanity Presses were all scams. Self-Publishing was nothing more than admitting you weren’t good enough to be taken seriously as a writer. It was one of my first introductions to the possibility of an alternative route to being published and it took a long time for me to get that prejudice out of my head.

I have tried my hand at getting traditionally published exactly once.

Years ago, I wrote a book called Product Code. The story was science fiction, set in a world where celebrities were cloned, and the clones were sold to people who could use them for whatever they wanted. The catch was the clones were not treated as “people” they couldn’t have jobs, they couldn’t be out in public with a “collar” to mark them as clones, they had multiple trackers and serial number capsules injected beneath their skin. Of course, they were sterilized upon creation to prevent anyone from claiming parental rights against the celebrities they were copied from, and when the purchaser was done with them for whatever reason they were sent back to the company to either be recycled, or decommissioned (incinerated alive.)

The book followed the point of view of a woman who was trying to take the company down. “She” had been married to the owner of the company, when her daughter was born, she was informed that legally she had died the year before in a car accident. The hospital was very apologetic of course and got their records corrected, but she figured out what happened. She’d died, he copied her and tried to act like nothing ever happened. No one outside of her and her “husband” knew what she was, but she took it as her personal mission to stop him from creating any more clones.

It also followed the point of view of one of the clones whose purchaser had decided rather than live with him or turn him in to be destroyed she’d let him go. But, where could someone who legally couldn’t exist survive? the story arch followed him through dirty streets, dangerous communities, and an underground prostitution ring disguised as a night club. While I loved it when I wrote it, that part always made me feel sick rereading it, so I ended up cutting almost the entire character from the book before I submitted it to a publisher.   Product Code was the first book that I was proud of finishing. Not the first one that I finished, but it was different. It was something that I worked on for years, and I decided that it was going to be the first book that I got traditionally published. I found a grand total of 1 publisher that accepted unsolicited manuscripts for my genre, and I submitted it. I still have the rejection letter. I haven’t found another publisher or agent that seems to fit the kind of book I wrote. That story remains unpublished. It’s not that I think the book is bad, I just think it’s not the right time for it.

The first time I considered self-publishing was in a rush of inspiration. My significant other had met someone that was self-publishing erotica through amazon and was making decent money at it. He suggested I attempt to do the same. I am not comfortable sticking my real name on erotica, but I had a story. It was less than 30,000 words, but it was finished. I thought that even if it didn’t do anything, I could use it to test the waters, to see what self-publishing was like.

A week later I was holding a poorly formatted book in my hand. A week after that I was holding a corrected book in hand and had sold a few copies to friends and family members who wanted to support me.  I sold 15 copies the first two months.  I realized that was all I really wanted. I didn’t need a big publisher’s name on my copyright page. All I really wanted was for someone, for anyone, to read my books. Self-publishing for me turned out to be the right path. It lets me put out as much or little content as I’d like as fast or as slowly as I’d like.

I still have hopes that someday I might write something that I feel will do better through a traditional publisher. I hope that someday I write something that would appeal to a wider audience, but for now, I’m enjoying my small successes. I enjoy knowing that people have read my books, enjoyed them, and recommended them to others. Even if it’s within a small number of people that already know me and care about me.

In the end, I write for me, not success, not best seller lists, or to make enough to live off, I write because I like telling stories, I write because I like to explore my imagination. Self-publishing has been the fastest, and most cost-effective way for me to do that.