#oliver stark has such a wide acting range

[llove-me-anyway]

Buck being held at gunpoint *mildly inconvenienced*

Buck being caught by Eddie on his “first date with a dude” *life and death flashing before his eyes*

[tothemeadow]

Commissioned by @hinokami-s

Kamado Tanjiro x OC

- The tension between Tanjiro and Hayami has always been too thick. However, at a rather eventful party, Tanjiro finds himself to have more luck than he thought. -

warnings: spicy, mentions of underage drinking

words: 4.9k

-

“Oi, oi, oi! Wake up Tanjiro!”

Smack!

“Ah!” Tanjiro yelps, shooting straight up in his chair. Glancing around frantically, he blinks owlishly at his surroundings, at the countless shelves of beaten-down books. An array of textbooks is sitting on the table before him, lone notebooks by their sides. Tanjiro groans as he peels the sheet of homework sticking to his face. Dammit, looks like he fell asleep while doing homework.

“Jeez, and I thought I was having problems with my math classes,” his “savior,” Sumiyuri Hayami, teases. She gives a twinkle of a laugh, her pretty eyes gleaming with mirth. “What gives, Tanjiro?” she continues, her voice turning serious but the smile never leaving her face. “You’re usually not one to fall asleep in school like this.”

“Tell me about it,” Tanjiro groans, rubbing the tiredness away from his eyes with his fists. “What time is it?”

With a hum, Hayami rolls up the sleeve of her sweater and checks the watch on her wrist. “Just after four o’clock. What, you think I wouldn’t you hiding away, taking a power nap?”

An ashamed warmth blooms in Tanjiro’s chest – he knows Hayami is only teasing, but he can’t shake away the familiar feeling of guilt. It’s such a heavy weight in his gut, tight like a knot and unwilling to come undone. He remembers her words from earlier, along with the messages in their text conversation.

Tanjiro, let’s hang out after school!!! Can we go shopping? I promise to buy anything you want!

It’s not that he didn’t forget to do meet up with Hayami or anything. No, he simply wanted to get a head start on his assignments, nestled away by the back window in the library. Things like this just happen.

“Don’t think too hard,” Hayami says, jabbing Tanjiro’s forehead with a manicured finger. “I can practically see the gears turning in your head. Keep that up and smoke’s going to start coming out of your ears.”

“I’m not Inosuke,” Tanjiro grumbles. Nevertheless, he shoves his school supplies into his backpack and draws himself to a stand, throwing his arms above his heads and stretching out his back. “I’m really sorry about falling asleep – honest!” he babbles as he slings his backpack on.

Hayami flashes Tanjiro a soft smile. She’s always looked pretty while smiling, petal lips encasing a neat row of pearly teeth. It’s at times like this where Tanjiro’s reminded that Hayami is regarded as one of the academy’s Three Beauties. He hesitates for just a moment, nearly struck into some fan-crazed silence as he ogles that gorgeous smile.

Reaching out a pale hand, Hayami clasps onto Tanjiro’s before turning around and guiding him towards the library exit. While it’s not the first time the two friends have held hands, it always amazes Tanjiro how graceful Hayami’s hands are, how lithe and delicate. Compared to the thick callouses on his from working in the family bakery for so long, he enjoys the stark difference in how soft her hands feel.

“W-wait!” Tanjiro exclaims. What is with him today, seriously? He’s hardly one to ever babble on like this! “Don’t you have archery practice today?”

“You worry too much!” Hayami throws over her shoulder. She doesn’t let Tanjiro go, opting to pick up speed until the two are running past the school’s gates, taking off into the surrounding neighborhood and to who knows where.

A multitude of colors swirls around Tanjiro’s head as he rushes past houses and maple and gingko trees alike. Hayami’s long ponytail swishes behind her with each pounding step, her messenger bag bouncing along with the movements. Now, Tanjiro’s long grown used to the pure energy that seems to seep from Hayami’s very pores, but he can’t but smile in return whenever she flashes him bubbly grins. If only they could stop so he could stand there and admire her smile for as long as he wants. He knows it’s a foolish wish, something incredibly silly, but he commits it to memory nevertheless.

Before long, the residential neighborhood melts into a street lined with markets and stores; cars slowly make their way down the street, most likely heading home from a long day of work. It’s only then that Hayami slows down, leaving herself and Tanjiro panting for a much-needed breath. Still, the two smile stupidly at each other, too overcome with the sheer blinding joy of being in each other’s company.

Again, it’s silly.

“I want to go clothes shopping,” Hayami suggests, smoothing down the front of her sweater. “I’m feeling… saucy.”

Tanjiro blinks at her, his eyebrows furrowing together. “Saucy…?”

“You know, Tanjiro, sometimes you’ve just got to feelyourself.”

“I’m afraid I don’t follow.”

Hayami waves a dismissive hand. “Don’t worry about it. But,” she puts an index finger up, “I will be picking out a brand new outfit for you! Come on, Tanjiro, don’t you think you need to be spoiled?”

Before he can even give a proper response, Hayami starts dragging him down the street. Tanjiro flushes at her choice of words. What did she mean by spoiled? It’s not going to be something bad, is it? No, Tanjiro shouldn’t think like that. He isn’t some pervert like Zenitsu (as much as he loves the guy, Zenitsu is pretty greasy), but there’s just something about the way those words rolled off so easily from Hayami’s tongue that it makes Tanjiro hope for something more.

Still, he lets her do as she pleases, mindlessly letting himself be pulled along by storefronts and throngs of other passersby. For a split second, he wonders just how he and Hayami look in the eyes of the strangers. Do they look like… a couple? Tanjiro swallows heavily at the thought.

Yeah, he wishes.

Hayami makes a sudden turn, then, heading towards a chic little boutique. The outside is completely white and framed by all white trimming, but splotches of green and pinky hues disrupt the monotonous tones. Tanjiro admires the hanging pots outside, the pretty buds and vines hanging low over the wicker. Tanjiro’s throat goes dry once he sees the inside of the store; the wooden floor practically gleams under the bright lights, delicate vines and fairy lights dangle from the walls, and racks upon racks of clothing freckle the shop’s floor. He can feel the expensiveness of the atmosphere seep into his skin. Whatever kinds of clothes they sell here, it probably costs more than what Tanjiro’s family makes in a month.

“Uh,” he starts, nervously scratching at his cheek, “Hayami��� When you said you wanted to buy me an outfit, you didn’t mean stuff like this, right?”

Lightly smacking his hand away, Hayami pinches Tanjiro’s cheek instead. “I said I was going to spoil you, didn’t I? Let me do it this once.”

“But-“

“Please?” Hayami coos, pressing her full lips into a pout and flashing Tanjiro a pair of puppy eyes. He can’t deny that the expression makes his stomach do flips.

Tanjiro sighs. “Okay…”

With an excited clap of her hands and a delightful giggle, Hayami takes off into the store, weaving between the racks and searching for anything that catches her eye. Meanwhile, Tanjiro picks a rack close to him and mindlessly thumbs the delicate fabrics, wincing whenever he spots a price tag. And, just like he thought, they are all way out of his allowance range.

“Tanjiro, come over here!” Hayami calls out a couple minutes later. Tanjiro crosses to where she stands, taking extra care as to not bump into anything and potentially ruin its value. A silky shirt is perched between her slender fingers, olive tone in color. It’s nice, that much is for sure. Turning on her heel, Hayami holds the shirt up before Tanjiro, mentally determining whether or not it’d be a suitable fit. “Try this on,” she proclaims, shoving the shirt into Tanjiro’s arms.

The silk practically feels like nothing in Tanjiro’s hold. “This looks pretty fancy,” Tanjiro says, unease threading his words. “Are you sure I could pull this off?”

“Of course you can!” Hayami chirps, pushing Tanjiro in the direction of the curtained changing rooms. “Trust me, Tanjiro. I knowwhat’s going to look great on you. Ooo, I’ll have to find bottoms to match!” Hurriedly, she takes off, heading over to a shelf of jeans.

With another sigh, Tanjiro walks to the changing rooms; pulling the curtain shut behind him, he makes quick work of undoing his tie and shirt. Carefully, ever so carefully, he pulls the silky shirt on and buttons it closed. Although he shouldn’t be surprised, but Hayami was right. She did know what would look great on him. The olive color compliments his honeyed skin perfectly, and the shape it provides showcases the muscle he’s gained throughout his teen years. He just doesn’t look good, he looks stunning.

“Psst, Tanjiro! Did you put it on?” Hayami’s voice rings from the other side of the curtain.

Humming, Tanjiro turns away from the mirror, pulling the curtain open and revealing himself to Hayami. Hayami claps happily, a wide grin breaking her face. “I knew it would look great! Here, try these on with it,” she says, thrusting a pair of dark jeans towards him. “Go on, put them on! You can thank me later for when you see how awesome you’re going to look.”

Doing as told, Tanjiro sheepishly pulls the curtain to a close and sets the jeans to the side. His blood pounds in his ears at the thought of Hayami being right there while he’s changing, more so since he’s literally taking off his pants. Pushing the thought to the side (after yet another mental scolding to not act like Zenitsu), Tanjiro quickly puts the jeans on and opens the curtain once more.

“Oh my god,” Hayami breathes, clutching her hands to her chest. “Look at you!”

Tanjiro clears his throat and hopes the blush on his face isn’t too noticeable. “Is it that good?”

Hayami nods her head, but then she steps closer. Tanjiro’s breath catches in his throat as Hayami tucks the shirt into his pants, her fingers skimming beneath the waist of the jeans. Tanjiro’s face explodeswith a violent blush, his body turning entirely rigid. “Uh, Hayami…?” he squeaks.

Has she no shame? No embarrassment? But no, once look at her face tells Tanjiro that she is completely serious.

He nearly sighs in relief when her lithe hands leave his pants, but then they’re shooting upwards, up towards the top buttons of the silk shirt. She pops the first few buttons loose, exposing a sliver of honeyed skin. Hayami steps back, then, placing her hands on her hips and humming in approval at her handiwork.

“There,” she says, flashing Tanjiro a smile, “that’s better.”

Actually, Tanjiro shouldn’t be surprised – Hayami is big into fashion overall – but the mere fact that she was that close and that she touched him has his stomach doing somersaults and heart begging to leap from his chest. Still, he forces himself to turn around, to look back at the reflection staring at him. And – much to his pleasant surprise – Tanjiro likes what he sees. The slight changes really pull the outfit together, bring attention to the shape of his shoulders and the taper of his waist. He looks… handsome.

“Told you,” Hayami singsongs, a smug expression adorning her features.

Despite the heavy feeling of embarrassment still settled on his chest, Tanjiro smiles lightly, eyes glancing over the expensive outfit. Maybe it’s the look in his eyes or the expression he wears, but Hayami lays a reassuring hand on Tanjiro’s shoulder and gives it a tight squeeze.

“Remember: spoiling. Come on, Tanjiro, get changed and then we can go out to eat.”

“Wait, I thought you wanted to buy an outfit for yourself…?”

Hayami holds a finger to her lips, a sneaky glint in her eyes. “I never said such a thing.” She winks. “Now, come on, tiger – get your clothes back on so we can ditch this joint. I’m starving.”

It’s only a short time later that the two find themselves in a coffee shop, tucked away against a cream-colored wall. A neat, crisp paper tote sits on the chair next to Tanjiro while Hayami sits on the one directly across from him. Hayami mindlessly sips at her tea, casually scrolling through her phone. Tanjiro, on the other hand, busies himself with one of the numerous magazines scattered around the shop. It’s one of the beauty kind – meant for fashion, skincare, makeup, the regular works. He’s somewhat familiar with it due to the fact that Nezuko reads the exact same thing at home.

His eyes scan over an add meant for a type of facial moisturizer. It seems simple enough, clean and straight to the point, but when his eyes flicker over to the next page, they nearly bulge from his very skull.

There’s a picture of Hayami.

And no, not just any picture, but a closeup of her beautiful face, relaxed and poised in a way that only a model could pull off. Tanjiro’s well aware of the situation at Hayami’s home, how her mother is a cold, power hungry woman that craves nothing more than all of the wealth in the world. Needless to say, it isn’t much of a surprise that she capitalizes on her daughter’s extraordinary looks, forcing her to do photoshoots at whatever cost. The mere thought of it leaves Tanjiro sick to the stomach, knowing that a parent could treat their child in such a vile way for personal gain. Still, Tanjiro never brings it up despite how much it pisses him off.

Hayami’s ad is for another type of facial cream, hence the closeup. The lilac of her eyes glitter although it’s printed on glossy paper, her fair skin smooth and perfect. It’s almost ridiculous how incredibleshe looks, hair loose and framing her features in a way that is too tempting for Tanjiro’s poor heart. Seriously, how whipped can he be? Hayami is literallysitting straight across from him, yet here he is, ogling some photo of her.

He’s such a fool.

Bzzt. Bzzt. Bzzt.

Tanjiro’s attention switches from the magazine to his friend when she sighs. “It’s Mother,” she says briskly, an unpleased glint coming to her eyes. Drawing a breath, she accepts the call and places the speaker next to her ear. “Hello?”

Sipping from his drink, Tanjiro keeps himself quiet as he watches Hayami with a curious gaze. It’s more of a rare occasion than not whenever Hayami’s mother calls her; however, when it does happen, it’s mostly because she wants Hayami to do something.

The conversation between Hayami and her mother turns into a senseless buzz as Tanjiro focuses back on the magazine in his hands. It’s not that he doesn’t care, not in the slightest, but overhearing family arguments that aren’t his own make him… well, uncomfortable. He’s not alone in that stance, not by a long shot.

But then Hayami’s suddenly gripping onto his wrist, forcing his attention back on her; she’s grinning, beautiful face basically splitting itself in half at the sheer force of it. With a simple goodbye, she hangs up and sets her phone on the table. “Yes!” she exclaims, other hand grasping onto Tanjiro’s free wrist. He doesn’t think he’s ever seen Hayami so happyafter ending a phone call with her mother.

“What is it?”

“Long story short, but my parents are going on a business trip for two whole weeks! Can you believe it? I finally get the house all to myself!”

A smile of his own grows on Tanjiro’s face. This istruly an occasion worth celebrating; while the relationship between her and her mother is rocky, Hayami’s father is somewhat kinder. However, since he’s the one that married into the family, his own image – much like his wife’s – is more important than his own child, so he usually takes after the mother’s side and neglects Hayami. It’s an all-around bad situation on all fronts, so it’s no wonder Hayami gets so excited when something like this happens. And, if Tanjiro’s being entirely truthful, he doesn’t blame her one bit.

“You know that this calls for, right?” Hayami continues. “Bear with me here, but I may have been planning a party for some time now. With my parents gone, I can finally do it! Think about it, Tanjiro! There’ll be food and drinks, music, games – the whole shebang! Wouldn’t it be great to kick back and relax for once?”

“I guess…?”

“Oh, come on! You have to come, Tanjiro! It’ll be more fun with you there! Please? I’ll invite all of our friends!”

Tanjiro sighs. He’s not one for parties – or for large crowds – in general. But with the hopeful glint in Hayami’s eyes and the cute pout of her lips, it’s nearly impossible to say no. “Okay. I’ll do it.”

“Yay!” Hayami cheers. Standing up from her chair, she leans across the table and throws her arms around Tanjiro’s shoulders. And if that wasn’t enough, she places a brisk kiss to his cheek, a joyful giggle following suit.

Oh, this poor boy’s aching heart.

Hayami goes off in an excitable tangent about all the things she has to prepare for the upcoming weekend; Tanjiro tries to listen, he really does, but he can’t ignore the pleasant sting in his cheek or the furious beating in his chest.

Good grief.

-

That following Saturday night, Tanjiro finds himself outside the gated residence of the Sumiyuri Estate. While it isn’t the first time Tanjiro’s been to Hayami’s house, the mere size of it always sends a chill down his spine. His own home could easily fit inside numerous times. A steady blast of a muted bass fills his ears, the golden cast of light streaming from the windows lighting up the front yard and the street.

Tanjiro lets himself in, trekking towards the front door; the music steadily grows louder the closer he gets, and his palms start to grow sweaty. Tanjiro’s always considered himself a people person, somehow managing to get along with anyone, but the idea of a party is a bit nerve-wracking.

The front door opens, then, revealing Hayami’s grinning face. Tanjiro offers a wave in greeting, but his hand quickly falls back by his side as he notices the outfit she’s wearing. It’s relatively simple – a burgundy two-piece dress, but the top has a window cut in the front, revealing Hayami’s way-too-giving cleavage. His mouth seals shut as he tears his gaze away, a rush of blood flooding into his face.

“Tanjiro, you finally made it!"

Rubbing the back of his neck, Tanjiro chokes on his response, muttering a nice to see you. He curses his own height; when they were a bit younger, Hayami used to tower over Tanjiro, but after his growth spurt, the tables have changed. Now, if he simply wanted to glimpse at her, he’d have to look down. The only problem is… well… breasts.

“You’re wearing the outfit I picked out!” Hayami gushes, clapping her hands together. “Wait until everyone sees you!”

Before he has the chance to respond, Hayami promptly grabs Tanjiro by the hand and drags him inside the manor. The music is much louder now that he’s inside; he recognizes it as some bass-heavy K-pop song (again, thanks to Nezuko). The two weave around the other party goers, food and red plastic cups in hand. Hayami brings him to where their group of friends sit, all clustered around a wide screen TV and in the midst of a round of Mario Kart. Although he’s glad to see them, Tanjiro’s genuinely surprised that he didn’t hear Inosuke and Zenitsu’s screaming over the music when he first arrived.

“Hey, hey, heyyyy,” Hayami’s cousin, Kagami, drawls. She practically slithers to where Tanjiro and Hayami stand, a mischievous smirk playing on her face. Her gaze snaps down to where the two’s hands are connected, her smirk further curling into a Cheshire grin. “Oh, I see. So, you two finally doing something?” she asks, wiggling her eyebrows suggestively.

Hayami immediately drops Tanjiro’s hand, much to his disappointment. She hurries a no and sends Kagami a stern look.

Kagami shrugs. “I’m just saying. Anyway, you look mightyhandsome, Tanjiro. I never pegged you as the type to show off some skin,” she says, motioning to the sliver of skin poking out from his shirt. “Oh, and won’t you look at his waistline, Hayami? The boy is snatched!”

“You are insufferable,” Hayami hisses at her cousin, but the blush on her face is way too obvious.

“Come on, let’s have some fun!” Kagami exclaims, grabbing onto both Hayami and Tanjiro and yanking them towards the TV.

And, despite not being a party person, Tanjiro finds himself actually having some fun. Granted, it’s just him playing video games with his best friends, but he wouldn’t have it any other way. He was perfectly content with playing Mario Kart for the entirety of the party, but then it was Kagami’s self-proclaimed brilliant idea to switch to Just Dance. Not like that idea isn’t fine and dandy, it’s just that he was forced to take center stage with Hayami and perform a duet dance with her.

And that’s fine.

Perfectly fine.

…Fuck.

Tanjiro blames it on the strong smell of teenage hormones and perspiration. Perhaps this is his true coming of age moment? It’s not an everyday occasion where he gets to dance with someone so pretty, someone who isn’this sister. Game or not, it’s a big deal to him.

As the hours melt away further into the night, people slowly start to trickle out of Hayami’s house, wishing the others a good night before disappearing into the pitch-black night. Only a handful of people remain – mostly friends of Hayami that Tanjiro’s on good terms with, along with Inosuke and Zenitsu. Inosuke’s fast asleep on the couch, head thrown back and snoring loudly. Tanjiro doesn’t blame him for being tired, but he’s also surprised to see the rambunctious guy clocked out like that.

There’s an idle chatter amongst the small group as they pass around the last of the drinks and food left from the party and start the timely task of cleaning the place. Tanjiro is only half listening to what the others are saying, his thoughts straying to what happened earlier that night. His face warms at the memory of dancing close with Hayami, how her sweet perfume filled his lungs in the loveliest way possible. Really, he is such a fool.

“Come on, Hayami!” Kagami whines off to the side. “It’ll be fun! Everyone can let loose, if you know what I’m saying.”

“I’m all down for it!” Zenitsu chirps.

“Down for what?” Tanjiro asks.

“Seven minutes in heaven,” Zenitsu tells him with a suggestive wiggle of his eyebrows.

Tanjiro blinks at him. “…I’m sorry?”

Zenitsu’s eyes nearly bulge out of his head. “Wait, don’t tell me- You don’t know what seven minutes in heaven is?! Oh, Tanjiro, you innocent babe! My eyes can’t handle the righteousness!”

“Zenitsu, calm down,” Hayami says, abruptly appearing by Tanjiro’s side. “You’re being too loud.”

“But Hayami! Tanjiro doesn’t know what seven minutes is!” Zenitsu exclaims.

Hayami rolls her eyes. “And there’s nothing wrong with that.” She turns to Tanjiro. “The whole point of the game is to have two people unknowingly get selected to go into a closest together and have fun. Think of it as a…. make out session, but with an unexpected twist.”

The color in Tanjiro’s face drains. “So they like…” Trailing off, he raises his hands before him and makes them mimic two people kissing. At Hayami’s nod, Tanjiro’s face turns a bright red.

Kagami pops up right next to them (where she came from, Tanjiro has no idea), a large plastic bowl in hand. “Alright, you two! Time to put a possession into the bowl!”

Tanjiro blinks owlishly at her. “A possession…?”

“It’s how you get selected,” Hayami explains. Reaching up, she tugs an earring from her ear and places it into the bowl. “Here, I’ll help you.” She gives Tanjiro the same treatment, taking an earring out from his lobe and also putting it in the bowl. Tanjiro slaps a hand to his ear, a ticklish feeling swirling around inside his chest.

He’d be lying if he said he wasn’t hoping for Hayami’s item. It’s the only thought that sticks in his head while Kagami cackles to herself, going around the group and making everyone pull out an item. His heart skips a beat each time; he tries to focus on something else, he really does, but knowing that literally anyone could pull out his or Hayami’s item is too much to bear.

Especially Ginjuro, Tanjiro thinks bitterly to himself. Ginjuro and Hayami have been friends since middle school, Tanjiro knows that much, but the former has a bit of a tendency of trying to flirt and woo Hayami. They’re friends, nothing more, but the sheer idea of Ginjuro trying to worm his way into Hayami’s heart makes Tanjiro’s blood boil.

“Yo, Tanjiro!” Kagami barks. As Tanjiro breaks himself free from his thoughts, he’s met with Kagami’s hand urgently snapping its fingers in his face. “Your earring got picked,” she says simply, although the smirk on her face is nothing short of wicked.

A wave of panic washes over Tanjiro. He got picked? By who?

Before he has the chance to say anything, Kagami grabs him by the wrist and tugs him away from the rest of the group, heading towards a closet in the main hallway of Hayami’s home. “Have fun you two,” Kagami purrs. “Don’t get too wild, hehe!” Tanjiro yips as she pushes him into the closet and shuts the door behind him, plunging him into complete darkness.

Tanjiro sighs. This girl, he swears…

The sound of someone clearing their throat causes Tanjiro to jump. “Tanjiro…?” Hayami’s voice calls through the darkness – it sounds smaller than usual.

Holy shit, Tanjiro thinks. Hayami picked me?

“Hayami,” Tanjiro stammers. “I… I wasn’t expecting this…”

Hayami lets out a tiny giggle. “Neither was I.” She sounds closer than before.

Swallowing thickly, Tanjiro can easily feel her presence now, smell the tempting scent of her perfume. She’s literally right there, right in front of him, and he’s tensing up like no tomorrow. “I, uh…”

“We just have to play the game, Tanjiro,” Hayami interrupts. She takes a deep breath. “No big deal, right?”

He bites his lip. “I guess… But don’t feel like you have to!” he exclaims. “I don’t want you to get uncomfortable or anything! We can just chill out in here, right? Just until time’s up? We could just sit on the floor and – mmph!”

Tanjiro’s words are cut off by Hayami’s lips. His mind goes blank as she kisses him, her hands holding on tightly to his arms. He sucks in a ragged breath as she pulls away. “You need to shut up sometimes,” she breathes. “I want this, Tanjiro.”

“Hayami,” Tanjiro begins, but then she’s kissing him again. It’s a bit awkward at first, mostly because Tanjiro’s become stiff, but then Hayami soothingly rubs his arms and shoulders, her plush lips easing him into the kiss.

“Tanjiro,” Hayami murmurs, her fingers clenching onto the front of Tanjiro’s shirt, “kiss me.”

Maybe it’s the way her voice sounds angelically breathy, but Tanjiro’s will absolutely snaps in that very moment, all sensible thoughts being tossed out the window. He kisses her, truly kisses her, with as much might as he can summon, with all the pent-up love and desire that his heart has been holding onto for so long.

This is really happening.

“Fuck,” Hayami breathes. Her tongue slips its way into Tanjiro’s mouth, caresses his own tongue, flicks against his teeth. There’s a dull thud as she promptly pushes Tanjiro against the wall, body following suit and worming its way in between his legs.

Tanjiro’s a near panting mess, his entire being on fire. He can’t help but moan at Hayami’s taste, at her scent, at the way her breasts push up against his chest. It turns into a pleasured mewl as her fingers card through his hair, digging into the strands and giving them a yank.

He holds onto her, desperately so, hands on her waist and fingers brushing against the exposed skin her dress shows. He wants to hold moreof her, kiss her with everything he’s got, show her how much she meansto him. But oh, there her mouth goes, slipping from his lips and to his bared throat; her fingers fall from his hair and to his pants instead, wrapping around the belt loops and tugging his hips into hers. He grunts at the mere sensation, at how splendidly warm she feels through the clothing. Then she’s gripping onto his ass while she lavishes his neck, her lip gloss smearing all over the skin.

It’s too much, too intense, too extreme, but Tanjiro lovesit. He can’t help but buck his hips into Hayami, the prominent bulge in his pants grazing against her stomach. He chokes on a moan when one of her hands grips onto him, her teeth sinking into his neck.

“Tanjiro,” Hayami purrs, her voice deliciously creamy, “we should go to my bedroom.”

Tanjiro nods, albeit a bit too hastily. “Y-yeah…”

Stepping away, Hayami promptly yanks the door to the closet open. The house is eerily silent, the idle chatter of friends and low music suddenly gone. That sneaky Kagami, she probably did this, Hayami realizes.

The gulp Tanjiro gives is audible. “Is there… something wrong…?”

Hayami looks at him over her shoulder. “Come on, tiger. There’s a ride I want to catch.”

[wolfpackwriting]

A Fox and a Hound

“Jessamine? How did you and Fiachra meet?”

Jessamine glanced over her shoulder at her sister. They were in Bebe’s ribbon-festooned bedroom, negotiating how many chapters of a book they would read before she actually had to go to sleep. Bebe was already in bed, surrounded by plush toys, and Jessamine had her hand on the spine of the book they’d agreed on.

“We used to work together,” she said, avoiding as much detail as possible. It wasn’t a bedtime sort of story.

“I asked daddy how he met papa, and he said he’d tell me when I was older. But I don’t think he will,” Bebe explained solemnly. She was almost certainly right. If Jessamine knew Rom or Kyu at all, it was an undoubtedly seedy, lurid tale.

“Well, some stories aren’t very nice to tell,” Jessamine said with a noncommittal shrug. “Or boring. Maybe he didn’t want to bore you.” She pulled the book from the shelf and came over to sit on Bebe’s bed. Bebe scooted to sit more upright, resting against a huge toy rabbit, and then leaned forward and patted the comforter by her feet to call Ponyo. The dog eagerly obliged, settingly against the small of Jessamine’s back after turning around a few times. 

“Where did you work, when you met Fiachra?”

Clearly, there was no getting out of this without saying something.

“We both worked for a very bad man.”

“Was he a bully? Or a politishinin? Or a skeleton?”

Jessamine chuckled softly, and reached out to tousle Bebe’s wild mane of orange curls. “I guess you could call him a bully. And a politician, too. He was a tugarin - a creature of the russian wilds. Remember when we talked about the Yakuza? He ran a group like that.”

“And you were in the group?” Bebe asked, her blue eyes huge.

“No, I wasn’t in the group,” Jessamine laughed. “But they’d hired Fiachra and some of his friends to look scary, and then they hired me for a job too.”

“Fiachra’s not scary at all!” Bebe protested, clearly taken aback by the notion. Jessamine smiled. Her sister had only ever known the version of Fiachra who’d come out from the wars in Faerie with a sad smile and flowers braided in his hair. It was hard to picture him as an intimidating figure with his soft, colorful weavings and quiet voice.

“Not really, no. But he is very tall. And he can look scary, even if he doesn’t mean it. Do you want me to read you two chapters before you go to sleep, or should I turn out the lights?”

“Three chapters,” Bebe insisted, crossing her skinny arms and sticking out her lower lip.

“Two chapters, and tomorrow we’ll read another when you get home from school.”

---

---

Jessamine was chosen to spy on Tugarin Zmeyevich for the family because she spoke excellent Russian. All Todds were trained in at least two languages on top of their native English, and Jessamine learned Russian and Japanese while also attending her fencing lessons, etiquette training, acrobatics, and a rather dismal effort at acting classes. The family had pinned high hopes on her as a spy; it was rare for a Todd to be born without the characteristic red hair, and rarer still that one could reasonably expect to pass themselves off as Japanese. She hadn’t turned out to be much of a spy, but she was willing to go through the motions and could blend in more easily than her cousins.

Getting in was easy; any mobster who wants to be taken seriously among the supernatural set needs someone killed now and then, and even as young as she’d been Jessamine had a strong reputation for quick, quiet wetwork. The family set her up with a hotel room in St. Petersburg under a rather thin premise, and she’d waited for someone from Zmeyevich’s organization to reach out to her.

Within a month, she was reporting to a clandestine meeting in the back room of a watch shop downtown, trying to contain her boredom at the proceedings. She didn’t really care who he wanted dead or what they’d done. Jessamine was only interested in getting a picture of his organization, its strengths and size, the names of his lieutenants. He wasn’t a subtle man, raging and blustering about the slight he’d suffered at the hands of some other gang, and she could have gone home after that first meeting with enough information to satisfy the family if only her sudden departure wouldn’t look suspicious.

The smoke-choked room held Jessamine, Zmeyevich, half a dozen of his most trusted associates, and another half dozen strange, tall spooks in neatly pressed black suits. His second in command - a grinning imp called Antony - seemed to be in charge of the extra muscle, although Jessamine doubted they’d been chosen to intimidate her personally. They towered over her, ranging from 6 to 7 feet easily, but none of them were tense and attentive like a bodyguard should be. They might have scared the piss out of a layman, their pale faces and wild hair standing out against their stark uniforms, but she was comfortable that she could take out any of them without difficulty.

She forced herself to pay attention to Zmeyevich, who had moved on to complaining about a cousin of his who had refused to support his organization and how maybe he would pay for that, too. Jessamine remained stoic, answering only when addressed directly and ignoring the less than subtle advances of an alkonost called Polina who kept trying to catch her eye. She didn’t need to invite trouble by entertaining a proposition from one of her target’s close confidants. Instead, she found her eye drawn to the strange lineup of guards looming along the back wall. She’d noticed after one stepped forward to hand something to Antony that none of them were wearing shoes. There were a number of creatures who might not like modern footwear, but she suspected that it was the tell of a fae contingent. That would explain the language, too; they clearly spoke no Russian, and Antony commanded them in a tongue she didn’t recognize.

Finally, Zmeyevich seemed to have run out of steam for his rants and turned to practical matters. Jessamine listened impassively as he laid out the specifics of his intended target, when and how she ought to strike, and what he wanted found after the job was done. She nodded at his instructions, offered a suggestion of one rifle over another, and agreed to his price although she felt privately it was a bit low. This wasn’t really about the job. The job was just a vehicle to learn more about his organization, and to assess what - if any - threat it presented to her own family’s interests. 

Once they agreed, and following a rather complex series of handshakes and other symbolic gestures that ended with Jessamine and Zmeyevich downing a shot of vodka each with their elbows looped through one another, the contract was set. She would receive a payment of half her fee up front, as well as a stipend for her expenses while she was in town, and could collect the remaining payment after the work was done. Glad of any excuse to leave the close, hot room, she bid her newest employer a good night and slipped outside.

When she caught the sound of footsteps behind her on the cold, cobbled street, she expected it to be Polina. The woman had been quite obvious about making eyes at Jessamine during the meeting, and she turned to face the approaching footsteps with an excuse ready to evade her continued flirtation.

Jessamine was surprised to find Antony there, instead, accompanied by two of the tall men in suits. They both wore blank expressions, although the imp between them grinned widely.

“A moment, devushka,” he said silkily, and she paused. Something about him made her skin crawl, but she couldn’t very well walk away from the job now and it wouldn’t help her cover to ignore Zmeyevich’s right hand man.

“Tugarin Zmeyevich knows that you are not much familiar with our little city here,” he said by way of explanation. “And has asked that I provide a pair of guards to keep you safe.”

More likely, he wanted a pair of spies to make sure she didn’t take word of the meeting to a rival, but Jessamine nodded as though this were a perfectly reasonable suggestion despite the obvious slight. If she was a competent enough assassin to be worth hiring, she could hardly be a helpless, fragile foreigner at the same time, but the thin excuse was only a veneer on the goal of setting some sort of tail on her. She smiled thinly at Antony.

“Thank you, then, for your courtesy - and please do convey my thanks to Zmeyevich. Do they speak Russian?” she asked, feigning innocence.

“No,” he admitted readily. “But they’re quite handy as guards, and won’t trouble you at your work. Their kind have rather extraordinary senses, and a knack for spotting danger before it can reach you. If you find these two unsatisfactory in any way, you need only call me and I will see that they’re brought to heel.”

She nodded again, still forcing a smile. “Very well, then. Goodnight, master Antony. Come along, gentlemen,” she turned to head back toward the main street, gesturing to her new guards as though simply assuming they would hop to despite the language barrier.

They followed like two long, dark shadows as she walked back to her hotel. One had a fully shaved head, although the faint stubble against his scalp seemed to imply that the hair that should grow there would come in stark white. He was an easy six feet tall and on the wiry side of average, clearly used to hard work and seeming in constant motion as he cast his head subtly from side to side as though seeking some scent on the breeze. The other, even taller but also much lankier than his counterpart, had a tangle of curly hair that looked dark in the dim illumination of the night but showed an olive green tint under streetlights. This one had a thin, sad face with a fresh cut across the bridge of his nose and through one eyebrow. No one on the sparsely populated streets seemed to notice their bare feet.

When they returned to Jessamine’s hotel, the woman at the front desk beckoned her over and explained hastily that one of her business partners had called a few hours earlier and that her room had been upgraded at his request. Jessamine thanked her as though this was an expected adjustment, and accepted the new key card. She noticed in the tight confines elevator that both of her so-called guards seemed reluctant to come too close to her. The way they crammed their long frames into the far corner of the small space was almost funny.

The new room was, in fact, a suite. She looked around carefully to make sure that everything she’d left in the first room had made the transfer, but had to assume that it had all been gone through and checked for bugs or other secrets. In the same vein, she had to assume that anything in her luggage could have been compromised while she was away, and made a note to get rid of it all. She hadn’t left any weapons or real valuables at the hotel, of course. That would be too risky. 

Her new guards stood awkwardly near the door as she checked over her things. They weren’t bad looking, but they weren’t the sort of company she would have invited. She spared them a glance as she moved her suitcase into the bedroom, clearing the outer room of anything personal.

“Do either of you speak English?” she asked over her shoulder.

“No,” said the one with the shaved head. His companion snorted, and Jessamine had to agree. The lie was blatant and graceless.

“A little,” said the other, running a nervous hand back through his hair, which was clearly the color of pine sap under proper light. “Not well.”

“That’s fine,” Jessamine answered, leaning against the doorframe between the main room and the bedroom. “I’m going to bed. Cross this threshold while I’m sleeping, and Antony is going to have two more bodies to explain away.”

It was clear that they understood enough to take the warning seriously, their eyes widening as they nodded. She wondered if they would stay over by the door all night. Did the fae sleep? Were they fae? That would seem an odd choice for a Russian mobster’s hired muscle. She decided to root out the details before she left, but for now there was nothing to do but sleep a bit. She stayed out of contact with home while she worked to eliminate any chance of that contact being intercepted, and being assigned these ‘guards’ affirmed the wisdom of that choice. 

Jessamine closed the connecting door and left them to their own devices, enjoying the luxury of the more expensive bed and wasting no time worrying that they might not heed her warning.

---

“What are your names?” She asked in the morning, over a room service breakfast.

“I’m Fiachra,” said the taller man with the wild hair, “And this is Lóegaire.” She nodded, noting that they were both very old fashioned names. That either meant that her guards were old, themselves, or that they came from a community separate from the modern world. Given their clear unwillingness to wear shoes and her suspicions about Faerie, she guessed that it would be the second one.

“Alright, then, Fiachra. Lóegaire. We have some errands to run today.”

Jessamine was no great genius when it came to languages, but learning several from a young age did make it easier to pick up patterns. As she went about her tasks for the day, quietly making the arrangements she would need to do the job, she listened to the few words her guards spoke to one another and tried to work out what language it was. They traveled on foot and she let them linger behind her most of the way to maximize their opportunity to talk to one another. It was obvious that they were amatuers when it came to spycraft, and had never learned to manage boredom with grace. They spoke softly as they walked, and Jessamine decided that of the two Lóegaire was the more dominant but Fiachra was the smarter one. She wondered what their relationship was, since they were clearly comfortable acting as a unit yet seemed not to particularly care for one another.

She had decided that they were certainly fae, and shapeshifters of some limited sort. There was a scent about them, something that woke the old, wild places in her own heart and stirred up the hint of an ancestral fear. That didn’t seem like much of a surprise; while she had yet to see evidence of any particular talent as guards, she doubted that they would be assigned the job if they were completely unable to make a show of it. Some classic predator, a wolf or perhaps a bird of prey, would be a good choice for the role. That was fine, as far as she was concerned, although it bothered her that she couldn’t pin them down as wolves. She’d met enough to have the scent of that particular bloodline.

After visiting a Cat to arrange the loan of a rifle, Jessamine stopped for lunch. She wanted to sort out how her guards related to Zmeyevich, and in hopes of luring them into giving something away she invited them to sit at the table with her instead of hovering nearby. She ordered for all three, since the waitress spoke less English than Fiachra, and made a show of having a glass of wine herself. People were more likely to open up to someone with a drink, since they assumed it would make that person careless with their own words.

“So, how did you two come to be working for our dear friend Zmeyevich?” she asked offhandedly, taking a sip of her wine and not looking directly at them. She hoped it made her look unconcerned.”

Fiachra cocked his head to the side. “We don’t work for him,” he said. They were both drinking water. Jessamine frowned.

“No? Antony, then?”

“We are….” Lóegaire paused to question Fiachra in their language. “... Borrowed?” he tried. “Borrowed to Antony.”

That was interesting. If Antony had contacts of his own, and was the one who’d set a guard on her independant of his boss, perhaps Zmeyevich had more to fear from within than without. 

“And where did you come from, before he borrowed you and your friends?” she asked.

“Very far away,” Fiachra answered with a hint of a smile. It seemed someone had instructed him not to give too many details. She wondered whether it was Antony or the person they’d been borrowed from. “Our… Master? Is a friend to Antony.”

Master was quite a word choice. It struck her as the sort of thing they’d have been taught explicitly, rather than a guess, and that brought up an interesting picture of their relationship. Employees or kin didn’t tend to refer to a master, but there were many systems of indenture among supernatural creatures. That narrowed the field on their origins a little.

Jessamine was struck with sudden clarity about what exactly the two tall men across the table must be, and nearly laughed out loud as she realized it. 

Hounds.

They had to be; chosen for presence, presented as a well-matched set, and loaned out like a useful set of tools rather than independent beings. She knew there were several breeds of Hound among the fae, though she’d never met any before. That would explain the hint of wolf that lingered near them without ringing true, and it meant that their most likely purpose would be to locate her again if she tried to give them the slip. They might provide Antony with a few insights about her as bonus, but Jessamine was too careful to give them much.

She took another swallow of wine to cover her pause. “How are you liking Russia, then? Will you stay long?”

Fiachra shrugged. It wasn’t for him to know the broad strokes of the plan; only his part. Lóegaire scowled, for much the same reason.

For the afternoon, Jessamine wandered a series of shops downtown. She didn’t need anything from them, but she disliked packing all her real work into one day. It risked drawing attention. Instead, she picked her way through a music shop, a store that sold a variety of local snacks and candies, and an incredibly tacky souvenir stand. She had avoided mentioning her family in any way that might invite curiosity, and claimed to be looking for a gift for an unnamed friend.

She let Zmeyevich take her to dinner, despite the fact that he made her skin crawl. She had to keep up the act. Lóegaire and Fiachra re-joined their four matching compatriots outside the restaurant, and she didn’t see any of them again until she left. It seemed that they really didn’t have anything to do with Zmeyevich himself. She endured the tedium of the meal, making boring small talk and avoiding any kind of commitment to future work. She wondered where her guards had gone, and whether she would get the same ones back after dinner.

When it was time to go back to the hotel, she finally managed to shrug off her host and Antony appeared to send Lóegaire and Fiachra off with her again. They returned to the hotel just after dark, and she decided to find a way to get Lóegaire to leave for a little while. Their pack instincts made it hard to approach them as anything but a united front, but she suspected that they wouldn’t have been hard to learn more from if they were separated. Fiachra seemed curious about her independent of their assignment, and with his better English he would be the easier one to talk to anyways.

They went upstairs, but once they got there Jessamine feigned dismay at realizing that she was missing an earring. She dug through her pockets and the small purse she’d taken to dinner, playing up how important the bauble was to her. When it didn’t appear, she declared that it must have fallen out at dinner. She turned what she hoped was a disarming look on Lóegaire and asked if he had a way to contact Antony and find out if anyone had found her earring in the restaurant. She talked a little too fast, and that obviously worked to fluster him. He and Fiachra conferred briefly in their own language, and finally Lóegaire nodded and moved towards the door. “He’ll go ask,” said Fiachra. “And I’ll stay here to keep watch.” Jessamine thanked them, and continued to look through her things as though it might turn up in the room after all. 

About five minutes later, after making a thorough search of the bathroom during which she hid the missing earring at the bottom of a pill bottle in her cosmetics bag, Jessamine changed into sweatpants and returned to the living room. She sat down on the couch, noting that Fiachra had yet to leave his post by the door, and turned on the TV. She didn’t want to watch Russian soap operas, but ambient noise put people at ease.

“This must be a pretty boring job for you,” she said after another minute or two of quiet, once again avoiding the intimidation of direct eye contact.

“Not at all,” Fiachra answered, quickly enough to tell her that he’d been waiting for the chance to converse. “I’m learning many things.”

She laughed. “Like how Foxes spend their evenings? Sad to say it’s mostly pajamas and television for me. Surely you’ve done more interesting work.”

He shrugged, and shifted to lean a bit more comfortably against the wall. “Not much. I like new places; it’s nice to be… traveling. This place is interesting.”

Jessamine cocked her head. “You can sit down, you know. I very much doubt any armed mobsters are going to be bursting in here, and if they do I can take care of myself.”

His eyes flickered to the chair by the room’s small desk, but he didn’t move to take the seat. It seemed clear to Jessamine that concern for his comfort wasn’t a sentiment he expected to encounter, and wondered what his usual role was like.

“I’ll stand. Lóegaire will think I’m being lazy.”

She had suspected that Lóegaire was the more dominant or perhaps more senior of the pair, and that seemed to confirm it. “Suit yourself. I don’t mind the view.”

That made him smile, just a slight turn to the corner of his mouth. She thought it made him more handsome, although she wasn’t lying to begin with. He really did look good in a suit.

“Did you enjoy your dinner?” he asked after a short silence.

Jessamine rolled her eyes. “The food was fine,” she answered.

“But not the company,” Fiachra pressed.

“Business is business,” she said with a shrug. She didn’t choose business partners for their winning personalities. “Did you eat? I saw your friends were there, when we arrived.”

“We did. Antony will look after us until we return to home.”

Jessamine nodded. “He seems like an interesting man,” she offered, hoping to encourage him - for her part, she found the imp almost as tedious and distasteful as his boss.

“He is a good friend of the master’s,” Fiachra said stiffly. It seemed that line of questioning would only close him off, so she didn’t press. Instead, she let the TV play for a few minutes to diffuse the tension that stepping too close to the subject had produced.

“What sorts of things do you do for fun, when you’re not babysitting Foxes?”

“Babysitting?” he repeated, clearly puzzled by the term.

 “Looking after. Keeping track of. Like taking care of a child,” she explained. He smiled again, nodding as he understood what she meant.

“You don’t need any looking after,” he said, a slight laugh in his voice. It was true. She smiled, too, to encourage him to relax. “But at home I am not tasked to babysitting. I’m a tracker for the hunt.”

Hounds for certain, then. Of course someone would think they could intimidate her with a pair of Hounds. 

“So you spend a lot of time outside? That sounds nice.”

“Outside, yes. The woods are peaceful. I also do small…” he paused, frowning as he searched for a word. He held up both hands and pantomimed holding something small between the fingers of one while the other lay flat, moving the first hand up and down.

“Sewing?” Jessamine guessed, delighted by the idea of this great tall scarecrow of a man with a little embroidery hoop between his long hands. It was a much more charming thought than she would have guessed.

“Sewing, yes,” he agreed with a smile. “Fixing things.”

---

Lóegaire returned without success, which made sense since Jessamine had never lost anything in the first place. She played up a resigned sigh, and excused herself once he’d settled back in. She didn’t need to repeat her warning about either man approaching the bedroom.

The next day was devoted to scouting out the position she would take for the job, and she learned very little of interest from the experience. She had a good idea of how the spot would work out, how she could enter and exit quickly, but that wasn’t something she really cared much about. She was good at her work, and didn’t doubt that this job would be like any other. She was more interested in the politics between Zmeyevich and his associate Antony, since that seemed to be where the real tension lay. Unfortunately, she saw neither of them that day and Fiachra was significantly less conversational with Lóegaire on hand. The pair simply trailed behind her in their stiff dark suits, speaking only if asked a question.

She was invited to a small private party the second night. Zmeyevich wouldn’t be there, but Antony and Polina would, so she accepted. Once again, Fiachra and Lóegaire melted in with their fellow Hounds on arrival, leaving Jessamine on her own. The party was held in a bar hidden away several levels below the street and adjacent to a nightclub, the pulse of its music shaking the shared wall. Not that it was quiet on their side, but the slightly offset basslines made the noise almost nauseating to the sharp senses of a Fox. Jessamine quickly came to regret accepting the invitation, although she knew that logically it was the right thing to do for the job. Her kin would have been deeply disappointed if she’d let her personal disdain overcome the opportunity to drink with those you wanted to know more about.

She endured Polina’s flirting and put more work into her sleight of hand than she’d needed to in months pretending to keep pace with the rest of them. They were very obviously trying to bring her guard down by plying her with top-shelf vodka, so she tried her best to act like it was working while carefully pouring shots out into her purse. She actually did drink a bit, when the angle was too hard to fake or to make sure that she got a bit of genuine color into her cheeks, but the slurred speech and fumbling Russian she put on was all for show.

Finally, when Polina tried to crawl into her lap, Jessamine had to give herself a break before she did something she’d regret later. Pleading a spinning head, she told Antony that she needed some air but would be back shortly. He seemed pleased, and patted her shoulder sympathetically as he showed her to a back staircase that would lead her up to the alley behind the club. She wasn’t the least bit surprised when he beckoned to the Hounds to have one accompany her, but she was pleased to find that the first volunteer for the task was Fiachra. Jessamine didn’t really trust anyone there, but she liked him better than the others.

After climbing what felt like several hundred stairs, she was let out into the chilly night air behind a dumpster that stank of old food and ashtrays. Even so, it was better than the close, hostile heat of the party, and she almost laughed as she saw Fiachra wrinkle his nose at the smell too. She stepped out past the dumpster and glanced up and down the alley; dead end to one side and a narrow gap between buildings that revealed the glow of a lonely street light to the other. It would be an alright place for an ambush, but one that would put the attacker at nearly the same disadvantage as the target. She could live with those odds.

Once clear of the dumpster, she paused to roll her shoulders and stretch her arms, as though she could shake off the company she’d been keeping. Fiachra hovered a few yards back, his head cocked slightly to one side.

“Your purse smells like vodka,” he commented, a slight grin tugging at the corner of his mouth.

“That’s because there’s a great deal of vodka in it,” she agreed without any attempt to dissemble. She pulled the small bag away from her hip and tipped it upside-down, letting the liquid spill out onto the pavement. She had lined it with a plastic bag before leaving, more to prevent it from leaking onto her clothes than to preserve the bag itself. She had no intention of taking anything she’d brought with her back home. It was too likely that Antony had bugged her luggage. 

Fiachra laughed, sudden and loud in the stillness of the alley, and Jessamine caught herself grinning. Maybe she had drunk a little more than she’d intended; giving away the game like that to anyone, even a friendly face, was reckless. Still, something told her that Fiachra wouldn’t carry the tale. It seemed obvious that he didn’t like Antony, and though the lines of loyalty between himself and the other Hounds were clearly drawn he seemed to be low in their rank. 

He was the only one, she’d noticed, with any visible injury or scar. The cut that ran from the bridge of his nose up across his brow followed the perfect pattern of a casually cruel blow across the face, and if that was the sort of treatment he saw from his ‘master’ then he was likely more afraid than adoring.

She watched him in the low light of the alley, his smile wide and guileless. She was a little envious of his apparently unselfconscious nature. She couldn’t remember the last time she hadn’t thought about not just what she was doing, but how that action would appear to an outsider. She monitored herself constantly for the right phrasing, the right expression, the precisely correct gesture for the role she was playing. To see him simply be, to watch someone express their feelings without the slightest pause, struck her as something strange and intimate.

His laugh faded to just an echo, but he was still smiling.

“You are a very interesting person,” Fiachra said after a moment.

She tried on an imitation of his laugh, but it felt hollow coming from her.

“I’ll have to put that down on my resume,” she teased. “Very interesting assassin for hire.”

He paused, and she felt like she could see a shift happening. It always happened; the moment when someone remembered what she did, and decided whether they could live with that or if they could only see a monster when they looked at her. She hated herself, for a moment, for speaking so carelessly, but he would have had to confront it in a day or two either way. 

“Are you really going to kill that man?” he asked finally, the laughter gone. At least he didn’t look disgusted just yet - that would come later, she was sure.

Jessamine sighed, then finished rolling her shoulders and righting her emptied-out purse.

“Yes, I am,” she said simply.

“Do you think he deserves to die?” he asked, head cocked slightly to the side.

“Do you think a deer or a rabbit or whatever it is you hunt deserves to die?” she asked in return, perhaps more sharply than she meant to.

He frowned. “I don’t make that decision,” he answered after a short pause.

“Zmeyevich is the one who decided that this man deserved death,” she pointed out. “Not me. The way I see it, when someone contacts me with a job, they’ve already made up their mind. I have two options; I take the money and do the work, or I turn them down. What happens if I turn Zmeyevich down, do you think? You’ve met him.”

Fiachra’s brow furrowed as he considered the question.

“He hires someone else,” she answered for him. “And if that person turns him down, he’ll keep looking. There’s no shortage of folk willing to do violence for pay. He’ll find a butcher eventually. The way I see it, I know how the end comes if I take the job. I’m very good at what I do. I’m quick, quiet, and clean. Who knows what kind of rabid beast Zmeyevich might find if he keeps looking? If I do the work, I know it’s done well.”

He didn’t look entirely convinced, but he also hadn’t given her the frightened, horrified look she’d seen before. That was something. Surely if anyone could understand being trained and honed into a tool for others it would be a Hound.

She was saved from further justifications by the sudden opening of the door they’d come out through. They both started at the sudden sound, and turned to find Lóegaire scowling at them. He spoke tersely to Fiachra in their own language, then nodded towards Jessamine.

“Antony is missing your company,” Fiachra translated. “And wants to know that you are well.” He held himself a little more stiffly under Lóegaire’s eye, nothing in his demeanor betraying their prior conversation.

Jessamine ran a hand back through her hair and nodded after a moment, as tough she really had been trying to clear her head. “Of course. I’d best go apologize for my rudeness.”

---

She was right. The job was quick, quiet and clean. She left the Hounds behind at the hotel while she worked, returning the borrowed rifle before going back to meet up with them. Lóegaire was sullen about being made to disobey his orders to stay with her at all times, but Fiachra seemed merely thoughtful as he trailed along behind. She caught him watching her intently while she packed up her things at the hotel as though she didn’t intend to get the entire suitcase lost on the way home, and wondered what he was thinking.

---

It was her last night in St. Petersburg, which meant another unavoidable audience with Zmeyevich. She put on a fake smile and a nice dress, and let him take her to dinner with the rest of his entourage in tow. Polina was seated at the other end of the table, to Jessamine’s intense relief, but she had to put up with sitting at Zmeyevich’s elbow instead. He was obviously trying to tempt her into becoming a permanent fixture of his organization; most leaders who didn’t need a pet killer liked to keep their hired assassins at arm’s length. Jessamine was accustomed to a curt nod and an envelope full of cash before being ushered out of the room, but it seemed her host was too new to the game to understand the sort of stain that her kind could leave.

“Where are you going in such a hurry, little Fox?” he asked her as he poured her a glass of very expensive red wine. His tone was saccharine, and his leering smile made her skin crawl.

“A lady doesn’t reveal her secrets, Milostivy Gosudar,” she demurred, trying to figure out how best to dispose of the wine without looking rude. “But you have my contact information if you need to reach me in the future.”

“Ah, but I could give you so much more than a job,” he said, sighing and putting on an extremely fake pout. “Stay here, and I can keep you in whatever luxury you like - all I ask is that you work only for me.”

Jessamine forced a smile. “It’s a very generous offer, but St. Petersburg is too cold for me.”

The Hounds were lined up against the far wall just like the first night. They were excluded from conversation by the language barrier, but Jessamine noticed the way Fiachra’s eyes lingered on her expressions. She wondered if she would ever see him again, or if the jaws of Zmeyevich’s organization would eventually chew through all their borrowed Hounds. Perhaps they would be lucky, and be called back to their far-off home. Either way, she doubted that their paths would cross again and couldn’t help but feel a little sad about that fact. Thinking about it made the meal even more unpleasant.

Dinner continued, expensive and tedious, and Jessamine’s already limited patience was worn thin by the time a tiny crystal glass of something that smelled like paint thinner was set in front of her as a digestif. Tired of trying to find discreet ways to empty her glass, she joined the rest of the table in swallowing it down despite the acrid, herbal flavor. It tasted like trying to eat a stick of rosemary that was on fire, and the burning sensation was so intense she couldn’t stop herself from coughing loudly in the breath that followed. The table laughed, some - like Zmeyevich - with apparent good humor, and others - Antony chief among them - with cruel and unfeigned delight at seeing the foreigner make a fool of herself.

She considered, however briefly, throwing her steak knife at him, but she was too close to being done to risk it all on a moment’s vengeance. Instead, she tried to swallow down the rage and the last traces of the drink as one, wondering how soon she could get away with excusing herself. The job was done, and she had her payment. Her family might find value in the information she could glean from staying longer, but she wasn’t patient enough for that game and decided it would be better to take what she already had before she hit a breaking point.

Zmeyevich tried to offer her another drink, tried again to tempt her with tales of the opulence he would cocoon her in if only she would stay, but she managed to keep a civil tongue as she refused both. Finally, she insisted that her flight was early and she needed to sleep. It was obvious that Zmeyevich was genuinely disappointed, and equally obvious that Antony would find some way to make her life infinitely worse if she reconsidered.

She slept in her clothes, head spinning, and woke up much too early re-living the taste of the foul drink from the night before. A shower didn’t improve her mood or her headache in any significant way, and when she emerged into the main room of her suite she knew what she must look like from the expressions Lóegaire and Fiachra weren’t quick enough to hide. She snarled for one of them to go call her a cab, and slumped onto the small couch again as Lóegaire took his opportunity to flee the room. Fiachra had defaulted back to the stiff posture he’d maintained among his fellows, eyes fixed ahead and spine so straight it looked like it had to hurt.

Jessamine scowled at him, but her expression soon softened. He wasn’t to blame for any of this; if anything, he’d been the one bright spot in an enormously unpleasant week. She got up and retrieved a bottle of water from the mini fridge, taking a deep drink. She looked up at him again and sighed. “Sorry,” she said softly. “Didn’t mean to take it out on you two. My head is pounding.”

He didn’t react right away, and she thought for certain that she’d given him too much to be afraid of. But after a moment, his posture shifted slightly, and he glanced sidelong at her like a nervous dog. 

“I’m sorry you aren’t feeling well,” he said, just as quietly. “You’re going home today?”

She nodded. “Zmeyevich wants me to stay, but that really isn’t my style.”

Fiachra surprised her with a short laugh. “Also, you hate him.”

She snorted, glancing up to catch a surprisingly easy grin on his face. “That I do,” she agreed. She took another long drink from the water bottle, and felt like maybe the painkillers were kicking in. At the very least, her head was throbbing a little less. “Will you be here much longer?” she asked after a beat of silence.

He shrugged eloquently. “Not for me to say. We go where we’re told.”

Jessamine nodded. Really, her own situation wasn’t so different; her family was just a bit more polite about telling her what to do, and sometimes they pretended she even had a choice. She had considered breaking away before, but she’d never known anything else and harbored a deep, aching fear that she wouldn’t know how to function without the firm guidance of her kin.

“I’ll be sad to see you go,” Fiachra said, breaking the silence. “I wish I’d met you under different circumstances.”

His voice was low and gentle, and when she turned to look at him again his posture had fallen to relaxed comfort despite staying at his post by the door. She couldn’t help but smile.

“You’re sweet,” she told him. “Much too sweet for this line of work.”

“I’d like to see you again,” he said, and she was charmed by a hint of color in his thin cheeks. She set down her water bottle and walked over to him, her smile lingering. The slight flush spread across the bridge of his nose, and she laughed as she stopped in front of him.

“I’m not interested in someone with a handler to report to,” she told him, and he flinched. “But if you ever slip your lead and find yourself on your own…” she went on, “You’d be able to find me. Ask around the Bridge Market. I’d be pleased to see you.”

His long face looked momentarily owlish, eyes wide with undisguised surprise, and she almost laughed again. For her part, Jessamine was a little surprised to realize that she wasn’t lying. She would have enjoyed getting to know him better under different circumstances, although she considered the chances of their meeting again very slim. She’d only ever heard the faintest rumors of a single Hound leaving his master, and that story had been remarkable for its rarity. Fiachra seemed like a sweet, thoughtful fellow, but not exactly the rebellious sort. He wasn’t likely to achieve such a feat. 

“Perhaps I will,” he answered after a moment, although he seemed more shocked at his own boldness than he had been at her invitation. “But today I hope you travel safely.”

Jessamine nodded. “I appreciate the sentiment. I hope you can go home safely, too.”

[justforbooks]

Homer, Iliad 18.468-607

In this passage, Homer describes the making of the shield of Achilles, and, in particular, an elaborate picture engraved by the god Hephaestus, depicting a wide range of human activities. At this point in the Iliad, Achilles has moved to a new level of rage: beyond the insult to his honor that originally motivated his withdrawal from the Greek effort, Achilles is now seething because his dearest companion, Patroclus, has been killed by Trojan Hector while fighting in Achilles' own armor. Achilles once again enters the war, clad in some new armor (including the shield) from Thetis, his divine mother, and Hephaestus, but he's burning with savage revenge, which drives him to some horrific actions. Homer's audience was supposed to remember the shield as they listened to the blood-soaked marauding of enraged Achilles in battle, and the stark contrast it presents to the warrior ethic typically celebrated in Greek culture.

Keep in mind as well the long oral tradition associated with the composition of Homeric epic: it's clear that material from the Late Bronze Age has been preserved in these poems and handed down to a later period of time.

Consider:

what kind of world is depicted on the shield? what basic features of human society are represented? what aspects does the poet emphasize?

what kind of conflict is shown on the shield? what impact does it have on human society?

(478) First of all he forged a shield that was huge and heavy,

elaborating it about, and threw around it a shining

triple rim that glittered, and the shield strap was cast of silver.

There were five folds composing the shield itself, and upon it

he elaborated many things in his skill and craftsmanship.

(483) He made the earth upon it, and the sky, and the sea's water,

and the tireless sun, and the moon waxing into her fullness,

and on it all the constellations that festoon the heavens,

the Pleiades and the Hyades and the strength of Orion

and the Bear, whom men give also the name of the Wagon,

who turns about in a fixed place and looks at Orion

and she alone is never plunged in the wash of the Ocean.

(490) On it he wrought in all their beauty two cities of mortal

men. And there were marriages in one, and festivals.

They were leading the brides along the city from their maiden chambers

under the flaring of torches, and the loud bride song was arising.

The young men followed the circles of the dance, and among them

the flutes and lyres kept up their clamour as in the meantime

the women standing each at the door of her court admired them.

The people were assembled in the market place, where a quarrel

had arisen, and two men were disputing over the blood price

for a man who had been killed. One man promised full restitution

in a public statement, but the other refused and would accept nothing.

Both then made for an arbitrator, to have a decision;

and people were speaking up on either side, to help both men.

But the heralds kept the people in hand, as meanwhile the elders

were in session on benches of polished stone in the sacred circle

and held in their hands the staves of the heralds who lift their voices.

The two men rushed before these, and took turns speaking their cases,

and between them lay on the ground two talents of gold, to be given

to that judge who in this case spoke the straightest opinion.

(509) But around the other city were lying two forces of armed men

shining in their war gear. For one side counsel was divided

whether to storm and sack, or share between both sides the property

and all the possessions the lovely citadel held hard within it.

But the city's people were not giving way, and armed for an ambush.

Their beloved wives and their little children stood on the rampart

to hold it, and with them the men with age upon them, but meanwhile

the others went out. And Ares led them, and Pallas Athene.

These were gold, both, and golden raiment upon them, and they were

beautiful and huge in their armour, being divinities,

and conspicuous from afar, but the people around them were smaller.

These, when they were come to the place that was set for their ambush,

in a river, where there was a watering place for all animals,

there they sat down in place shrouding themselves in the bright bronze.

But apart from these were sitting two men to watch for the rest of them

and waiting until they could see the sheep and the shambling cattle,

who appeared presently, and two herdsmen went along with them

playing happily on pipes, and took no thought of the treachery.

Those others saw them, and made a rush, and quickly thereafter

cut off on both sides the herds of cattle and the beautiful

flocks of shining sheep, and killed the shepherds upon them.

But the other army, as soon as they heard the uproar arising

from the cattle, as they sat in their councils, suddenly mounted

behind their light-foot horses, and went after, and soon overtook them.

These stood their ground and fought a battle by the banks of the river,

and they were making casts at each other with their spears bronze-headed;

and Hate was there with Confusion among them, and Death the destructive;

she was holding a live man with a new wound, and another

one unhurt, and dragged a dead man by the feet through the carnage.

The clothing upon her shoulders showed strong red with the men's blood.

All closed together like living men and fought with each other

and dragged away from each other the corpses of those who had fallen.

(541) He made upon it a soft field, the pride of the tilled land,

wide and triple-ploughed, with many ploughmen upon it

who wheeled their teams at the turn and drove them in either direction.

And as these making their turn would reach the end-strip of the field,

a man would come up to them at this point and hand them a flagon

of honey-sweet wine, and they would turn again to the furrows

in their haste to come again to the end-strip of the deep field.

The earth darkened behind them and looked like earth that has been ploughed

though it was gold. Such was the wonder of the shield's forging.

(550) He made on it the precinct of a king, where the labourers

were reaping, with the sharp reaping hooks in their hands. Of the cut swathes

some fell along the lines of reaping, one after another,

while the sheaf-binders caught up others and tied them with bind-ropes.

There were three sheaf-binders who stood by, and behind them

were children picking up the cut swathes, and filled their arms with them

and carried and gave them always; and by them the king in silence

and holding his staff stood near the line of the reapers, happily.

And apart and under a tree the heralds made a feast ready

and trimmed a great ox they had slaughtered. Meanwhile the women

scattered, for the workmen to eat, abundant white barley.

(561) He made on it a great vineyard heavy with clusters,

lovely and in gold, but the grapes upon it were darkened

and the vines themselves stood out through poles of silver. About them

he made a field-ditch of dark metal, and drove all around this

a fence of tin; and there was only one path to the vineyard,

and along it ran the grape-bearers for the vineyard's stripping.

Young girls and young men, in all their light-hearted innocence,

carried the kind, sweet fruit away in their woven baskets,

and in their midst a youth with a singing lyre played charmingly

upon it for them, and sang the beautiful song for Linos

in a light voice, and they followed him, and with singing and whistling

and light dance-steps of their feet kept time to the music.

(573) He made upon it a herd of horn-straight oxen. The cattle

were wrought of gold and of tin, and thronged in speed and with lowing

out of the dung of the farmyard to a pasturing place by a sounding

river, and beside the moving field of a reed bed.

The herdsmen were of gold who went along with the cattle,

four of them, and nine dogs shifting their feet followed them.

But among the foremost of the cattle two formidable lions

had caught hold of a bellowing bull, and he with loud lowings

was dragged away, as the dogs and the young men went in pursuit of him.

But the two lions, breaking open the hide of the great ox,

gulped the black blood and the inward guts, as meanwhile the herdsmen

were in the act of setting and urging the quick dogs on them.

But they, before they could get their teeth in, turned back from the lions,

but would come and take their stand very close, and bayed, and kept clear.

(587) And the renowned smith of the strong arms made on it a meadow

large and in a lovely valley for the glimmering sheepflocks,

with dwelling places upon it, and covered shelters, and sheepfolds.

(590) And the renowned smith of the strong arms made elaborate on it

a dancing floor, like that which once in the wide spaces of Knossos

Daidalos built for Ariadne of the lovely tresses.

And there were young men on it and young girls, sought for their beauty

with gifts of oxen, dancing, and holding hands at the wrist. These

wore, the maidens long light robes, but the men wore tunics

of finespun work and shining softly, touched with olive oil.

And the girls wore fair garlands on their heads, while the young men

carried golden knives that hung from sword-belts of silver.

At whiles on their understanding feet they would run very lightly,

as when a potter crouching makes trial of his wheel, holding

it close in his hands, to see if it will run smooth. At another

time they would form rows, and run, rows crossing each other.

And around the lovely chorus of dancers stood a great multitude

happily watching, while among the dancers two acrobats

led the measures of song and dance revolving among them.

(606) He made on it the great strength of the Ocean River

which ran around the uttermost rim of the shield's strong structure.

Daily inspiration. Discover more photos at http://justforbooks.tumblr.com

[castellankurze]

FSF - Iron Warriors (Heresy/Pre-Heresy Era), an unconventional type of warfare/weapon.

“Their coordination is perfect,” Eutropia said.

“Virtually perfect,” the Iron Warrior across from her stated with eyes narrowed in skepticism.

“No.  I mean perfect.  I’ve never seen anything like it before,” the Alpha Legionnaire replied.  Her fingers glided over the map of the city, indicating various markings made and subsequently crossed out or smudged over.  “We’ve tried every approach we can think of.  Sewers.  Heat vents.  Camo-cloaks.  Reflex fields.  We even tried brute-forcing the east and west gates.”  Her lips thinned into a line at the admission of such straightforward tactics.

For nigh on nine weeks the XX Legion forces - five companies’ worth - had labored to take the city of Castrus Veronia, a sprawling megacity nearly a thousand kilometers in breadth.  A request for reinforcement had come recently into the ears of the IV Legion, and the chapter of Warsmith Larisa had responded, bringing with them companies of the Imperial Army and heavy artillery provided by the Adeptus Mechanicus.  All of whom were about to receive a very rude awakening.

There was a rustle of paper as Eutropia laid a translucent image over the city layout.  “The problem is this central communications hub.  As near as we’re able to determine, it’s buried several kilometers underneath the city - too hardened to hit with bombardment, we ran the simulations - and it’s jacked into Veronia’s entire communications network.”  She placed a hand atop a pict-capture of a massive combat droid near the size of an Astartes dreadnought in the midst of tearing one of her squads to pieces.  “That enables them to use their pet warbots with perfect coordination.  Any detection of invasion and they come swarming in.”

Larisa pressed her lips together and reached out with a fingertip to draw the pict across the table towards her, inspecting the image of the war droid.  “I assume you XX have gone through your usual repertoire of feints and falsehoods,” she said.  Her voice was a hoarse, rasping noise, not unlike the grinding of her Legion’s war machines.

“You assume correctly,” the Alpha Legionnaire replied, keeping her own face neutral.  “Again I must stress that their coordination is perfect.  They respond to every threat, no matter how nuanced, with overwhelming force, all directed by the central hub, and we’ve been unable to get so much as a toehold before they come swarming in.  I’ve begun to suspect that the hub houses some manner of advanced AI,” she saw the Mechanicus representative twitch- “that handles the protection of the city.  Their response times, their adaptive tactics, they’re too good for human direction.”

“Orbital bombardment.  Smash the entire thing,” Larisa stated bluntly.

Eutropia thinned her lips.  The Alpha Legion did not pride itself on trading guile for brute force.  “We would prefer to keep such an option as a last resort.”

The Warsmith grunted and looked down at the maps once more.  “Attrition tactics.”

“We considered that.  We spent a week picking off what bots we could.  They drag away the scrap for repairs and the city has factories which produce replacements.  The only way to whittle them down would be by drowning them in blood, and we don’t have enough to make that work.”

“It may come to that, even so,” Larisa said, looking back up into Eutropia’s eyes.  The Alpha Legionnaire was mildly surprised she still had both, given the scarring that lined her face and continued along the right side of her head, leaving that side shorn of hair.  Like most of the XX Eutropia had undergone routine treatments to alter her own appearance into a shaven-headed, olive-skinned warrior monk, a face in a sea of faces, but given the character of the IV Legion a Warsmith who still had her original eyes was a rare thing indeed.  Not to mention teeth.  “My chapter is but the vanguard for a larger force, and when the Lord of Iron arrives it will not matter how fine-tuned the defenses of Castrus Veronia.”

Eutropia thought for certain she had heard wrong.  “The IV Primarch is coming here?” she asked, unable to help leaning slightly over the table.

Larisa nodded.  “The Iron Blood is approximately eight days out.  Ten chapters of the IV Legion.  If we so choose, we need merely shore up our positions and await them.”  Larisa went back to studying the tactical readouts, leaving Eutropia to stew silently at the thought of the titanic figure who even now drew inexorably closer to this very world with each passing second.  A primarch.  She felt a momentary jealousy, that the IV Legion could indeed call upon such a resource-

“Electronic warfare,” Larisa said suddenly, bringing Eutropia’s attention back to the present.  “These war droids aren’t hooked directly into the grid.  They must receive their directions via wireless.”

“We’ve tried that as well.  Their firewalls are very good, and the hub appears able to supersede any local vox traffic.  Our jamming has had limited effect.”

Larisa stared across the table once more, and then lifted a hand with her index finger extended even as she started to turn away.  “I have an idea.  Come with me,” she ordered, and without waiting to ensure the Alpha Legionnaire obeyed left the command tent.  Eutropia hurried after her, too curious to bristle at being dictated to, as the Warsmith made her way through the developing strongpoint of the IV Legion.  “Ophaellos!  Ophaellos!” she called out, and a man in the crimson armor of a techmarine responded.  “Yes, Warsmith?”

Larisa waved a finger at his chest.  “Where was it.  Tauros?  Torvis?  The nebula with the electronic interference.”

“That was Torvis,” the techmarine affirmed.

“How did you rig that beacon?”

“We tuned the systems aboard the Calibos so that the entire cruiser would act as a single gigantic vox antenna.”

“Could you do it again?” Larisa asked intently.

————————–

The bridge of the Iron Blood was a cavernous chamber, a place of stark utilitarian machinery without artifice or gilding.  It buzzed with activity, men and servitors at their stations coordinating the actions not only of the massive vessel itself but also the accompanying fleet of the IV Legion and their attendant Army and Navy forces.  Four days out from planetfall, the details of the initial drop and occupation steps were being finalized, a flurry of vox and astropathic communication between the multitude of vessels.

Amidst it all, a gigantic figure sheathed in steel sat all but silent on great throne of the Iron Blood, ringed by a bodyguard of armored terminators of the Iron Warriors and attended by a legionary in more standard armor, marked with the rank of captain.  The primarch Perturabo was reading a dataslate, absurdly thin compared to the massive steel gauntlet which held it, and yet the motion of his thumb as he scrolled through its contents caused not so much as a blemish on the slate’s screen.

A voice rang out, breaking through the hum of activity.  “Wide-spectrum vox coming in from the Ironheart!” the communications officer reported.

Perturabo lifted his eyes from his dataslate and nodded slightly before returning his attention to the information in his hand.  Beside him, Captain Forrix pursed his lips.  The Ironheart was Larisa’s flagship, and the report of a widebeam transmission at this distance was unheard-of.  “Put it on,” he ordered with a nod of his head.

A moment later, a disembodied voice filled the bridge chamber with a full-throated bellow of “BANG YOUR HEAD” accompanied by electronic interference from the power behind the transmission, a blast of audio so tremendous it felt almost like a physical blow to the chest.  Crewmen jolted at their stations at the unpleasant sound, and in the corner of Forrix’s eye the captain even saw one of the primarch’s bodyguard raise his stormbolter.  He turned his head to glower at the reaction and the man lowered the weapon once more, his posture sheepish.

Perturabo lifted his attention once more, frowning, and lifted his hand to make a curt gesture with two fingers.  The vox officer hastened to cut the broadcast, and the bridge chamber felt positively silent in the wake of the transmission.  “And we are yet four days out,” Perturabo mused, still frowning.

“My lord?” Forrix questioned.

The primarch did not reply.

—————————

In the end, the thousand kilometers of Castrus Veronia, a technologically advanced city-fortress which had stood for nine weeks against the Astartes, fell in mere six hours.

Blasted across the entire spectrum of vox capability from the warship in orbit, activity across the city ground to a halt as communication failed, and even the mighty war droids stood still and silent even as the armored figures of the IV and XX moved to occupy the city, encountering only sporadic resistance from hardpoints and individual cells that had managed to receive localized orders.  

Warsmith Larisa and Praetor Eutropia walked into the capitol building virtually unopposed, accepting unconditional surrender from the city’s rulers.

Indeed it could be rightly said that the arrival of the Iron Blood and the full fleet of the IV Legion served little purpose other than to ensure the transition of the world to the rule of the Imperium and the establishment of one of the Legion’s ubiquitous defensive garrisons, all while the Adeptus Mechanicus swarmed the vaunted central hub with the intent of picking apart all the secrets of its advanced technology.

Warsmith Larisa met with the Lord of Iron in his quarters aboard the flagship, and he did not fail to notice that a small crest bearing the likeness of a reptilian beast had been adhered to his officer’s collar.  “You blasted them with…juvenile music,” he said, his voice emotionless.  His eyes did not meet her own, but once more scanned the dataslate he held in one armored hand.

“Pre-Imperial recordings,” Larisa confirmed.  “A selection chosen for maximum psychological and electronic disruption.”

Perturabo lifted his gaze, his expression cold.  “You are dismissed, Warsmith,” he said bluntly, and Larisa departed.

Alone, the Lord of Iron slowly pressed a thumb to the screen of the slate until its display cracked.  As the seconds passed, Perturabo tightened his hand around the device, plastic and electronics crumpling beneath his inexorable grip, until at last he had closed his fist, the dataslate crushed to pieces.

[******]

[The Siege of Castrus Veronia was not entered into the histories of the Adeptus Astartes IV Legion]

[cardstumble]

HOMER’S ILIAD: SHIELD of ACHILLES  (Translated by Richard Lattimore)

(478) First of all he forged a shield that was huge and heavy,

elaborating it about, and threw around it a shining

triple rim that glittered, and the shield strap was cast of silver.

There were five folds composing the shield itself, and upon it

he elaborated many things in his skill and craftsmanship.

(483) He made the earth upon it, and the sky, and the sea's water,

and the tireless sun, and the moon waxing into her fullness,

and on it all the constellations that festoon the heavens,

the Pleiades and the Hyades and the strength of Orion

and the Bear, whom men give also the name of the Wagon,

who turns about in a fixed place and looks at Orion

and she alone is never plunged in the wash of the Ocean.

(490) On it he wrought in all their beauty two cities of mortal

men. And there were marriages in one, and festivals.

They were leading the brides along the city from their maiden chambers

under the flaring of torches, and the loud bride song was arising.

The young men followed the circles of the dance, and among them

the flutes and lyres kept up their clamour as in the meantime

the women standing each at the door of her court admired them.

The people were assembled in the market place, where a quarrel

had arisen, and two men were disputing over the blood price

for a man who had been killed. One man promised full restitution

in a public statement, but the other refused and would accept nothing.

Both then made for an arbitrator, to have a decision;

and people were speaking up on either side, to help both men.

But the heralds kept the people in hand, as meanwhile the elders

were in session on benches of polished stone in the sacred circle

and held in their hands the staves of the heralds who lift their voices.

The two men rushed before these, and took turns speaking their cases,

and between them lay on the ground two talents of gold, to be given

to that judge who in this case spoke the straightest opinion.

(509) But around the other city were lying two forces of armed men

shining in their war gear. For one side counsel was divided

whether to storm and sack, or share between both sides the property

and all the possessions the lovely citadel held hard within it.

But the city's people were not giving way, and armed for an ambush.

Their beloved wives and their little children stood on the rampart

to hold it, and with them the men with age upon them, but meanwhile

the others went out. And Ares led them, and Pallas Athene.

These were gold, both, and golden raiment upon them, and they were

beautiful and huge in their armour, being divinities,

and conspicuous from afar, but the people around them were smaller.

These, when they were come to the place that was set for their ambush,

in a river, where there was a watering place for all animals,

there they sat down in place shrouding themselves in the bright bronze.

But apart from these were sitting two men to watch for the rest of them

and waiting until they could see the sheep and the shambling cattle,

who appeared presently, and two herdsmen went along with them

playing happily on pipes, and took no thought of the treachery.

Those others saw them, and made a rush, and quickly thereafter

cut off on both sides the herds of cattle and the beautiful

flocks of shining sheep, and killed the shepherds upon them.

But the other army, as soon as they heard the uproar arising

from the cattle, as they sat in their councils, suddenly mounted

behind their light-foot horses, and went after, and soon overtook them.

These stood their ground and fought a battle by the banks of the river,

and they were making casts at each other with their spears bronze-headed;

and Hate was there with Confusion among them, and Death the destructive;

she was holding a live man with a new wound, and another

one unhurt, and dragged a dead man by the feet through the carnage.

The clothing upon her shoulders showed strong red with the men's blood.

All closed together like living men and fought with each other

and dragged away from each other the corpses of those who had fallen.

(541) He made upon it a soft field, the pride of the tilled land,

wide and triple-ploughed, with many ploughmen upon it

who wheeled their teams at the turn and drove them in either direction.

And as these making their turn would reach the end-strip of the field,

a man would come up to them at this point and hand them a flagon

of honey-sweet wine, and they would turn again to the furrows

in their haste to come again to the end-strip of the deep field.

The earth darkened behind them and looked like earth that has been ploughed

though it was gold. Such was the wonder of the shield's forging.

(550) He made on it the precinct of a king, where the labourers

were reaping, with the sharp reaping hooks in their hands. Of the cut swathes

some fell along the lines of reaping, one after another,

while the sheaf-binders caught up others and tied them with bind-ropes.

There were three sheaf-binders who stood by, and behind them

were children picking up the cut swathes, and filled their arms with them

and carried and gave them always; and by them the king in silence

and holding his staff stood near the line of the reapers, happily.

And apart and under a tree the heralds made a feast ready

and trimmed a great ox they had slaughtered. Meanwhile the women

scattered, for the workmen to eat, abundant white barley.

(561) He made on it a great vineyard heavy with clusters,

lovely and in gold, but the grapes upon it were darkened

and the vines themselves stood out through poles of silver. About them

he made a field-ditch of dark metal, and drove all around this

a fence of tin; and there was only one path to the vineyard,

and along it ran the grape-bearers for the vineyard's stripping.

Young girls and young men, in all their light-hearted innocence,

carried the kind, sweet fruit away in their woven baskets,

and in their midst a youth with a singing lyre played charmingly

upon it for them, and sang the beautiful song for Linos

in a light voice, and they followed him, and with singing and whistling

and light dance-steps of their feet kept time to the music.

(573) He made upon it a herd of horn-straight oxen. The cattle

were wrought of gold and of tin, and thronged in speed and with lowing

out of the dung of the farmyard to a pasturing place by a sounding

river, and beside the moving field of a reed bed.

The herdsmen were of gold who went along with the cattle,

four of them, and nine dogs shifting their feet followed them.

But among the foremost of the cattle two formidable lions

had caught hold of a bellowing bull, and he with loud lowings

was dragged away, as the dogs and the young men went in pursuit of him.

But the two lions, breaking open the hide of the great ox,

gulped the black blood and the inward guts, as meanwhile the herdsmen

were in the act of setting and urging the quick dogs on them.

But they, before they could get their teeth in, turned back from the lions,

but would come and take their stand very close, and bayed, and kept clear.

(587) And the renowned smith of the strong arms made on it a meadow

large and in a lovely valley for the glimmering sheepflocks,

with dwelling places upon it, and covered shelters, and sheepfolds.

(590) And the renowned smith of the strong arms made elaborate on it

a dancing floor, like that which once in the wide spaces of Knossos

Daidalos built for Ariadne of the lovely tresses.

And there were young men on it and young girls, sought for their beauty

with gifts of oxen, dancing, and holding hands at the wrist. These

wore, the maidens long light robes, but the men wore tunics

of finespun work and shining softly, touched with olive oil.

And the girls wore fair garlands on their heads, while the young men

carried golden knives that hung from sword-belts of silver.

At whiles on their understanding feet they would run very lightly,

as when a potter crouching makes trial of his wheel, holding

it close in his hands, to see if it will run smooth. At another

time they would form rows, and run, rows crossing each other.

And around the lovely chorus of dancers stood a great multitude

happily watching, while among the dancers two acrobats

led the measures of song and dance revolving among them.

(606) He made on it the great strength of the Ocean River

which ran around the uttermost rim of the shield's strong structure.

(transl. Lattimore)

Iliad 18.468-607

In this passage, Homer describes the making of the shield of Achilles, and, in particular, an elaborate picture engraved by the god Hephaestus, depicting a wide range of human activities. At this point in the Iliad, Achilles has moved to a new level of rage: beyond the insult to his honor that originally motivated his withdrawal from the Greek effort, Achilles is now seething because his dearest companion, Patroclus, has been killed by Trojan Hector while fighting in Achilles' own armor. Achilles once again enters the war, clad in some new armor (including the shield) from Thetis, his divine mother, and Hephaestus, but he's burning with savage revenge, which drives him to some horrific actions. Homer's audience was supposed to remember the shield as they listened to the blood-soaked marauding of enraged Achilles in battle, and the stark contrast it presents to the warrior ethic typically celebrated in Greek culture.

http://www.u.arizona.edu/~afutrell/w%20civ%2002/iliad.html

[noisykate]

Cordoba and Granada

27 January 2017

They say ‘never start with an apology’, but this week of sightseeing has been so overwhelming to the senses, that any effort to summarise it is doomed to failure.  Not helped by finding the camera battery flat on day one, and no charger packed. D’oh. Ellen took loads of pictures, and these will follow, but in the meantime I include some links.

How to start? There is no point just rewriting the guide book, so I will just give a hint at what we got up to, and what it was like.

18 Jan    Ellen arrives Alicante.

Drive back to Cartagena through a blizzard. Ellen staying in hotel near the Naval museum.  Locals all very excited by worst weather conditions (ie first snow) since 1983.

19 Jan    Day set aside for sightseeing around Cartagena. Very, very cold, raining, snow on ground on hills. Marble walkways through town treacherously slippery. Sightseeing largely abandoned. Ellen still staying in hotel near Naval museum.

20 Jan    C&E set off for Cordoba. Five hour trip, stunning drive through the Sierra Nevada, snow on verges and covering the hills.  Slightly worrying conditions, but it was all fine.

Arrive Cordoba, hotel a 3m walkway away from the famous Mosque/Cathedral, in pedestrianised ‘no cars except authorised’ zone, which we drive through to park under the hotel. Armed police obviously not on traffic duty and not bothered.

Lovely hotel, the ‘Maimonides’.

21 Jan    Cordoba Mosque/Cathedral visit. Wow. Search for ‘Cordoba Cathedral images’ for better pictures than mine. (Ahem)

Mosque and cathedral both stunning, architecturally and historically of huge significance within Spain and on the wider political/religious stage. The rhythm of the repeating arch design of the mosque is disrupted by the imposition of the cathedral through the middle of the building, in an act which is generally regarded now as the most astonishing cultural vandalism.  Wikipedia says:

The insertion (of the cathedral into the mosque) was constructed by permission of Charles V, king of Castile and Aragon. However, when Charles V visited the completed cathedral he was displeased by the result and famously commented, "they have taken something unique in all the world and destroyed it to build something you can find in any city."

The church is itself is beautiful, introducing a shock of light and vertical space to the intimate gloom of the mosque, and contains amazing architectural detailing, most notably a vast and exquisitely carved choir stall construction.

The transition between Christian and Moorish control, which happened several times over the centuries, is presented within the building as an entirely orderly, peaceful and voluntary transaction. Seems unlikely….

The ‘Spanish Inquisition museum’ nearby boasts ‘six rooms of torture equipment as used by…’. Deeply nasty – the tone of it was horrible; titillating, prurient, pornographic. We skipped it in favour of some of the more uplifting offerings.

22 Jan    Cordoba Azahara palace https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Medina_Azahara  – ruins of a moorish palace outside Cordoba. Apparently this is one of the most extravagantly constructed and decorated palaces ever, almost entirely looted out over the centuries, leaving only enigmatic ruins. The visitor centre at the bottom of the hill is the only source of any information on the site.  The signage and visitor information at the site itself is quite astonishingly poor, the ruins capped and ‘reconstructed’ in places in modern times, leaving the visitor mostly just baffled.

 Nearby, there was a small mountainside settlement called ‘Las Ermitas’, a cluster of monastic cells around a beautiful little chapel, exuberantly decorated in the baroque style, in stark contrast to the asceticism of the monks’ cells. The last monks left in the late 50’s. A wonderfully peaceful and holy place.  http://www.cordoba24.info/english/html/ermitas.html The tranquil mood was broken slightly by the drive down, which saw Ellen, unused to being a passenger, struggling with the drive down the winding, narrow road. Hilarious.

Over the two-and-a-half days in Cordoba, we also visited:

·         Jewish quarter, http://www.andalucia.com/cities/cordoba/juderia.htm including a tiny synagogue. The jews were hounded out of Spain during the Spanish Inquisition, and almost all traces of them removed. This is allegedly one of only three old Synagogues on the Iberian peninsular.

·         Roman bridge,  http://www.andalucia.com/cities/cordoba/romanbridge.htm  awarded a prize by architects following highly controversial reworking in recent years, permanently removing roman paving and parapets to facilitate a new lighting scheme.

·         Huge riverbed; mostly now swamp and scrub with some large willow trees, navigable to here from the sea in ancient times. There is a modern pontoon on very long dolphin, so presumably there is some local traffic, and times when the river levels rise substantially.

·         Little townhouse; built, decorated and furnished in the Arabic style – fascinating to see how the bare bones of the architecture come alive when dressed for living, with bright tapestries and cushions, cooling plants and small fountains and pools full of cut flowers. http://www.lacasaandalusi.com  

The drive to Granada was again lovely, about two hours, mostly through olive and orange groves, the trees making wonderful patterns in the rolling hills.

23 Jan    Granada.

We stayed for three nights in the Hotel ‘Washington Irving’, named after the New York writer who stayed hereabouts while visiting the area to write his ‘Tales of the Alhambra’.

The hotel is quite posh, and very newly refurbished, with our guide book (originally published about 10 years ago) referring to the place as ‘derelict’. Unrecognisable as an ‘old’ building, it has been architected into an anonymous modern international hotel, with no trace of the quirky 19th century ambience the guidebook said we might glimpse through the barred broken glass doorway.  Our room was lovely, very glamorous and comfortable, the room itself reasonably priced, although their priorities require some tweaks – there was a wonderfully ridiculous ‘pillow menu’, from which you can choose (and I quote) “…to enjoy your dreams in a different way…” reclining on an “Audrey Hepburn” or “James Dean”, or perhaps “for our younger guests” – a “Mickey Mouse” – but nowhere to hang a dressing gown while you shower.

The hotel is currently let down by a comical food offering; Ellen’s main course arrived looking more like a tapas, with two very tiny cutlets of pork perched in the middle of a huge plate decorated with a drizzle of some pretty goo. We waited for the dish of vegetables to arrive, but no, that was it – beautiful and tasty, but hugely overpriced, and just not enough to eat.

On checking out, we intended to let them know what we thought of their food, but they forgot to charge us for parking the car (18Euro per day) so we said nothing and legged it.

24 Jan    Alhambra.

To say anything about the Alhambra is to select, leave out, and struggle for descriptive superlatives. There are endless websites.

It is a complex of buildings within a high protective and defensive curtainwall on top of a hill; constructed and reconstructed, destroyed and restored over the centuries of its existence, for a wide range of motives. The brilliantly readable guidebook by Robert Irwin advised that almost everything we think we know about the place is wrong, with the truth of its original design now lost, the function and flow of the rooms further obscured by fantasy/myth/legend and poor historical archaeology, compounded by well-intentioned ‘restoration’ over time, and the need to pass many thousands of tourists through the place as fast as possible.

It is impossible to be ‘objective’ about the place; the scale of it, and its very foreign-ness, demands that we try and make sense of it, and we can only do that within the framework of our own life and experiences. Poverty and excess, power and subjugation, religious conviction and political duplicity – it is all here, confusing and enigmatic.

The Rasmid Palace is utterly beautiful, tiled with complex tessellated patterns and decorative plasterwork, the proportions of the buildings and their adornment all according to Pythagorean mathematical rules including ‘the golden ratio’. Paradoxically, much of the Alhambra has survived because it was made using ‘poor’ materials (wood, plaster, ceramic tiles), with virtually no intrinsic value and hence not worth looting.

The Palace of Carlos V, built in the centre of the complex, probably on the foundations of earlier Moorish buildings, is a striking square building in massive stone, with a circular courtyard, completely out of keeping with the rest of the compound. It now houses a museum, and art galleries.

The Generalife is a separate, much smaller, more domestic-scaled complex slightly further up the hill, with a wonderful garden.

The entire Alhambra complex is irrigated by an sophisticated arrangement of aqueducts and underground pipework, feeding fountains and pools as well as kitchen and ornamental gardens.

Ellen retired for a siesta, while I took in the Generalife, and later the steep footpath down between the Alhambra compound and the Generalife, to the Albaicin.

The setting of the Alhambra is stunning, with views down over the Albaicin area, a maze of tiny lanes around white-painted red-tiled buildings in the Moorish style, mostly built around little courtyards. The lower lanes are chaotic and colourful with market traders selling Moorish lanterns, textiles and leather goods.

In the other direction, the Sierra Nevada towers over the valley, the high snowfields catching the low winter sun.

The only significant irritation was the jostle of (mostly but not exclusively Japanese) tourists with bloody selfie-sticks, their backs to the sublime scenery and architecture, gurning and pouting at their cameras. During the busy season later in the year this must be a real joy. Do they ever actually look at the pictures they take? And when they do, what do they see?

25th Jan We spent the day in recovery, drifting into the town mid-morning, wandering around slightly aimlessly, drifting into a random art exhibition of photographs -of all things- the 9/11 attacks in New York, a very personal event for Ellen, who lost some close friends that day. We sat for an hour watching a sort of slide show of stunning and horrifying pictures, talking about it.

Lunch was a coffee and a shared pizza at a café in a square. A small group of young men at a nearby table were very striking, simply because their faces were so like those we had seen in the 15th century paintings in the Carlos V museum. Their modern clothes seemed like costumes, their ‘real’ clothes somewhere piled just out of sight, perhaps with their pikestaffs and standards leaning against a nearby wall. A very odd experience.  Ellen says that this rarely happens in the States, where the many mixed immigrant populations have homogenised over the generations.

The Albaicin deserved another visit, and we spent a couple of hours wandering up and down the little lanes, peering through gateway railings, framing the view of the Alhambra with another alignment of lanes, the Sierra Nevada above.

The Royal Chapel of Isabella and Ferdinand (aka Mr and Mrs Spanish Inquisition) nearby boasts two of the most enormous sideboards I have ever seen, each about 8m long, and the most gaudy and stupendous baroque altarpiece, depicting the martyrdom of several saints in gloriously grotesque and fully detailed technicolour.  For me, the very common Spanish-flavoured focus on suffering as a religious journey here ceased to be a meditation on the human condition, and stepped over the bounds of decency to become voyeuristic sadism, perhaps because of the close association of the place with Ferdinand and Isabella. They do not come across as nice people.

26th Jan Drive back to Cartagena, through the wonderful Sierra Nevada.Tapas in our usual bar.

27th Jan Ellen home, driven to the airport for 10am. Collapse in heap, write this, shopping, tv, bed.

Ellen promises to share her wonderful photos when she gets back, so I will post a selection when I get them.

It has been a wonderful few days; the places themselves, and stimulating company, talking a lot about everything.

Even with so many riveting distractions, it was difficult not to keep returning to the Trump question – sorry Ellen, I really don’t hold you personally responsible, but he is just SO bizarre. But also, in the context of so much historical excess and madness, he fits right in.

[totesmccoats]

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Batman #27

One man finds himself caught between the forces of the War of the Jokes and Riddles like a kite in a hurricane, being pushed and pulled between Joker, Riddler, and Batman; and his family’s safety hanging in the balance.

There’s been one character that’s popped up randomly but reliably since King started his run on Batman, and he finally gets an issue (at least one issue) all to himself. Ironically, King is using his focus on this character to give us a ground level perspective on the war, what it’s like to be a small time criminal with some notable skills in the middle of one of the most tumultuous times in Gotham’s history. It’s not only the opportunity to give pathos to someone who’s been a joke up until now, but in that pathos, we better understand the toll this war pays on even the D-listers of the city. And, of course, King handles it with the same poetry he’s handled the rest of the series, showing us the seeds of a flower that’s already bloomed.

  Superman #27

It’s time for a Kent family vacation, and for the Independence Day (this comic is a wee bit late), they’re going on a tour of American memorials, with Clark and Lois teaching Jon about the history that makes them worth the trip.

I’m a fan of hokey and schmaltzy, but patriotic schmaltz is where I draw the line. After all, there’s history and there’s hierography, and it’s hard for me to tolerate any account of, for example, the founders, without bringing up their hypocrisies of slave ownership and genocide. Plus, there’s the general glorification of war that happens whenever you do this type of thing that sours even sweet scenes like the Kents treating a hopeless vet to dinner and standing up for his right to dine somewhere even if he may “disturb other customers.”

Superman is meant, in part, to represent the best of American ideals, and unfortunately, this comic doesn’t really touch those.

  Green Arrow #27

Here, however, is a comic that discusses America in a way I can get behind.

Green Arrow’s search for the Ninth Circle takes him to Washington DC, where he runs into Wonder Woman, and the two foil a plot to increase America’s support of war, and thus military spending.

Green Arrow doesn’t even try for subtlety here, at times reading like a polemic against America’s hawkishness – which is incredible. Oliver waxes on about how the Ninth Circle uses fear to motivate people to their side by convincing the public that the only way to feel safe is to buy more and more weapons to protect them from an increasingly dangerous threat – a threat they engineer, of course. He even lectures about himself and his own ignorance of his privilege when he first began as the Green Arrow.

But what’s so effective is that, despite how over the top things get in this comic, the results are all too familiar. A formally pro-peace senator being scared into supporting increased “defense.” Despite saving the day, Oliver and the comic believe that, regardless of political affiliation, all politicians are motivated by fear and eventually learn to support endless war for the sake of feeling secure. It’s all lies acted on for the sake of profit.

  The Wild Storm #6

We’re 25% through this story, which, in Ellis time, means that it’s finally appropriate time for an infodump.

After an expertly scripted and executed fight scene, that reads like John Wick fighting Jaws from 007, between Cray and the two-person kill-squad sent to kill him ends with Cray accepting Christine Trelane’s job offer – Adrianna brings Spica to Jake Marlowe’s base in Brooklyn so she (and we) can get some questions answered about IO, Skywatch, and how this world is run.

The way the comic is put together, the fight in the beginning feels like having your dessert before your dinner; quenching our action-tooth before giving us some nourishing exposition. But I don’t want to give the impression that this is dry exposition. Ellis still writes some of the sharpest dialogue in comics (and TV and film), and Davis-Hunt still finds ways to make two people talking at a table graphically disturbing when certain reveals make it appropriate. Between this and Clean Room, he’s become my favorite comic artist for scenes of the grotesque and Giger-esque.

  Secret Empire #6

While lost-Steve continues to be tortured by the Red Skull, and the heroes trapped in the Darkforce dimension do their best to keep Tandy’s light; Hydra unleashes a full-on assault on the resistance base. And inside their crumbling base, the resistance tears themselves apart trying to find their mole.

This issue is all over the place, not giving any of its developments any time to breathe. I’m not sure if this issue is supposed to end on a high-point or low-point, and I doubt that’s intentional. Through the issue is a narration that starts with Steve talking about how all heroes are hypocrites who fight only for their own pride and reputation, then goes to Hawkeye during the attack on the Mount where he seems to admit defeat before being reminded of why heroes really fight. And there’s a dramatic showdown between Steve and Tony that intentionally echoes the first Civil War. Hydra unleashes the Hulk on the resistance in what feels like it’s supposed to be the story’s lowest point, but this is right about the point in the story where Hawkeye’s narration tells us that this is where all the heroes regain their nerve…and then there’s a nuke and we’re supposed to believe everyone died even though we saw them all escape…?

Again, nothing has room to actually land and breathe before the issue hits us over the head with the next dramatic moment. While I’m normally against extending these events at all – and this one is already set to be 10 issues – this issue could’ve easily been split into two that allow for a better dramatic arc to unfold over the course of this one battle.

  Peter Parker: The Spectacular Spider-Man #2

After a brief misunderstanding with Ironheart, who eventually agrees to help Peter with the hacked Stark phone, Pete heads back to New York to summarize Amazing Spider-Man: Family Business to a confused Johnny Storm, and then go on his date with Rebecca…in full costume.

Like Zdarksy’s other books with Marvel, this one slows down and takes us more towards the ground-level with its characters, putting more focus on their day-to-day rather than whatever big criminal plot they’re gonna have to face. We spend a lot more time with Peter in his apartment chatting with Teresa and Johnny, or out on his date than we do following up on the hacked phone.

And Zdarksy writes the most natural sounding Peter dialogue in any Spider-Man comic today. Where Bendis’ writing can often feel like the characters are reading from a script, and many of Slott’s quips feel (appropriately) forced; Zdarsky’s Peter reads like someone legitimately saying the first funny thing that pops into his head, and is appropriately hit-and-miss. That feeling is also aided by the more normal situations that Peter’s found himself in this issue; as he’s quipping during a date, not while fighting supervillains.

I think, more than not mentioning his current status quo as a billionaire, the reason that this series feels like a return to form is because it’s focusing a lot more on Peter than Spider-Man.

  Ms. Marvel #20

In this issue’s opening pages, Ms. Marvel establishes itself as the ideal of “the world outside your window” that all Marvel comics that choose to attempt that should strive towards. Aamir, who was arrested for no reason last issue, pleads his case explaining his innocence, and even explains who the authorities should look for if they want to find terrorists that look like him. It’s an eloquent and grounded explanation of who gets radicalized and why, delivered by a character in a situation that reflects our unfortunate reality. It’s a clear-headed and powerful scene, and more comics should strive for such relevancy.

Then, Ms. Marvel wakes up from being knocked-out last issue, and jumping back into action, finds herself in the middle of a Chuck Worthy rally. Worthy’s speech is reflective of the sort of conservative rhetoric of law and order and nostalgia that unfortunately wins elections; but presents it in a way that doesn’t necessarily hit you over the head with it, like a comic like Green Arrow would.

This arc – and this series overall – successfully puts it’s hero against clear analogues for real world issues, and makes them approachable and resonant. Yeah, you’re getting a story about a stretchy girl that punches bad robots, but Ms. Marvel has also told stories about gentrification, online-harassment, and islamophobia that confront each issue with the same tenacity that Kamala confronts her villains.

  Bitch Planet: Triple Feature #2

And where Ms. Marvel tackles real world issues with a degree of allegory, Bitch Planet has always come at it from the angle of parody – ramping up the real world effects of white patriarchy to what are supposed to be ridiculous extremities. Like the last triple feature, this issue takes us off the prison planet and to Earth itself, where life isn’t that much better for women.

The first story, Bits and Pieces, shows us a child’s beauty pageant in Bitch Planet, where tween girls are judged on the beauty of a single body part, and has one heck of a final page. The second, This is Good for You, shows us a propaganda film. And the third and longest story, What’s Love Got to do With it?, tells the story of one woman’s quest to get married before her family is forced to pay an “Old Maid tax,” and explores how dating is done on Bitch Planet.

All of these stories are generally funnier than the main series, each acting as a short parody of a single aspect of what living in an uber-patriarchy would be that rather than telling the sort of wide-ranging story of the main title. This means that each story is also sharper, with single page conclusions finding inventive ways to twist the knife like the best episodes of The Twilight Zone.

Comic Reviews for 7/19/17 Batman #27 One man finds himself caught between the forces of the War of the Jokes and Riddles like a kite in a hurricane, being pushed and pulled between Joker, Riddler, and Batman; and his family's safety hanging in the balance.

[totesmccoats]

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Batman #27

One man finds himself caught between the forces of the War of the Jokes and Riddles like a kite in a hurricane, being pushed and pulled between Joker, Riddler, and Batman; and his family’s safety hanging in the balance.

There’s been one character that’s popped up randomly but reliably since King started his run on Batman, and he finally gets an issue (at least one issue) all to himself. Ironically, King is using his focus on this character to give us a ground level perspective on the war, what it’s like to be a small time criminal with some notable skills in the middle of one of the most tumultuous times in Gotham’s history. It’s not only the opportunity to give pathos to someone who’s been a joke up until now, but in that pathos, we better understand the toll this war pays on even the D-listers of the city. And, of course, King handles it with the same poetry he’s handled the rest of the series, showing us the seeds of a flower that’s already bloomed.

  Superman #27

It’s time for a Kent family vacation, and for the Independence Day (this comic is a wee bit late), they’re going on a tour of American memorials, with Clark and Lois teaching Jon about the history that makes them worth the trip.

I’m a fan of hokey and schmaltzy, but patriotic schmaltz is where I draw the line. After all, there’s history and there’s hierography, and it’s hard for me to tolerate any account of, for example, the founders, without bringing up their hypocrisies of slave ownership and genocide. Plus, there’s the general glorification of war that happens whenever you do this type of thing that sours even sweet scenes like the Kents treating a hopeless vet to dinner and standing up for his right to dine somewhere even if he may “disturb other customers.”

Superman is meant, in part, to represent the best of American ideals, and unfortunately, this comic doesn’t really touch those.

  Green Arrow #27

Here, however, is a comic that discusses America in a way I can get behind.

Green Arrow’s search for the Ninth Circle takes him to Washington DC, where he runs into Wonder Woman, and the two foil a plot to increase America’s support of war, and thus military spending.

Green Arrow doesn’t even try for subtlety here, at times reading like a polemic against America’s hawkishness – which is incredible. Oliver waxes on about how the Ninth Circle uses fear to motivate people to their side by convincing the public that the only way to feel safe is to buy more and more weapons to protect them from an increasingly dangerous threat – a threat they engineer, of course. He even lectures about himself and his own ignorance of his privilege when he first began as the Green Arrow.

But what’s so effective is that, despite how over the top things get in this comic, the results are all too familiar. A formally pro-peace senator being scared into supporting increased “defense.” Despite saving the day, Oliver and the comic believe that, regardless of political affiliation, all politicians are motivated by fear and eventually learn to support endless war for the sake of feeling secure. It’s all lies acted on for the sake of profit.

  The Wild Storm #6

We’re 25% through this story, which, in Ellis time, means that it’s finally appropriate time for an infodump.

After an expertly scripted and executed fight scene, that reads like John Wick fighting Jaws from 007, between Cray and the two-person kill-squad sent to kill him ends with Cray accepting Christine Trelane’s job offer – Adrianna brings Spica to Jake Marlowe’s base in Brooklyn so she (and we) can get some questions answered about IO, Skywatch, and how this world is run.

The way the comic is put together, the fight in the beginning feels like having your dessert before your dinner; quenching our action-tooth before giving us some nourishing exposition. But I don’t want to give the impression that this is dry exposition. Ellis still writes some of the sharpest dialogue in comics (and TV and film), and Davis-Hunt still finds ways to make two people talking at a table graphically disturbing when certain reveals make it appropriate. Between this and Clean Room, he’s become my favorite comic artist for scenes of the grotesque and Giger-esque.

  Secret Empire #6

While lost-Steve continues to be tortured by the Red Skull, and the heroes trapped in the Darkforce dimension do their best to keep Tandy’s light; Hydra unleashes a full-on assault on the resistance base. And inside their crumbling base, the resistance tears themselves apart trying to find their mole.

This issue is all over the place, not giving any of its developments any time to breathe. I’m not sure if this issue is supposed to end on a high-point or low-point, and I doubt that’s intentional. Through the issue is a narration that starts with Steve talking about how all heroes are hypocrites who fight only for their own pride and reputation, then goes to Hawkeye during the attack on the Mount where he seems to admit defeat before being reminded of why heroes really fight. And there’s a dramatic showdown between Steve and Tony that intentionally echoes the first Civil War. Hydra unleashes the Hulk on the resistance in what feels like it’s supposed to be the story’s lowest point, but this is right about the point in the story where Hawkeye’s narration tells us that this is where all the heroes regain their nerve…and then there’s a nuke and we’re supposed to believe everyone died even though we saw them all escape…?

Again, nothing has room to actually land and breathe before the issue hits us over the head with the next dramatic moment. While I’m normally against extending these events at all – and this one is already set to be 10 issues – this issue could’ve easily been split into two that allow for a better dramatic arc to unfold over the course of this one battle.

  Peter Parker: The Spectacular Spider-Man #2

After a brief misunderstanding with Ironheart, who eventually agrees to help Peter with the hacked Stark phone, Pete heads back to New York to summarize Amazing Spider-Man: Family Business to a confused Johnny Storm, and then go on his date with Rebecca…in full costume.

Like Zdarksy’s other books with Marvel, this one slows down and takes us more towards the ground-level with its characters, putting more focus on their day-to-day rather than whatever big criminal plot they’re gonna have to face. We spend a lot more time with Peter in his apartment chatting with Teresa and Johnny, or out on his date than we do following up on the hacked phone.

And Zdarksy writes the most natural sounding Peter dialogue in any Spider-Man comic today. Where Bendis’ writing can often feel like the characters are reading from a script, and many of Slott’s quips feel (appropriately) forced; Zdarsky’s Peter reads like someone legitimately saying the first funny thing that pops into his head, and is appropriately hit-and-miss. That feeling is also aided by the more normal situations that Peter’s found himself in this issue; as he’s quipping during a date, not while fighting supervillains.

I think, more than not mentioning his current status quo as a billionaire, the reason that this series feels like a return to form is because it’s focusing a lot more on Peter than Spider-Man.

  Ms. Marvel #20

In this issue’s opening pages, Ms. Marvel establishes itself as the ideal of “the world outside your window” that all Marvel comics that choose to attempt that should strive towards. Aamir, who was arrested for no reason last issue, pleads his case explaining his innocence, and even explains who the authorities should look for if they want to find terrorists that look like him. It’s an eloquent and grounded explanation of who gets radicalized and why, delivered by a character in a situation that reflects our unfortunate reality. It’s a clear-headed and powerful scene, and more comics should strive for such relevancy.

Then, Ms. Marvel wakes up from being knocked-out last issue, and jumping back into action, finds herself in the middle of a Chuck Worthy rally. Worthy’s speech is reflective of the sort of conservative rhetoric of law and order and nostalgia that unfortunately wins elections; but presents it in a way that doesn’t necessarily hit you over the head with it, like a comic like Green Arrow would.

This arc – and this series overall – successfully puts it’s hero against clear analogues for real world issues, and makes them approachable and resonant. Yeah, you’re getting a story about a stretchy girl that punches bad robots, but Ms. Marvel has also told stories about gentrification, online-harassment, and islamophobia that confront each issue with the same tenacity that Kamala confronts her villains.

  Bitch Planet: Triple Feature #2

And where Ms. Marvel tackles real world issues with a degree of allegory, Bitch Planet has always come at it from the angle of parody – ramping up the real world effects of white patriarchy to what are supposed to be ridiculous extremities. Like the last triple feature, this issue takes us off the prison planet and to Earth itself, where life isn’t that much better for women.

The first story, Bits and Pieces, shows us a child’s beauty pageant in Bitch Planet, where tween girls are judged on the beauty of a single body part, and has one heck of a final page. The second, This is Good for You, shows us a propaganda film. And the third and longest story, What’s Love Got to do With it?, tells the story of one woman’s quest to get married before her family is forced to pay an “Old Maid tax,” and explores how dating is done on Bitch Planet.

All of these stories are generally funnier than the main series, each acting as a short parody of a single aspect of what living in an uber-patriarchy would be that rather than telling the sort of wide-ranging story of the main title. This means that each story is also sharper, with single page conclusions finding inventive ways to twist the knife like the best episodes of The Twilight Zone.

Comic Reviews for 7/19/17 Batman #27 One man finds himself caught between the forces of the War of the Jokes and Riddles like a kite in a hurricane, being pushed and pulled between Joker, Riddler, and Batman; and his family's safety hanging in the balance.