#operation theatre courses near me

[technicalinstitute]

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[forasecondtherewedwon]

Bodies in the Theatre

Fandom: The Artful Dodger Pairing: Jack x Belle Rating: E Word Count: 1021

For today's @dodgerfoxweek prompt: post-series

Summary: Jack and Belle make a new memory on the operating table where she almost died.

She lives, and he’s afraid to be near her. She probably sees it before he does, feels it before he does, frowning because he’s always maintaining a distance, clasping his hands behind his back. He thinks, for a while, that it’s a reversion to propriety; she’s been recast, a finished vase back into raw clay on a spinning wheel, made over again, and he doesn’t realize it’s him setting her up on a high shelf, out of his reach.

It’s her who shows him, of course. It can only be her. One day, when the hospital is quiet and the theatre floor is clean, she insists on closeness. One step closer and he feels the thick slickness of blood on his hands. Two steps and she’s cut open beneath him and Jack’s demanding, “Stop. Stop,” holding out a hand to prevent her coming any nearer.

“Jack.” Her eyes are pleading, but tears wobble across his vision. “Look at me.”

“I am looking at you,” he spits, crying freely. “I’m always looking at you. You’re always right there, in front of my eyes. I see you… I see you when I try to sleep…”

His hand is shaking when he lifts it to his face, covers his mouth but can’t muffle the ragged sob. He crumples and she sweeps towards him and it doesn’t matter now because his mind has already gone there, seeing the worse. Her hand is just a weight on his back.

“It’s this room,” he gasps.

She rubs.

“It’s only a room.”

“No.” His breathing hitches, but he forces himself to stand. Her hand is on him still. “You looked… I thought you were…”

“Dead,” she finishes. And it’s the worst thing, but it comes from her living lips. “You couldn’t feel me breathing. You couldn’t find my pulse.”

Hetty will have told her, after he could not. She will have asked, naturally curious about the procedure, probably put out that she couldn’t study the surgery performed on her own body. She knows, and it’s such a relief that his lungs fill properly, his panic beginning to subside.

“It’s over now,” is her promise.

“Not in my head.”

She stands squarely in front of him.

“What’s the worst thing you can imagine?”

“You on that table,” he tells her honestly, immediately.

Taking her hand from his back, she strides to the table. Eyes locked on his, she plants her hands and pushes herself up to sit on its surface.

“Belle…” he says, voice rough, gutted from his throat.

“What next?”

He walks to her slowly, face working through all of it: her fearlessness, her determination to see him through this, her strength in sitting where only weeks ago she lay while Hetty sponged the blood that coursed from her body. He takes her face in his hands. It’s been so long. His hands healed her, but he’s been too afraid that the next time they touched her skin, it would all be taken back. Her body would remember, would recoil. She lifts her face and he brings his mouth down to hers.

“Lie down,” he whispers.

This is harder yet, and easier. She lies back without shifting away from him, so her legs hang off the table. She keeps her eyes open. She doesn’t appear uneasy. He’s trembling as he braces his hands and leans over her. Not checking is impossible; he watches her chest rise and fall, pinches her leg through her loose trousers.

“Ouch.”

“Sorry.”

After a minute, she sighs. He folds over her, ear pressed to the thump of her strong heart.

“I remember this ceiling,” she says, so quiet. “I didn’t think… but I do. I remember your face. I couldn’t feel you kiss me—the pain was too much. That didn’t seem fair. But I was never afraid. If you couldn’t fix it, it meant that it couldn’t be fixed, and all the time I’d had was all I would get. I was relieved, when you put the mask over my face and I breathed in the ether. I was relieved if I’d spent the last of my time with you.”

He releases a pained gasp and turns his face into her blouse. He’s kissing the linen, and then Belle draws it up, and then he’s kissing her skin, her scar, the very line she teetered upon between life and death, his the hand she held as she walked it.

He sighs, hot, and her abdomen quivers. His name moans from her mouth like it doesn’t want to leave. Like the rest of him. That’s right, he doesn’t want to leave her.

They fumble her naked from the scar down, and he never thought he’d be here like this, and his exhausted mind has sketched too many scenes where she isn’t here at all. Because he still doesn’t trust his hands, they’re light, stroking her hips, but his mouth is brave though uncertain, his face between her warm thighs. His tongue licks generously and her hips roll with him. He can hear her breathing, because she does it loudly. On the table, she is alive as he has known her to be, knows her to be, and something in Jack is released.

“I can do it,” he exhales. “I have you, Belle. I can do it.”

Her hands rake through his hair, clutch, and guide his mouth back to her. The wetness on his face, winding trails of sorrow and lingering dread, disappears into the wetness of her. It’s joy now, joy, joy, her knees in the air because she can’t keep them down. He shuts his eyes, just a test, and there’s nothing waiting for him there. Her living presence is too commanding.

This is a theatre and the role she’s played in his life is once-in-a-lifetime. He tells her that he loves her, and he tells her that he loves her, and because she loves him, he knows that he can be loved. He knows that she loves him, and she says it, and he hears her. He hears the breath leaving her body. And he hears it surging back in.

[destinyc1020]

sometimes I think the kid as in Tom was not meant to be this famous. Like his moves are suspicious to me. I would not be surprised if Harry is his publicist. He doesn’t move like a celebrity should idk the complete disregard about the discourse around his name in the last few months has made me realize that he operates in a very short sighted arena. Like I will be honest I am so dumb founded by his lack of response to this whole thing. I mean, this play is just a play right? It is not meant to make or break anything for him. But now it’s breaking him. The very community that he is entering aka the theatre community ( esp black theater in south London) is not happy. So this has now already created this persona about him to the people consuming this art.It really saddens me because I know the kid doesn’t have a bad bone in his body but he lacks foresight. I’m sure Sydney Sweeney would have made a statement if she was in the situation because she cares about pr. I bring her up because we all know Tom has better character than her but she understands her position in this business. Tom doesn’t. Im really frustrated. I wish there was something we could do but like today with his twitter he is not on top of shit! It’s hard to defend him. If Fran comes out of this and speaks and says she wishes he would have done more then it’s really really fucking bad. He missed the chance to be lauded by the community now he is being scrutinized and honestly he deserves it

I understand your frustration Anon, but I think you're catastrophizing things just a bit.

First of all, British theater will be JUST FINE, they LOVE Tom over there (do you forget he started off in British theater?? 🤔 He's not some nobody).

Second, the tickets for all play dates have already been sold OUT. They sold out in like 2 HOURS. People are gonna be sat for this play regardless of whatever "issues" are going on inside of the Twitter app.

Most ppl attending that play probably have no clue what was going on online anyway on Twitter. 🙄

The only people complaining about this casting were racist ppl who o more than likely didn't have a ticket to the show in the first place.

Third.... Sydney Sweeney is nowhere NEAR as famous as Tom is, so while she might be good at "PR", when you're SUPER famous (like Tom is) you do have to think extra hard about your actions (and non-actions).

Lastly, while it's frustrating.... You have to keep in mind that you're just a fan, and to know your place. You don't know everything, you don't see everything. We don't know what Fran might come out saying in the future. She might talk about how Tom and the rest of the cast was super supportive of her, and bought her cards and flowers, and helped her to feel welcomed.

When you make assumptions, you.... well, you know the rest lol 😆

I'm just saying, while it cad be frustrating, I think that as a fan, you have to realize that we don't know ALL the facts, we don't know what will happen in the future, and we don't need to hate on someone in retaliation.

Jmho 🤷🏾‍♀️

Either you're a fan, or you're not... It's your own choice. I personally don't feel like celebrities are perfect, so I afford them some grace, even if they've disappointed me in some way (depending on what it is of course).

Just take a deep breath and breathe.....

[playingforever]

Do you think mono would ever noncon six? Perhaps in an obsessed crazy melty way? - retrospring ask [link]

[spotlight panning to me, as I am very severe and fingers steepled] [and my head is under a bag] Considering the fact that the whole time loop 🔁 operates on subjecting Six to torment without her consent — more or less personally orchestrating her constantly being abducted and rescued only to be abducted again... Yes, I do think that Mono has this capacity within him. In fact, I firmly believe it,,,

Usually I look to canon to gauge how much duress it would take for a character to cross another's boundaries so extremely... In Mono's case, he's able to get quite far in 'the ends justify the means', even before he has reached his apex of being the Thin Man — what he does to Monster Six is deeply upsetting. As I play it, I sure feel like I'm performing a sort of noncon... Persevering through a girl screaming and belligerently resisting me until the very end.

By contrast, I think actual rape, would be a lot more preferable for the both of them-!? (knows how this sounds, BUT HEAR ME OUT.) It'd just be a lot more direct... Not needing all the convoluted theatre of the environment around them. I think it'd be a pretty good breakthrough if Mono could lower himself enough from his position of Six's noble protector, to enact on her body for his own desires — and it'd be more digestible for Six to process her harm at the hands of her friend. I think the ending of the game leaves Six in turmoil, whiplashed about by the extreme poles of what Mono/Thin Man put her through. She likely, can't even really understand what Mono's intent even is. It might seem wantonly cruel with no goal. And only when alone does Mono perhaps, reflect on his own selfishness.

[waves hands...] Of course, this isn't me saying it wouldn't be intense, or alarming or upsetting etc... Just prefacing that I think it's both a logical escalation from their current dynamic (lol.) and that also it would be cathartic.

Now, let's get into the details. ( •̀ ω •́ )✧

Between the two... well, I do see Mono as closer to processing his feelings as 'a crush'... specificity of, Attracted To Six. I think he's able to identify, when Six is near, heart goes doki doki. Like to look at her, like to touch her. His reactions to her are not incidental; he knows he wouldn't feel this way about anyone else. There's a boyish simplicity to him... which, means I think he also understands, he gets Horny about her as well. He be seeing, ha panty, sometimes, as they're climbing ladders. Lingering gaze, on her bare legs. Compulsively keying into the location of her pussy. And so on. It's not something he shies away from feeling... She's a pretty girl, after all... [quietly stares, from the safe partition of my paper bag.]

As for Six... she is unable to have that kind of awareness for her feelings about Mono. Naturally kind of, doomful, listless girl... not one to think with romantic flourish. It probably feels like a fluke that they were even able to survive this long; keeping each other company is a bonus. It's not that she doesn't care about him — I do think he's able to make her feel things she never has before-!! Six would have her own moments of raw attraction as well, drawn to Mono as something distinctly familiar, in an otherwise hostile & unfamiliar world. Buuut I think she's also a bit wary of emotional intensity too ww, so she would be scared to feel doki doki... She can't quite linger on it, like Mono does.

Generally I think of it as... Six cannot consciously instigate, because she's so far from having expectations of affection (she can't even see herself as craving it...) Meanwhile, Mono is more capable of instigating, but is encumbered by self-hate and overly obsessing about being Six's protector. Mono's love language is like. Dragging Six around violently and bashing things with a pipe. He's, one-track-minded, so I think he's in this rut of seeing rescuing/protecting Six as the ultimate expression of what he can do for her. Fantasizing about kissing her is genuinely too self-indulgent... so he doesn't-!! Even if he would like to. Instead, I think he gets off on the extent his loyalty makes him sacrifice and enduring anything 'for Six's sake'. It's a problem lol.

NOW IMAGINE WE COULD GET PAST THAT BARRIER...!! (And I imagine this would be through the sheer power of looping and accruing 1000 little scant moments with Six. Basting in unmet desire.) Well then Mono could reach the Next Step of trying to Do Something-! Regardless of if it felt, selfish and awful and antithetical to what he is supposed to be doing... No, even so, the feelings just need to well up inside until he can't take it. I think he also needs to be poisoned by how passive and permissive Six is, and how much he's constantly directing her body... A part of him should understand, it's possible to get away with, Something, here...

The atmosphere varies... I could see it being stoic, severe, ahh the mindset of 'I will just Do It. Here I Go.' Harsh low breathing, forceful, crushing Six against his body, pinning her against a surface... (They're often in tight, enclosed spaces together, aren't they?) Or, something more plaintive, trying to shush her, apologetic, 'Please just let me...' petting her, trying to hold hands during, errr but also definitely keeping her restrained and not letting her wiggle away... I've also dwelled on, like a cowardly pathetic attempt at somno, like a kind of Bargaining emotion... scoot pants down, but still be in underwear, press tented boner between her legs... please god, I just want to kind of feel it, for 1 second. [TRYING TO NOT HUFF IN MY PAPER BAG...]

Emotions I envision at the start of such a thing are mostly, lowly, guilty... though I think it could escalate midway into some sort of, entitlement, arrogance, I do so much for you please just let me...!!! and so on. And then of course, her body feels good, to fuck. So there's satisfaction gained from the sheer act. Maybe a childish belief that it can't only feel so good for him. Surely, it feels good for her too... [mentally justifying actions] Six's reflex is to run from things — maybe she just needs him to be persistent. That's how it often is, between them... ⬅ わがまま！！

For Six, on the receiving end, I like it to be genuinely pretty scary and inscrutable, whatever he is initiating with her — like she's not even fully able to grasp the sensations, she can't think 'sex' or 'rape', even. It's more disorienting than that, like, Mono is acting on my body, Mono is forcing himself inside me. Feels like he's created an opening in her, he might as well be stabbing her — just that extreme, of a gap of understanding what is happening.

But ahhh I think, her own attraction and interest in Mono means her body rawly responds to things like his touch, scent... She's already keyed into his voice as a firm anchor, something she's meant to react to, so hearing him haggard, breathing, or babbling at her, slurring, anything would make her brain feel as though it's reverberating in her skull. Draws out unconscious feelings, desperation, aching — terrible awe that she's somehow made him do this? That she isn't running away from it, either? — all this happening internally/physically would make it all feel Crazier. Like oh, Mono's lost his mind, and ig me too. AhhHHH.

For how complicated it is for these two, baseline, I see things as even starting consensual ➡ descending into noncon, midway during interfacing. A consequence of having hazy memories of multiple timelines; a kind of ability to go from 0-1000 easily, with no warning... Alsoo, I kind of, stylistically(? ??) like to imagine they do not talk aloud very much, and have predominantly nonverbal interactions. But it means, they're both often floundering with their own internal perception of things, and unable to bridge a discussion about what the other is feeling or what is happening... or what the other wants. It takes a lot of pressure to reach that event horizon, I think... The great conflict at the end of the game is their discrepancy in perspective, after all.

All that said, I think the scariest rape potential is, well. Bagless Mono at the end of the game who has just usurped power from the Thin Man and is tormenting Monster Six. That guy, I think is like uniquely off his rocker, swangin his axe around and booming HEYYY at a cowering screeching girl. God help Six if he could, just channel enough power to resist being tossed into the abyss or something. I think he could fuck her to death. He really froightens me. She is right to drop him and turn and leave. Seriously get away from him before something bad happens. [laughing...]

[hartxstarr]

hey so I am BONKERS late but. I just wanted to say I love your writing excerpts that you put up!! Fracas au does some kinda thing to my brain and I always love seeing more of it, and even (especially!) with the tiny other snippets I love seeing your takes on the characters in general. I know from experience it can be hard to like old writing, but like. It was really good and you should be proud of it!! Anyway I probably could have worded this better but thanks for sharing and have a nice day :)

hello hello!! thank you SO MUCH honestly i know i can be a little hard on my old stuff (ESPECIALLY fracas) but just know that i dont actually hate any of it. i just compare it to my writing nowadays and see just how different it is! it’s always nice to hear that someone likes my writing. i’ll read the comment over and over again and get so happy. and then come back later and read it again lol so for you to say this means a lot to me 💚

fracas au was something near and dear to my heart at the time. i ended up posting like three works about it (one deleted) but i spent countless school-hours writing about it in notebooks and i have so many wips in my files…in the end, i dont have those notebooks anymore and only remember the barebones of the complete story as it was. fracas would have spanned from forest-dwelling reds and blues, to them taking down a Super Secret government operation, to them returning to their home once more. with many, many, many shenanigans in between, and overlapping storylines, of course.

anyways, here’s another 2017 snippet of a fracas wip i never finished. this would have been the opening to the fic haha (i have gone in and cleaned it up just a tiny little bit but i refrained from going too hard at it, least i end up finishing the entire thing)

---

“I ain’t sharing no vegetables with no-good, dirty Blues.”

Leonard squinted into the face of Sarge while the Red raised his chin in response—more so turning his nose up already to whatever the Blue leader was about to say than to his sudden proximity.

It was like a standoff in an old western movie and, if they were in a more sparse, drier climate—where thick evergreens didn't grow and the shabby pavement beneath their feet weren’t littered with pine needles—a pinecone could take the place of a tumbleweed and roll pass them down the length of the avenue, out of sight.

But as it was, they weren't in an old-town desert outside a local tavern, readying their pistols, spurs jingling. Instead, they were smack-dab in the middle of town in each others faces, the trees parting enough to let in a few good, generous rays of sunlight; and Leonard, swimming in his hoodie, didn’t seem to have a good rebuttal.

Despite this, Michael from afar whispered with as much enthusiasm as he would atop a theatre stage, “Leonard will win” like it was, in fact, some kind of duel-gunpoint competition set up for all of their amusement.

The Reds and Blues stood in a sort of collective semicircle, watching their respective leaders size each other up. Transactions never were an uneasy affair in Blood Gulch, the mutual desire for an item far more powerful than the animosity the teams constantly lived within—but, of course, Sarge wasn’t the one usually making deals.

Richard had tried to passively refrain his leader from going with him to make business with the Blues; he had wanted Dexter—as was the standard—but Sarge seemed to be bored that day, perhaps, and mentally decided that the only way to stir the light of day was to make trading far more difficult than it needed to be. Obviously. So, it was in his wake that the entirety of Red team came to witness Leonard still unable to come up with a response to his rival team leader's declaration.

“Oh yeah?” he tried after a moment more. “Well—we don’t want your fucking vegetables—”

“Yes, we do!” Lavernius threw his hands up in despair.

“Yes, we do want your fucking vegetables,” the Blue probably thought it was a pretty good save. “So—just give them to us,” and he still doesn't know what to say. “Why are you even here?”

Sarge seemed to swell at the question, back straight and towering over Leonard not in stature but in pure aura alone. “I'm here to make sure you don't swindle my team out of valuable goods!”

“Don't worry, Sarge!” Delano called out from the back. “My goods are too precious to give away so easily!”

“Thanks for the info, Delano.”

Del was always so unwaveringly cheerful. “You’re welcome, Sarge!”

[fardell24b]

Spider Quinn 10 The New Heroes - Part 6

It wasn’t long before Joey, Quinn and Daria arrived, along with Jeffy, Jamie, Stacy and Jane.

“Even more teens,” Osborn murmured as Jane entered last.

“Daria has invited me along as moral support,” Jane added. “As well as to appraise any artworks you’re wishing to add.”

“I see,” Osborn said. “Now, as you can see, most of the work on the lobby has been done.”

“Good,” Stacy commented.

“Now, follow to the side rooms, and you’ll see that the café is also nearly complete,” Osborn said.

Brittany looked around the café area after she and Kevin entered. It certainly had an old style charm. “Wow,” she commented.

Osborn lead the group to a table. “Have you figured out a name yet?” he asked.

“The Old Theatre,” Robert said. “But then there are other old theatres in Lawndale.”

“We just called it that,” Joey said.

“What was it originally called?” Daria asked.

“According to the paperwork, the Global,” Osborn answered.

“Probably not that,” Quinn considered.

“You want a name that reflects the ideal you want it to be, right?” Daria asked.

“Of course,” Joey said.

“When I write a story, I choose a name based on the theme,” Daria said. “So, what theme are you after, other than the nostalgia?”

“The Past,” Joey mused, then shook his head.

“Historia?” Brittany asked, as she twirled a pigtail.

“Huh?” Kevin asked.

“Wait, say that again,” Daria responded.

“Historia. A place of history,” Brittany said.

“Sounds great!” Quinn said.

“Historia, a place that reflects history,” Daria said with a slight smile. “What do you think of that?” she asked Joey and Robert.

“Great, Ma’am,” Robert responded.

“Sounds better than ‘the Past’, or anything else I could have come up with,” Joey said.

“Historia, it is then,” Osborn said.

As the kitchen was already operational and Osborn had hired caterers for the day, they then had lunch. Brittany and Kevin sat across from each other, as did Angie and Robert, and Joey and Stacy, Quinn and Jamie sat next to each other, across from Daria and Jane.

“What’s wrong, Babe?” Kevin asked.

“Nothing,” Brittany said. She was thinking. Being Ninja Talon was taking up time she would otherwise spend on dates with Kevin. ‘But what excuses could he accept?’ she thought. She already knew that he would take a lot.

“OK,” Kevin said.

She continued eating and overheard Stacy saying that she would be going to an anime convention later in the year.

The rest of the lunch went well.

After the lunch, Brittany left the soon-to-be ‘Historia’ and headed to one of the town libraries. ‘If nothing else I’ll  be able to find something.’ She was soon confronted by the size of the library and the fact that she was unfamiliar with the Dewey Decimal System. As such, she spent most of the afternoon wandering around the library in confusion as she thought about each thing she read.

After dinner she headed out again, with a portable radio. She waited on Lincoln Street near Lisa Fisher’s house. She wanted to be sure that her fellow cheerleader wasn’t the new vigilante. It wasn’t long before a report came on the radio, that the new vigilante had been sighted downtown again. ‘It’s not Lisa,’ Ninja Talon concluded, as Lisa hadn’t left the house.

The new vigilante had just rescued a lady from a would-be mugger when Ninja Talon arrived on the scene at the north end of Main Street.

“Ninja Talon is it?” the new vigilante asked when Ninja Talon had approached.

“Yes,” she answered.

“SpiderGirl couldn’t catch me. What makes you think you can?”

“I have a different style to her!”

“That may be true,” the other vigilante said. “But something tells me you don’t have powers.”

“And you do?”

“I’m neither confirming nor denying,”

“Then tell me, why are you doing what you are doing?” Ninja Talon asked.

“I don’t have to tell you!”

“No, you don’t. But what is your goal?”

“I don’t have to tell you that either,” the new vigilante said, before somehow producing a fog and disappearing into it.

‘Oh great!’ Ninja Talon thought as she tried to go around the fog. The new vigilante had vanished into the night.

She looked for a while longer, but couldn’t find her again, so she went home disappointed.

Lawndale Sun-Herald

Sunday January 21, 2001

Old Global Theatre to reopen as Historia

Norman Osborn, along with Teens Robert Allan and Joseph Green announced that the theatre will reopen as a coffee bookshop next week.

SpiderGirl re-read the article. It was quite accurate. ‘Good, the Historia will be a good thing for Lawndale,’ she thought.

She put the paper back and went on patrol.

But it was a quiet day in Lawndale and Quinn went on a lunch date with Corey Bateman at a café. “You haven’t had a date with me since the dance,” Corey said.

“Well, you know about my father,” Quinn responded.

“Not since then, I meant,” Corey said, defensively. “Sorry.”

“Apology accepted,” Quinn said.

“Obviously…”

“Grieving, yes.”

Corey was then quiet, and the rest of the date was awkward.

SpiderGirl patrolled an area of the downtown after the date, thinking about how awkward it had been. ‘Not much I can do about it now,’ she thought.

SpiderGirl and Ninja Talon met later that evening, after both had had dinner.

“So, how are we going to do this?” Ninja Talon asked.

“We find out where she is and then approach from opposite directions.”

“Good idea.”

“I also remember when you came up with a strategy at that paintball excursion,” SpiderGirl said.

“It was something I was familiar with. I’m not as familiar with Lawndale’s rooftops.”

“So, you had been paintballing before?”

“Yes,” Ninja Talon answered.

“I see, anyway what I said, and I hope you can improvise.”

“I’ll try.”

It wasn’t long before they heard a news report.

“The new Vigilante has been sighted in Dega Street.”

“Dega Street,” SpiderGirl said. “That’s not helpful.”

“We could search from each end,” Ninja Talon suggested.

“No other idea, so we’ll do that.”

SpiderGirl went to the north end of the street, as that was further. They kept their radios on, so as the try to track where the other vigilante went.

It wasn’t long before there was another report.

“The new Vigilante has been sighted defending patrons leaving that Zon or Zen nightclub in Dega Street.”

Ninja Talon knew where that was. She headed in that direction.

SpiderGirl arrived above the Zon/Zen and found Ninja Talon and the new Vigilante.

“So, you’re confronting me together are you?” the latter asked.

“We just want to talk,” SpiderGirl said.

“Is that it?” the new vigilante asked.

“Yes,” Ninja Talon answered.

“About what I’m doing?”

“Exactly,” SpiderGirl said.

“I see. I don’t need to answer to you two!”

“Wait!” SpiderGirl called out.

“What?”

“We’d like to work together from time to time,” Ninja Talon said.

“Cooperate in our crime fighting from time to time?” the new vigilante asked.

“Yes,” SpiderGirl answered.

“I suppose I can do that.”

“But, what do you call yourself?” Ninja Talon asked.

“I haven’t come up with a name yet,” the other admitted. “I don’t think I need one for what I’m doing. Working in the shadows to protect people in Lawndale. Especially those who are alternative.”

“Shadows,” SpiderGirl mused. ‘If it can be used for something bad in that show Stacy told me about.’ “Maybe that could be your moniker. ‘The Shadow.’ What do you think?”

“Sounds good, Spidey,” the other responded. “I could use that.”

‘Spidey works in a pinch,’ SpiderGirl thought.

“The Shadow?” Ninja Talon asked. “I does sound good. Especially with the way you vanish into a fog.”

“Just a little theatricality,” the Shadow responded. “But that’s all I’m going to say. I’m not going to reveal something that would lead you to my secret identity. I hope you understand.”

“I do,” SpiderGirl said.

“Same,” Ninja Talon said.

“But you can trust me to help out if you find yourselves overwhelmed with whatever is going on.”

“And the other way around?” SpiderGirl asked.

“Of course,” the Shadow said.

“I have powers, but do you?” SpiderGirl said.

“I’m not saying one way or the other. I could be using the theatricality to cover that, or maybe I am not. I’m not going to say either way.”

“No problem,” Ninja Talon said.

SpiderGirl sighed. She knew that was all she was going to get.

“If anything else, it’s time go to,” the Shadow said.

“Wait!” SpiderGirl said.

“I’ll see you another time,” the Shadow said, before producing the fog and vanishing into the night.

“That’s it then,” Ninja Talon said.

“Yes. We can trust her,” SpiderGirl said.

“Yes. But…”

“There will another opportunity for that.”

“Of course. But I’m disappointed,” Ninja Talon said.

“I am too, but we can still trust her and work with her regardless. I’ll see you Monday,” SpiderGirl said before webswinging away.

Ninja Talon saw SpiderGirl swing away. She looked around but couldn’t see the Shadow anywhere. ‘Another night,’ she thought. ‘May as well head home.’

She patrolled an area between Dega Street and the Creek before heading home.

SpiderGirl arrived back at the Morgendorffers over an hour later. She saw that Daria was pacing in her room. ‘Something is up there,’ she thought.

Daria heard a knock at the door.

“I’m available,” she said.

Quinn opened the door. “Are you OK?”

“Why do you ask that?”

“I saw you pacing as I came home. You don’t usually do that.”

“How?” Daria asked.

“Your curtains are wide open.”

“Oh. It’s just that Jane has been busy lately.”

“So, she hasn’t been able to spend time with you?” Quinn asked, sitting at the computer.

Daria nodded. “I’m worried, but that doesn’t mean you have to worry.”

“Daria, of course I worry about you. I worry about Mom. I’m sure you worry about me as well as Mom,” Quinn said quietly. “And Mom about us. It’s part of being a grieving family.”

“Of course. It’s that Jane and I do seem to be drifting apart. We still interact at school, just not as much at each other’s place, the Pizza place or the Zon.”

“I don’t know to what to say there.”

“That you have come in and checked on me is enough,” Daria said.

“Thanks.”

“You have your friends, and the three mentees, who may become friends.”

“Four, including Angie,” Quinn said. “But she may become a friend also. But my grief hasn’t changed my outgoing nature. You’re still… you.”

“So, you want me to reach out to another?”

“If you want to.”

“I’ll think about it,” Daria said. “I could try to call Jane again tonight.”

“Or wait until you get to school tomorrow,” Quinn added with a shrug.

“You have a point there,” Daria said as Quinn stood.

“Thanks for hearing my concern.”

“Quinn, that you admit you’re worried about me is enough. Before what happened to Dad, that wouldn’t have happened. There was too much difference between us.”

“True,” Quinn admitted.

They hugged and Quinn left. ‘Jane, what are you doing?’

Casa Lane was quiet again after Trent and Jesse finished their practice session for the night. Jesse was in the kitchen when a black clad figure entered. “Not cool!” he said as he grabbed a rolling pin off the bench.

The figure took off her mask, revealing that it was Jane. “Relax, Jesse, it’s me.”

“Sorry, the crime has me on edge,” Jesse said.

“That’s fine,” Jane said.

Trent entered the kitchen. “How did it go tonight, Janie?” he asked.

“I had a discussion with SpiderGirl and Ninja Talon after they both confronted me above the Zon,” Jane said, for she was the Shadow!

“What about?” Trent asked with concern.

“About working together when the situation calls for it.”

“What does that mean?” Trent asked.

“Meaning that if I’m overwhelmed, I allow them to help and vice versa. They don’t know I’m me and I don’t know who they are. As far as I know SpiderGirl is the only one with powers. Ninja Talon could be what she appears to be. A teenager highly skilled in Martial Arts.”

“Sounds good,” Jesse said.

“Cool,” Trent said. “At least you’re not alone. But on that topic; Daria. She called earlier. She sounded down.”

“I know I have been neglecting her. I’ll catch up with her tomorrow.”

[technicalinstitute]

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[greensparty]

Coolidge Corner Theatre Expansion

This past December, the Coolidge Corner Theatre in Brookline, MA celebrated its 90th birthday! It is one of my favorite movie theaters in the world and more than a few cinephiles agree with me on that. It is one of the most prominent and respected independently owned and operated indie movie theaters in the U.S. I first went there as a teen around 1991 when my friend brought me to see Spike and Mike’s Festival of Animation there. It was such a cool grand cinema and they play older films as well as indie films. Over the years, I’ve seen countless films there including the re-release of The Graduate, a midnight showing of 12 Monkeys, anniversary screenings of Texas Chainsaw Massacre and 2001: A Space Odyssey, a concert that followed Echo in the Canyon, and of course Independent Film Festival Boston screenings. But of all the awesome films I’ve seen there over the years, my favorite was in 2018 when they did a special one-night sold-out screening of my documentary Life on the V: The Story of V66! Another very special memory I have of Coolidge Corner Theatre happened in June 2021: I hadn’t been to a movie theater in over a year. My return to the cinema happened a few weeks after I had gotten my COVID vaccine and I went to the Coolidge to see one of my favorite movies of all time, David Lynch’s Blue Velvet! So I guess you could say I'm a big fan of the Coolidge!

ribbon cutting at Coolidge Corner Theatre's new expansion

But this week the big news today is that Coolidge Corner Theatre has unveiled their new expansion. The existing Coolidge Corner Theatre we know and love is still there (the big movie house, the three smaller cinemas), but now they have and extended lobby and concession stand near the back entrance by the municipal parking lot, two new cinemas (movie house 5 is red and 6 is blue!), as well as an education and community engagement center for classes, private events and more! It opens to the public today with both The Wizard of Oz and 2001 screening in the new cinemas.

Coolidge's new movie house 5, lobby, movie house 6, and reception area

Yesterday I got to attend the ribbon-cutting of the new expansion and look at the new space. The common theme from everyone's remarks was how lucky we are to have Coolidge Corner Theatre in this area. It's very true! At a time when so many movie theaters are closing, Coolidge Corner Theatre isn't just swinging it out of the park with their projection, sound, curation of old movies and new indies, they are actually expanding and going to be able to show more films and be a place for more art and culture in the area. Great news all around!

For more info on Coolidge Corner Theatre and their expansion

[heavyelectricity]

The Dark Hospital

"Hah, this'll be scary."

That's what we thought as the three of us approached the door. It was an inconspicuous thing, surely too narrow to be anything other than a decorative feature. But sure enough, the door creaked open to reveal an entryway that was no wider. The youngest was the only one of use truly excited to venture inside, and sure enough she went in first. I attempted to follow, but try as I might I just couldn't squeeze through. Neither could the third of our group. By then, it was too late to call our companion back, so we decided to find the exit and wait.

Despite our difficulty in finding the exit, the large wooden door proved to be far grander than the entryway. At the very least, it appeared to be designed for regular adults. The two of us shared a quick giggle about the doubtless terrified people that would emerge. Instead, the first person we caught leaving The Dark Hospital was smiling. The next looked like the weight of the world had been removed from her shoulders, and the third was practically skipping. The person we were waiting for? Nowhere to be seen.

Impatiently, I returned to the front door. Through sheer force of will, I managed to fit myself through the claustrophobic corridor, only to be confronted with a rather unnerving foyer. I tried to turn back, to no avail - the door was one-way. Not that it mattered, as a rather eccentric, shady-looking man had sidled up to me and started to talk to me.

As I did my best to ignore the distractions from my unwanted guide, I took note that this was a most unusual hospital. Not a bed in sight, nor an operating theatre. Surgical equipment was entirely absent, and the stark, fluorescent lighting you'd expect wasn't there either - though I suppose that fit the name of the establishment. There was some sort of lighting, but if its source could be traced, I wasn't able to do it. Whether that was a failure of my eyesight or simply distraction from the irritating man, I don't know.

What I do know is what this unseemly gentleman knew, and what he knew was a lot. A lot about me. Intensely, uncomfortably personal things about me. Following ten minutes of non-stop harassment, I started to answer some of his questions, in the hope that he might find satisfaction and leave me alone. All I wanted was to find her and get out.

My efforts were to no avail. Whether through luck or judgement, the "Doctor" - his title, not one I recognised - had detected the dishonesty in my answers. Maybe, if I told him the truth, he would cease his relentless questioning? Of course not. If anything, that just made it worse - the questions became more intrusive and harder to answer. Lying wasn't an option, but the truth…

I'm falling. The colours are dazzling, an otherworldly roar fills the air. The floor is tilted at near enough a right angle and my fingertips are aching, as I desperately claw at anything that might stop me from tumbling into the abyss. The Doctor, by now floating in front of me, is shouting in my face - repeating all the lies I've told myself over the years, to protect myself from the reality I've feared more than anything else. Surely these are my final moments. I'm sorry I couldn't get her out. I'm sorry I ever came in. I don't want to die with regrets. I scream out the truth I'd never admit.

Silence.

No strange lights, no strange noises, no pit threatening to swallow me up. And… no more fear. I'm taken to another room, with someone friendly. There's a mirror. For the first time ever, I look in the mirror and I see myself differently - I see a person that I'm comfortable with, someone I don't hate the mere sight of. I try on some of the clothes that are around, I don't quite know if they work - but there are others in the room, and they help me out. Finally, I find something that makes me feel pretty good.

But I still haven't found her, so I have to keep going. I'm no longer so fearful for her life, but I'm intensely curious to know what she made of the whole experience. Maybe she's already left? Maybe she's waiting for me outside? So I open that big wooden door, leading back to the street outside.

The young one still isn't there. But our other companion is, and she sees me - the new me. For the first time, the real me.

And she turns, runs and screams.

[bibliocratic]

I come bearing a sort-of fic idea! (Only if you feel inspired to use it, of course 😊) Back in ep 101, Martin figures out that/where the Stranger has taken Jon, and goes all BAMF to save him, using either Web powers or his developing Backup Archivist powers to do it. (Dealer's choice) Some of that sweet sweet emotional h/c...

Dearest anon, this fic has been so long in the writing, and it’s only distantly related to what you asked for. Hope you like it regardless. :)

Set in an S3 AU, implied JonMartin. Tim-centric.

Content warnings for strongly implied graphic violence, canonical S3 captivity and imprisonment, hospitals and hospitalisation.  Rated T for language and implied violence

Jon’s skittering, sprawl-legged slam against the archive door startles Tim from the shadowed walkways of his reveries.

The tilted legs of his chair thump back in a slap to the floor. Almost physically wrenched into the now, there’s a snapback to Tim’s spine, a vice-clench knot tightening in his jaw. His mood cranking up from frosty to furious.

“The fuck?” he barks at the intrusion. His snarling primed with teeth, his temper clawed to rend. He’s up and standing, whereas Jon’s practically handing off the door handle, the impact of his arrival almost knocking his legs out like ten pins from under him. An ugly, airless heaving of his chest. His eyes bloodshot, wild. In the weeks since Tim saw him, his hair has grown out unwashed and limp. His skin shimmering wrong in the light in a way that’s oddly greasy.

He’s a shattering mannequin of a man tending to ruin but Tim’s long pared down his own capacity for compassion. He loads up his questions in their chambers, and he knows where to place emphasis, where to press at the bruising, the soft-tissue targets; where the hell have you been, oh wait, don’t fucking bother, why would you even tell us anything anyway huh, because you don’t even trust us. So why the bloody hell should we care where you go galivanting off to for weeks without a word, fine by us, just fucking peachy.

“Martin,” Jon rasps out finally. His words floundering beached in his mouth, and Tim has never seen this particular mania, this bruise-sick shade of pathetic desperation. “T-tim, please, help, please, god, i-i-it’s Martin.”

Jon’s spasming, quivering hands are staining brown with blood.

-

“He wouldn’t have just left! Not – not like – like this!”

“You mean without saying anything. Not sharing with the class. I dunno, Martin, sounds exactly like something he’d have done. Classic Jon.”

“I’m telling you, something’s wrong!”

“Ha – everything’s wrong. Narrow it down.”

“You know what I mean! Something’s… He should be here, is all I’m saying, and Elias, well he’s useless but he – he knows something, I’m sure of it. We have to do something.”

“Like what?”

“I don’t know! Find him!”

“Maybe he doesn’t want to be found. Huh, what about that? Maybe he’s finally managed to fuck off and leave here, legged it and left the rest of us to rot.”

“You don’t mean that.”

“I do.”

“We should – ”

“No. No, listen, Martin. This isn’t a team sport. Jon made his choice to go this alone. If he’s gone off somewhere, then that’s on him. There’s no ‘we’.”

“There used to be.”

-

Martin didn’t come in for work, and Tim assumed he’d left. Just like Jon.

He’d stewed in that betrayal, pacing lupine and furious, bricking up the walls of himself with his self-righteous anger. Because he’d been right, hadn’t he, he’d been vindicated in his bitterness, because of course Martin had left scurrying after Jon, of course there was never any loyalty to Tim despite his pretensions to their friendship. Of course, Martin hadn’t fucking stayed, and Tim was glad he was gone, free of his nagging and needling and whining.

Tim was acquitted in all his furies, every one of his poisonous doubts. The rose-thorns of his betrayals tore deeper, and he let the wounds fester.

-

Elias arrives in the aftermath.

Jon collapsed not too long ago. Shock and dehydration and whatever the hell happened to him threaded through him like blood poisoning. He’d babbled to the ambulance crews, his tongue a senseless oracle of clowns and skin and blood. They’d given him a shock blanket, the foil treating the light around them erratically, but he kept shaking it off and trying to stand, dressed in grubby boxers, an overlong coat, the fabric worn to grey at the pockets and stretched to billowing at the chest, clearly belonging to Martin.

It was hard for Tim to hate him like that, even as he’d barked at Jon to stay down. Jon’s face a theatre mask of ghoulish blood, begging the paramedics to help Martin, manic and spiralling.

The old bastard had had a heart after all.

There’s a bank of chairs outside the part of the ward where they’re keeping Jon. He’s pin-cushioned with IV’s, a set of machines monitoring his vitals. He wakes fitfully, and every waking is a pitiful confusion before he sinks back under.

Martin’s still in surgery.

Elias, deigning to leave his ivory tower, his face formed in an impeccable replica of concern. He wants to speak to Jon. To have, as he put it, ‘a private word’. He talks a precisely ordered stream of bullshit in his infuriatingly reasonable tone, about all this being such a terrible tragedy, such a blow to their little family, if only they’d known. Poor Martin, of course, what a horrible ordeal, we’ll naturally help him with recovery, cover any time off, no expense considered.

Tim watches his mouth move, and knows in his gut that Elias could have stopped all this.

That he chose not to.

Elias doesn’t get within a hundred feet of Jon. Tim makes sure of it.

-

Jon does not speak for days. Delirious and distraught. Martin’s condition worsens, then stabilises, then lingers at critical. There are several more operations, and Tim does not know what they are doing, only that they are reforming a heap of blood and bone back into a person.

Tim wants to know what happened. Where Jon went, where Martin found him, who he needs to hate.

Tim learns to temper his frustration, the desire for knowing that curls at the bottom of his stomach. It is not a natural wanting, and it’s a spiteful, gleeful action, to deny that rot within him.

-

“Tim?”

“Stay still, boss,” Tim says. “You’ll pull everything out.”

Jon doesn’t say anything more for a long while. Tim shifts uneasy on the chair provided, thinking, hoping that Jon might have sunk back into sleep, when:

“Martin? Is he…?”

Jon turns his head to look at him. His eyes wide, beseeching, wet with fear. Wanting Tim to make this all ok.

Jon’s eyes in this light are a lot like Danny’s. Tim sucks back a hard breath, and doesn’t meet his gaze, and he knows that only distresses Jon further, who will take the avoidance as a death knell, as a punishment he is expecting to have earned.

“He’s alive, boss,” Tim says eventually. The words hard won. “He’s… he’ll be alright.”

That could be a lie. He doesn’t know much these days.

-

“Th-there was a room,” Jon stammers one day. He’s sat up, pillows stuffed behind his back. Tim’s bought him an apple juice carton like you buy for children, and he hasn’t touched it, even to push the plastic straw through the top.

His fingers at his lap twist, twist, twist.

“It must have been a … a factory floor, or something. One of those old textile mills or something, up near Manchester. It used to have those big machines for spinning cotton, there were big, discoloured spaces on the boards where they would have sat. There were columns, load-bearing, every fifty feet or so, and t-the chair that they – they had me tied to was anchored against one of those s-so it didn’t – so I couldn’t move it, or knock it over. I-I don’t know how long I was… I.” Jon stops, out of breath. “I don’t even know the date.”

Tim tells him. Jon blinks, and murmurs ‘oh’ like it’s not what he was expecting. His hands are shaking. Tim should reach out, shouldn’t he, it should not be this difficult to provide comfort.

His hands have forgotten how easily reassurance used to come to him.

“Th-they didn’t, they didn’t hurt me. Not, well, not exactly, I-I-I mean, it wasn’t – they wanted me unharmed.” Jon’s voice has crept small and crouched, words tuck under his tongue. “They were waiting. For the right time. They were going to t-take my, um, my skin. For their – for the ritual.”

“Christ.” Tim hisses out, because that is fucked, this whole thing is fucked. How the hell is this the way their lives have turned.

Only Jon’s fingers, his restless hands make noise for the next minute.

“I don’t know how Martin found me,” Jon says.

Tim has a creeping suspicion. It’s the same thing that helps Tim spits out exactly the right seeds to allow hurt to take root. What told Martin that there was something wrong. He could call it intuition, but that’s not how their world works.

Gifts, of a sort. For their faithful service at the temple of their all-seeing god.

“He tried to get me out. Snuck in somehow, cut the ropes with this – huh, this battered old kitchen knife. But I couldn’t… they’d had me tied to the chair for so long that standing up was… I couldn’t walk, and it’s my fault, he was half-carrying me but – I slowed him down, a-and then Nikola came back. And I couldn’t do, I couldn’t do anything, there’s never anything I can do, and they pulled me away and I. I tried, Tim, I-I tried, and I wasn’t… please, Tim, you’ve got to believe I tried to stop them.”

Jon’s fingers are moving to fist in his hair, yanking, tugging, his spine moving to fold himself over.

“Stop,” Tim says sharply. Trying to loosen Jon’s clenched hold.

“I tried, I tried – everything, I offered them anything they wanted, and they just kept – I-I-I tried, Tim.”

“I know,” Tim replies. Quieter. Softer. Separating Jon’s hands from his hair, pressing them back down to his lap, his burnt one held over the other pocked with worm scars. Tim doesn’t move his own away from the fragile tower they’ve made. “I – I know, Jon.”

“Martin – there was more of them. It was easy for them, to hurt him until he stopped struggling. They didn’t tie him up, they knew they didn’t need to. A-and Nikola, she was… she s-s-smiled as they pushed him over onto his back. She – she kept smiling. And she said they didn’t need the two of us. That they could have a bit of fun, a bit of – ” Jon’s voice chokes horrified. “A bit of practise. And wouldn’t I like that. To watch. To give the Eye something to look at.”

Jon crumples into tears then. In on himself like a disintegrating star. Tim feels cold and distant for a moment as he watches this shipwreck as though through the porthole of another boat. Listening to Jon’s hitching sobbing from elsewhere.

The rage is burning off him to reveal something plain and hideous in its humanity, and Tim hates it.

Jon falls apart, and Tim stays.

-

“You know your Archivist killed them all? He’s got a bit of a temper on him after all. Must be all that repression.”

The newest form of the Distortion still smiles like a headache. Her fingers curve corkscrewing. Tim, who is trying to get a Snickers from the vending machine two wards along from Jon, whips his head around to glower at the unwelcome visitor.

“What do you want?”

The Distortion, who has previously called themselves Michael, and is now still Michael but not entirely, whose face has refracted into a different form – there’s been a sort of change in management, if you like, except, well, that’s not really it at all, but do feel free to call me Helen.

“I was hoping for a teeny bit of gratitude. I was the gallant rescue, after that assistant of yours blundered in and made such a pig’s ear of it.”

Tim snarls. The Distortion’s expression wavers displeased.

“Ooh, touchy, alright. Calm down, firecracker. I bought them both back breathing for you. Your Archivist would be still strapped to a chair in Stockport if it wasn’t for me, to say nothing of that woebegone assistant. Blood all over my carpets.”

Tim ignores her. The glint in her eyes suggests she’s disappointed not to have riled him up.

“What now then?”

“Well, you won’t have to worry about the Circus for a while! Dear Jonathan’s seen to that quite splendidly. Knew he had it in him. Although, I suspect, even he didn’t know he could. The Circus was always good at pushing too far.”

“And you. What about you?”

The Distortion’s smile reflects a hundred alternatives.

“Oh, I’m just waiting to see what happens next.”

-

Tim’s thoughts have been straying to Danny a lot. Naturally, all things considered, his trauma’s head reared high and made horrifically manifest.

Jon is not like Danny was, too stiff and self-conscious in his own bones. But Danny’s skin had been lit up with that same live-wire intensity that last night, smeared in shadows and exhaustion and tears that shone foreign on his cheeks. Tim had not recognised the crying, silent, shaking stranger in his room, just as he barely recognises Jon.

Watching him finally fall apart holds no victory for any of them.

Martin is not like Danny was. Taller, for one, wound-up over tight in his own clockwork of fears. He’d be about Danny’s age though. Maybe.

Danny went back to the Covent Garden Theatre, alone, and the being that had then gone by the name of Joseph Grimaldi had torn off his skin as easily as wrapping paper.

Martin went alone. He didn’t ask Tim for help, because he knew Tim would have said no, and there’s an ashy shame coating his tongue, knowing it would have been true.

It’s powerlessness that’s snarled him up in barbed wire, toothless and immobile. Tim’s felt powerless for a long time. That is not going to stop.

But his anger hasn’t protected him. Hasn’t protected Jon. Certainly hasn’t protected Martin.

Jon is not in bed when Tim goes back during visiting hours. The nurse directs him to another ward, indicating in few words that this jaunt was neither encouraged nor advised, but the patient was not one to be dissuaded.

Sounds like Jon.

The man himself has dressed erratically in the spares Tim bought. A t-shirt that is divorced from his own style, the colouring drawing him over-sallow, the jeans too short and trailing above his ankle. He’s squashed himself into a chair, his back folded like a shepherd’s crook, his scatter-shot energy spent into exhaustion. His hand in Martin’s wrapped one.

Martin’s awake. The ministrations of the Circus left his face mostly alone, clear enough for tubing to be threaded into his nostrils and down his throat but the bandaging is extensive. Tim would have thought he’d be away with the fairies on morphine by now, and rightly so, but his jaw sets imperious when he sees Tim. He doesn’t let go of Jon’s hand.

“You doing alright there, Marto?” Tim asks. There is another chair nearby that’s been left by a visitor long gone, and he drags it over. Tim chooses to keep his voice low, chooses to squash the anger that sparks up in him at the violence done to Martin’s body.

“What does it look like?” Martin replies. Not snapping, no wisp of anger there, but there’s a pained whipcord strain to his response, a forced pace to his breathing.

“I thought they’d have you on the good stuff,” Tim says after a moment.

Martin gestures with imprecise movements at a remote off to his right, a grey blocky shape with buttons, hooked up to some sort of patient-controlled analgesia machine.

“You not taken any?”

Martin, as best as he can, shakes his head.

“Why?”

“I just don’t want to, alright?”

Tim doesn’t push. The silence between the two of them is protracted, uncomfortable, but Tim can stand to learn some patience.

Martin’s eyes are watery, clearly trying to push through the pain. Jon sleeps on.

“He won’t tell me,” Martin says. “But it’s bad. I know it’s bad. Right?”

“Yes.”

Martin deserves his honesty. Tim doesn’t know how long Martin suffered on that factory floor until Jon ripped the Circus’ sawdust out with his fury. Long enough for the bandages to coat his arms and legs and back like lacquer, changed multiple times a day to make sure the skin grafts take, and the stitching holds.

Tim should have been there. Like he should have been there for Danny.

“God, Martin,” he says, and he’s surprised to find his throat has clenched tight. “It’s… I’m so sorry.”

“What are you sorry for? I went and got myself…” Martin trails off, swallows with difficulty. “I did this, it was all, all me. Fat lot of good it did.”

“You don’t know that…” Tim starts, but Martin looks at him and he seethes without raising his voice.

“What good’s come out of this then? Go on, Tim, tell me. I’m a – I’m a mess, and what the fuck do I have to show for it. What the fuck have any of us gained from this? I just fucked up, and it – I thought I was going to die. And worse, I thought they mightn’t let me, that they might take what they left as scraps a-a-and – ” Martin’s jaw clacks shut as he pushes down his distress.

“You saved Jon.”

“I didn’t though. The bloody – the bloody door monster showed up and did that simply fine without my help!”

“You don’t know that. You don’t know what you changed. God, Martin, this whole, this entire thing is all so, it’s fucked, right, it’s…” Tim’s voice wobbles, cracks. “But you tried to do something. You tried to help. And I’m – I’m so sorry you did it alone.”

Martin doesn’t leap to forgiveness. But he nods and Tim puts his hand on the wrappings up his arm and he doesn’t move away.

“What now?” he asks after a moment.

“I don’t know.”

Martin closes his eyes.

“I’m tired,” he confesses. “I’m just so tired of all… all this.”

“We’ll think of something,” Tim says. Finding that he means it. It’s not a promise, but it’s as good as he’s able to offer these days. “You should take some of that morphine. It’ll… it’ll help.”

“It makes me feel out of it. Like, sluggish. And everything’s far away.”

“That means it’s working, Marto,” Tim says, trying for light-hearted, but Martin’s shaking his head, and the shivering is back in his hands. A wide and trembling glaze to his expression.

“If they come back…”

He doesn’t finish his sentence.

“I’ll stay,” Tim says. Pats Martin’s arm in a way he hopes conveys reassurance.

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

Martin nods. Tim helps him grasp the grey remote, push down the button. It’s not long before Martin’s drifted off.

Tim sits there for a long while, thinking about the future.

[mrepstein]

The Beatles Book Monthly (No. 5, December 1963)

‘A TALE OF FOUR BEATLES’ by Billy Shepherd

PART IV (PART I // PART II // PART III)

Part IV opens in June, 1961 and charts Brian Epstein's early involvement with the Beatles.

And so the Beatles, with two experience-garnering trips to Germany behind them, got back to Liverpool. A swingin’ scene... and they were very much a part of it. It was the end of June, 1961.

But though they liked having more money to spend, they hadn’t the foggiest idea of just how much they were worth. The offers came in. Anything between £6 and £14 was the pay-packet, to be shared between Messrs. Lennon, McCartney, Harrison and drummer Pete Best.

“We just didn’t know,” admits George. “We loved the work, the excitement. We didn’t realise we were often being exploited. But it was hard work and somehow we didn’t seem to have much money in the kitty after we’d kept our equipment up to scratch...”

July, 1961, could go down as a summit meeting in Merseybeat history. A steamy, summery, shimmery night at Litherland Town Hall. A young promoter named Brian Kelly announced his attraction: The Beatmakers.

George Harrison was on lead guitar. Paul McCartney on rhythm. John Lennon on piano. Drummers were Pete Best and Freddie Marsden. Les Maguire operated on saxophone, Les Chadwick on bass guitar - and Gerry Marsden nipped on and off behind a big grin to take the vocals.

Gerry and the Pacemakers and the Beatles had linked up. For one night only and for a fee which is the smallest fraction of what they’d command for such a show now.

It led to friendships between the group members... but it didn’t seem to be leading to that pot of gold at the end of the rainbow for the Beatles.

Says John: “We went on knocking ourselves out night after night but somehow there was a bit of frustration creeping in to it all. It didn’t seem to be leading anywhere.”

But the audiences were greatly appreciative.

Says Paul: “We started accepting dates further south. We got pretty near London on some of them. No change of material for us - still the stuff that went down so well in Germany. But we were veering away from the leather gear. Don’t make this sound big-headed, but the fact is that a lot of other groups were copying the way we looked on stage. So we changed to more ordinary clothes for a while.”

But in September, depression set in. Paul and John took themselves off to Paris for a holiday. They remember being flat broke. Remember having to search through every pocket to rake up enough francs for a Coke. Now, of course, they can go where they please and not count the cost.

And George and Pete stayed on in Liverpool, virtually lost to the Beat scene. Ray McFall, owner of the Cavern Club remembers seeing Messrs. Harrison and Best around the lunch-time sessions but they seemed dispirited. They took a lot of persuading even to join in on the impromptu roar-ups.

Let well-known Liverpool show compere Bob Wooler fill in the background to this black spot in the Beatles’ history.

“I’ve known the boys since the early days. I’ve been a long-time admirer. What they really needed was a manager in those far-off days. They seemed content not to argue about the fees they were offered. And they didn’t seem to realise that they were pulling in crowds on the strength of their own name and performance.

“After all, they had to live. They had to look after their equipment - and they often had travelling expenses to pay. It’s all very well being popular and enjoying your work, but you should be paid what you’re worth as well.

“Ray McFall at the Cavern was different. If the crowd was good, he upped the fee. That’s why the boys have always been so loyal to the Cavern. But you can understand them being puzzled at the lack of hard cash from their other venues where they were so often doubling the attendances.”

Paul and John were meanwhile spending a lot of time on their song-writing. You’ll see how much they’d already achieved in this direction as the story pushes on to the first recording days.

John and Paul could never sit down and simply write a song to order. They admit: “We have to wait for the ideas to arrive. It can happen anywhere. On a bus, or a train, or backstage at a dance-hall or theatre. Sometimes the title suggests itself first. Then we get going on the words and music. Sometimes we’ve finished a very successful seller in less than an hour.”

But their most pressing need was for a manager. Paul has told me “When we first started on paid jobs, we honestly thought we weren’t manageable. We thought nobody would want to bother with us. We were a pretty off-beat bunch of characters, to say the least. And we had a sense of humour which somehow involved us all and which was hardly in the interests of discipline. So, for a long time, we just didn’t take any notice of the advice that we should be properly handled. ‘Who’d WANT US,’ was the way we thought...

“And that’s where we were wrong...”

A MANAGER. Liverpool man Allan Williams took on the chore for a while... he now runs the Blue Angel Club on Merseyside.

But the man who was to make show business history with the Beatles knew nothing about the group in that September of 1961. That man, of course, was Brian Epstein, one-time drama student, member of a family which owned a chain of furniture and radio-TV stores in Liverpool.

He was not exactly WITH the beat scene. But he WAS in touch with the public taste through his work in the record department of the stores. He’d been there for five years, building up the business, enlarging the staff roster and increasing the turnover.

And in September, 1961, he was a puzzled man. Fans kept approaching him with: “Have you any records by the Beatles?” Brian mused. Pondered. Wondered. One young lad was particularly persistent in his demands. Brian dug deep into the record-lists. And found reference to that “My Bonnie” single, recorded in Germany, on which the Beatles played a strictly supporting role to guitar-star Tony Sheridan.

“I became Beatle-conscious for a while,” he says. “I always tried to work on the theory that the customer was right - and if they wanted the Beatles, well... I’d do my best to supply the Beatles. Eventually I traced the source and ordered some 200 copies for the record-stores. They sold quickly...

“Then out of the blue I heard they were Liverpool boys, had a rapidly-growing following - and were actually playing in a club near the store. It was a place that I’m sure I’d visited before, a sort of teenage gathering-place, but I really didn’t know much about it.

“After a while, I thought I’d better pop down there and see what all the fuss was about.”

Brian Epstein went to the Cavern. Met the Beatles. And things really started happening for the ambitious but not-too-sure group.

There are two ways of looking at this near-historic meeting. Brian Epstein’s. And the Beatles’ viewpoint.

Beatles first. Said George: “He started talking to us about the record that had created the demand. We didn’t know much about him but he seemed very interested in us and also a little bit baffled.

“He came back several times and talked to us. It seemed there was something he wanted to say, but he wouldn’t come out with it. He just kind of watched us and studied what we were doing. One day, he took us to the store and introduced us. We thought he looked rather red and embarrassed about it all.

“Eventually, he started talking about becoming our manager. Well, we hadn’t really had anybody actually VOLUNTEER in that sense. At the same time, he was very honest about it all - you know, like saying he didn’t really know anything about managing a group like us. He sort of hinted that he was keen if we’d go along with him...”

Brian, quite honestly, thought that the Beatles looked a mess. He wondered what exactly they thought they were trying to be. Their strange jackets, the rather scruffy jeans, the hair-styles, which could only have been styled on something called “chaos.”

“But there was something enormously attractive about them,” he recalls. “I liked the way they worked and the obvious enthusiasm they put into their numbers. People talk about the Liverpool sound but I sometimes wonder what exactly they mean. These boys put everything into their routines but they didn’t use echo. That struck me as being a very good thing.

“It was the boys themselves, though, who really swung it. Each had something which I could see would be highly commercial if only someone could push it to the top. They were DIFFERENT characters but they were so obviously part of the whole. Quite frankly, I was excited about their prospects, provided some things could be changed.”

And Brian told his friends: “This could easily turn out to be the biggest show business attraction since Elvis Presley.” It’s a tribute to his foresight and intuition that that is precisely what has happened.

Brian decided to get the boys together at a round-table conference at his store. A time was fixed and the boys agreed. But Beatles are not always the easiest of people to organise. Brian sat waiting... and waiting... and waiting. He was trying to cope with the vastly complex figures of Christmas orders for the store and minutes were precious to him.

Eventually THREE Beatles arrived. George, John and Pete. No Paul. Story goes that Brian got George to ring through and see what had happened to the left-handed guitar-star. And that Paul admitted he was still in the bath... but wouldn’t be long!

Brian was rather on his high-horse. He felt it was not the right thing for someone who wanted to talk business to be kept waiting. He pointed out that Paul, the cherubic one of the four, would be extremely late. “Yes,” said George, forcing back a grin. “But he’ll also be extremely clean.”

Says Brian: “That sense of humour is invaluable. You could hardly feel annoyed at their lack of business ability. They were just four individual and off-beat characters.”

Prior to Brian taking such an interest, there was great concern among Cavern people that there was a chance of the Beatles packing in all thoughts of show business careers. Bob Wooler had tried hard to get BBC television producer Jack Good interested in the group. Jack had produced beat shows, like “Six-Five Special” which had been the stepping-stone to success for artistes like Cliff Richard. But Jack was also in demand in the States... and he’d gone there to further his own career long before Bob could get any decision from the telly-folk.

Brian, having eventually assembled all four Beatles in the same room, put his propositions to them. He went through a process of brain-washing, though he did it all very tactfully. He didn’t like their manner of dress. Wasn’t knocked out by the unruly hair-cuts. Was singularly unimpressed by the way they casually drank tea on stage while in the middle of shows.

He pleaded with them rather than ordered them. He knew they were a valuable property and he was knocked out at the way their personal following was growing through the Merseyside area.

Said John: “He’d tell us that jeans were not particularity smart and could we possibly manage to wear PROPER trousers. But he didn’t want us suddenly looking square. He let us have our own sense of individuality.”

He added: “We respected his views. We stopped champing at cheese rolls and jam butties on stage. We paid a lot more attention to what we were doing. Did our best to be on time. And we smartened up, in the sense that we wore suits instead of any sloppy old clothes.”

It was a master-plan. A long-term plan if necessary but it was aimed at making the most of four young men who clearly had that star quality in them... even though a recording contract was still more than nine months away.

Obviously, Brian Epstein’s main job was to get the group on record. He knew the strength of their popularity in Liverpool and he felt it wouldn’t be a hard job to interest some of the London companies. But that was where Brian was wrong.

He even delayed any sort of action until the results of the 1961 “Mersey Beat Poll” were announced. That came up at the end of the year. And the Beatles were high and dry in top place in this important survey of how the public felt about the myriad groups operating in the scene. Said Brian: “I thought this was the ‘Open Sesame’ to the recording scene. I felt that Liverpool was important enough to have London executives falling about to sign the boys. I was wrong...”

Brian, though technically still in charge of important parts of the family business, threw himself into the job of getting the Beatles known nationally. He had the backing of the Beatles’ parents and it was to be no holds barred for the major break through.

He started visiting London. Hopefully. Optimistically. But record executives showed an alarming tendency to register non-committal gloom. Brian had to keep reporting apparent failure to the boys - by now riding higher than ever in popular acclaim in Liverpool.

Cont’d next month in No. 6

[pl-panda]

To Marry a Vigilante: Part 17

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To Marry a Vigilante: Part 17

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The altercation with three footballers had several outcomes. First, Marinette was no longer treated as someone weak. Quite the opposite. The smarter part of the school now had a healthy dose of respect for the small french girl when they saw the camera recording Chloé ‘leaked’. The more sport-inclined part of the faculty was devastated by the loss of the three star players, for which they blamed Marinette. 

Erica washed her hands about the whole incident, declaring that the poor souls must’ve just rashly reacted to the gossip going around the school. It still hurt her position a bit. Chloé and Allegra masterfully countered any of her minor lies and started spreading gossip about the head cheerleader instead. It was turning into a cold war, where neither side could get any advantage over the other for long. 

The initial background search turned clean on both of them. Lila’s mother was an orphan, raised in one of the covenants in the mountains before studying law and politology. She now headed the French Embassy, after previously working in Germany, Belgium, and Spain. Lila’s father was a mystery and his name was not given at any point. The Italian girl often changed schools. Usually, she didn’t stay even one semester there. Lack of any family and trusted friends made her move around with her mother often. Boarding schools were too expensive for a then-starting diplomat. At some point, Lila started to thrive in each new school. Her files were nothing but praise since then. 

Erica Layton was born Erica Blake, then Boyle when her mother married a wealthy CEO. Before, she ran a smaller Blake Industry, which merged with Boyle enterprises after the wedding. When Mr. Boyle was shot during one of the Two-face’s robberies, Erica’s mother started to date again. Until last summer, when she married a star baseball player, Lance Layton. The business was clean-ish and there was nothing that could be used against them really. There were some cases of inner nepotism and a bit of discrimination, but it wasn’t even worth a real investigation. Erica herself was truly a mean character, but her good looks, influential family, and good grades made her the “Gotham Academy Golden Princess.”

Damian wanted to get his vengeance. He tried hacking, but Barbara stopped him. It wasn’t as if anything he got that way could’ve been used against her and forging evidence was wrong, and would only hurt them in the long run. Marinette stopped him from going after them as Black Cat, which only agitated him further. He hated the feeling of powerlessness. Well, he loved Marinette more so he wouldn’t go against her orders. 

Sabine also did her best, but she was similarly blocked by Barbara, who went as far as to lock the Bat-computer. A woman of many skills, Sabine was still unable to beat Oracle at hacking. She did make sure to always be available and near the school to intervene if any of the teachers tried to punish Mari unfairly. She was doing the same for Chloé, who she slowly came to treat as her child too, just like Cassandra. 

Allegra tried to get her mother involved, but Catherine Hamilton-Kane was a woman of high morals and would not use her influence to fight dirty games. “That’s how corruption took seed,” she declared. And Gotham Academy, as a private school, was beyond her reach anyway. It still gave Allegra enough power to at least counter Erica and her mother, who was at best negligent and at worst co-operating with her daughter. 

All in all, Marinette and Chloé settled into some form of routine. The school was much better than Françoise Dupont. It was bigger, which meant Lila had a harder time setting up her court. Erica’s power also suffered a major hit when the ‘outcasts’, as the blonde witch called them, took a bit more active role in the events going around. Claude, who was one of the lead actors in the theatre club made sure that no one aligned with Lila or Erica could join. Felix started to slowly push Erica from politics, engaging in subtle games at every front. Even Jon helped by taking over the school newspaper. The guy that was running it previously happily handed over the reins. 

There were few minor dramas at school, like the Witch Club, haunting at the theatre, or the weird carnival. Damian and Marinette didn’t pay it much attention. Claude dealt with the ghost quite easily and met Katherine Karlo, who became his favorite actress ever since. Professor Trent was against including her, but when the usually cheery boy threatened him to quit and take over half of the crew, the discussion was over rather swiftly.

Of course, akumas didn’t make it easier. In fact, they were the biggest holdback. Whenever Chloé and Damian did something too drastic, Lila, Erica, or someone associated with them would become an akuma and then their work was in ruin. Every akuma on their side would earn them ‘pity points’ and serve as ammunition against the Waynes’ front. 

The investigation proved fruitless. Sure, akumas could’ve been traced, but they actually made sure to never come from the same spot. Sometimes, it was a rundown building, other times a flat over a crowded restaurant; a hotel; a public toilet at the bus station. Adrien was moving and making sure not to fall for what got his father. They had no idea how he could be so stealthy. The cameras never saw anyone even similar to him at any of those places. Sabine was now running the rooftops as Shadowbat, not wanting the press to associate the Miraculous team with Batfamily too much for now. She had been using her old assassin suit (still fitting perfectly) with a bat logo on her chest as her outfit. She mostly just worked with Cass. Black Bat and Shadowbat. They were probably most feared of all dynamic duos in Gotham. Silent, ruthless, precise, undefeated.

Of course, peace couldn’t really last forever. About six weeks since Christmas, when Marinette’s birthday was closing in, the first real hiccup appeared. 

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Just before lunch, Marinette’s phone vibrated, as well as several other people’s in the class. When the bell rang, she went to check it. From past experience, she knew that mass messages to students were usually bad. It had Erica and Lila plastered all over it. It was a link to the tabloid article. It opened with a photo of Damian and Allegra, sitting in a coffee shop and drinking coffee. She only read a bit of the content, far enough to reach the first quote of GA student, before storming out. People were giving her pitying looks as she walked toward the cafeteria. She didn’t want to do anything rash until she spoke to Chloé and Allegra. That was a new kind of low for the Mean Girls front. They even dared to attach a message of fake condolences to Marinette. 

Unknowingly, the Bluenette was channeling Damian the whole way, making people jump out of her path. Nobody ever saw the Angel (not that anyone would call her that within Damian’s hearing range, or where one of his multiple informants could inform him) so angry. Suddenly, everyone remembered how she took three football players in less than twenty seconds without getting more than a light bruise on her neck. 

The cafeteria was completely silent the moment she entered. Everyone expected her to rage at Damian, who was waiting next to the doors to intercept her immediately. To their utter and infinite surprise, she instead grabbed his hand into hers and squeezed tightly. A small smile made its way on her face and Damian smirked too. Nobody (but the ‘outcasts’) had any idea what that was about. Didn’t he cheat on her recently, or for a long time?

The two walked past the baffled crowd toward where Allegra and Chloé sat, already waiting for them. There were no words exchanged between the four, but the two blondes nodded like it was a signal. 

Marinette and Damian jumped onto the table in a synchronized show of grace and agility. Everyone stared at them. 

“Hi!” Marinette smiled. Next to her, her boyfriend was glaring at certain people in the crowd. “First, I wanted to thank all of you who actually meant it when they gave me their condolences. You had good intentions, even if they were completely misplaced.”

“Tt. I did not cheat on my Habibti. Not with anyone, and especially not with my cousin!” Damian growled at the silent cafeteria. They didn’t dare to respond vocally, but some lowered their heads in shame. While the relation between Bruce Wayne and Mayor Kane was not that well-known, they didn’t hide the connection. “The first cousin once removed to be precise.”

“Point is, the article is full of fake news and we’ll be dealing with it later. Still, I appreciate your effort.” She smiled at those who weren’t angry. Then, her face turned to the cold mask and she channeled Damian. “Now onto those who mocked us or tried to use it to break me and Damian apart. It won’t work. Stop. Don’t. I can’t see any situation where we would break up, and even then, there is no chance either of us would lower ourselves to dating any of you. I trust Damian with my life. I’m his and he’s mine!” She declared. 

“I’m hers and she’s mine.” Damian echoed. They raised their joint hands before turning to one another and sharing a quick kiss. Many people cooed at the romanticism of the scene. 

Erica and Lila were on the verge of a stroke. This was harder than either anticipated and they were, in fact, slowly losing more than they gained. 

A black butterfly entered through the window behind Marinette. As soon as she saw it, she acted without thinking and grabbed it. Everyone looked at her in panic. They saw the muscles in her forearm tighten and after a short moment a bit of some dark substance leaked through her fingers. When she opened her hand, the butterfly was turned into a gooey mess.

“Not today, Hawkass Junior.” She seethed. Then, she left to clean her hand with Allegra and Chloé following her. She rarely was left entirely alone, especially at school. As they walked, people gave her a loud applause. 

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“Why did it not work!?” Adrien raged in his hideout. Next to him, Nooroo was floating with his head bowed. 

“She… she touched it only with her skin. There was nothing to akumatize… master.” The little creature added, forced by the magic of the brooch. 

“But why didn’t the akuma pass through her fingers!?” The hero-turned-villain seethed.

“She… She damaged it before it could…”

“I paid a handsome sum of money to have that article published! It was supposed to either break them up or give me my own Scarlet Moth!” Adrien stomped around his hideout. “Now it’s all for naught! I want their Miraculouses! I want my family back!”

Another figure walked from behind him and pulled him into a hug. In the darkness, the only visible details were her silhouette and a predatory smile on her face. 

“Don’t worry. We will get what we want soon enough.”

“Did you decipher it?”

“Almost. There are several symbols on it that I have no idea what they mean.”

“Hm… I think I might have an akuma just for the occasion. It will require some setting-up though.”

“Don’t worry. I’ll deal with it. Meanwhile…” She said, her grin widening

“No. Get out of here, Witch.” He snapped.

“Spoilsport.” She muttered and walked away. Adrien felt anger bubbling inside him. Someone was so getting akumatized that day.

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