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bone-evidence · 1 year

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Hello all! This is the first fic I'm posting here, called Concerning Prussians! Also on ao3 under the same name :D

Set in Nationverse in the 90's, human and nation names used

A sleepless Prussia finds himself in the guest bedroom of his home, where Canada is also still awake. A late-night chat turns into possibly the sweetest way to fall asleep.

The stuccoed ceiling above Prussia’s head held infinite shapes he was quite bored of finding. Sleep had never come easy to the nation, even before the half-century of torture at the hands of Russia. His incredibly sharp memory had a bad habit of bringing up past traumas and memories as soon as the lights were out. Some he could dismiss easily. Silly mistakes he’d made as a child nearly five hundred years ago were simply passing thoughts. Memories of the glorified walk-in closet he’d stayed in at Russia’s house, however, were much fresher. Five years had passed since the Wall fell and the albino was reunited with the rest of the world. Five years was hardly any time to process anything.

Gilbert sighed and sat up in bed. The red glow of his digital clock told him it was just about midnight. His internal clock would wake him up at six in the morning, without fail. The sandman would have to smack him over the head with a brick to get him to sleep at this point. Oh well… maybe a midnight snack was in order. Prussia fumbled through the dark until he found the door and opened it silently. His crimson irises were immediately drawn to the light pouring out from under the guest bedroom door. Perhaps he wasn’t the only one unable to sleep?

The first time Germany forgot to book Canada a hotel was excusable. The Wall had just fallen, after all, and the normally well-organised man was in shambles. Gilbert felt a small measure of relief as the memory of the North American staying for a few days drove away the phantom smell of vodka and blood. Canada had brought his guitar with him then, and had played for Prussia for hours. It was the first time he’d heard music in decades.

Gilbert chuckled to himself as he walked down the hall and further into his memories. He’d been weary of Canada at first. All he knew of the maple-loving nation was the brutality with which he slayed his enemies in both World Wars. Canada’s Hundred Days was a string of defeats the albino would probably never forget. If he’d had the words to protest, he was sure he would never have allowed the man in his home so soon after regaining his freedom. He would have foolishly denied himself the chance to get to know Canada.

The blond was incredible in battle, yes, but he was so much more than his past glories. He was a breath of fresh air among the stale haze of Europe. He was quiet, until one got to know him and his particular brand of chaos a little better. He smelled of sweet syrup and pine trees, and his arms were surprisingly strong. The hug he’d given Prussia before heading back home was a memory the albino often revisited when he needed something to banish the darkness in his mind.

Perhaps Germany had noticed that Canada had walked past his brother’s walls as if they weren’t ever there during that stay. Maybe that’s why, once again, he’d forgotten to book Canada a hotel. Prussia silently thanked his dear relative as he stopped at the guest bedroom door. He knocked on it in three sharp raps, expecting at least some movement in the room. His silver brows furrowed in confusion as he heard no answer. Had the man fallen asleep with the light on? The albino decided to take a peek in the room. No point in waking Matthew up if he were asleep. There was a fridge to raid anyways. Prussia just barely opened the door, enough to see what was going on. He felt his heart skip a beat as he took in the sight.

Canada was, in fact, awake. The chunky black headphones he wore that were connected to his Walkman explained why he hadn’t heard the Prussian knock. His wavy blond hair was tied back in a low ponytail, more than likely so it wouldn’t get in the way as he read his book. Gilbert thought the strands that hadn’t made it into the elastic framed the man’s face almost as nicely as his circular glasses did. He recalled how Canada’s purple eyes had scared him, at first. They reminded him far too much of Russia’s. But he’d quickly learned that there was a kindness in them that was unlike anything he’d seen in anyone else. They were beautiful. Matthew was beautiful.

Prussia steeled his sudden, strange nerve and opened the door all the way. He knocked once more and smirked as the motion finally caught Canada’s attention. The man slipped his headphones off his ears and rested them around his neck in one fluid motion. He kept his music playing, but set his book on his lap to give his full attention to his unexpected guest.

“Oh! Good evening, Prussia. Do you need something?”

The concern with which the blond asked his question brought a softer smile to Gilbert’s lips. He walked into the room and shut the door behind him. Violet eyes followed him curiously as he sat on the edge of the smallish bed. He could just barely hear the sounds of Guns n’ Roses coming from the headphones that sat on Canada’s freckled collarbone. Not that he was looking, of course.

“Can’t sleep. I guess I’m just too awesome for the sandman to visit, hm? He must be afraid of me!”

Canada chuckled and stopped his music. Clearly, the albino intended on staying for at least a little while. “That must be it. I’m sorry didn’t bring my guitar this time, or I would play for you again.”

“Ah, that’s okay. I suppose I’ll survive without hearing you play for another five years. What are you doing still awake, though?”

“Oh, I’m just reading Fellowship of the Ring again. I always have trouble sleeping when I come to Europe.”

“Fellowship of the Ring, huh? Never heard of it.”

Matthew seemed a little surprised by this revelation, but quickly remembered why that might have been the case. The Iron Curtain had been brutally effective in keeping its prisoners isolated, after all.

“The author wrote it after the Great War. This is a terrible summary, but it’s a fantasy series about this Hobbit named Frodo who has to take a ring to a volcano and throw it in to save the world from being completely overrun by evil! It’s my favourite series of all time.”

Gilbert couldn’t help but laugh a little. The premise seemed… childish. Melting a ring couldn’t possibly save the world. “So what you’re telling me is that you’re a huge nerd. Do you play that Dungeons and Dragons game, too?”

Canada’s cheeks flushed pink. He rolled his eyes at his guest, who’s smirk threatened to split his face. “No, I’m not that much of a nerd. It’s a good series though, I promise. I think everyone should try to read it.”

“Not me! I’m way too awesome to be caught reading about Bobbitses and volcanoes, or whatever.”

“You’re not even going to give it a chance?”

“Nein. You can stick with your dorky literature, I’ll keep reading…. Er, something else. Something way cooler!”

“Hm. I didn’t want to have to resort to this, but you’ve left me with no choice. I have a fact about the author, Tolkien, that might interest you.”

“I’m listening. Though I don’t know what could possibly interest me enough to get me to read this book.”

The blond leaned a little closer with a smirk of his own, fully aware that this little tidbit of information was an ace in the hole. “Tolkien was from England. But, I’ve heard that his family was from Kreuzberg in East Prussia.”

Gilbert sat in stunned silence for a few moments, before he finally sighed and accepted defeat. He almost felt obligated to read the works of someone who’s family came from his formerly great nation. Even if the subject matter sounded a little silly. “...Alright, move over. If you’re going to drag me kicking and screaming into your weird nerd story, the least you can do is flip the pages for me.”

Canada was more than happy to make room for the Prussian to sit beside him. He set his Walkman and headphones on the nightstand while his new reading buddy got comfortable under the blankets. “Just let me know when I can turn the page.”

It quickly became obvious that Prussia was struggling with the reading material. He leaned closer to get a better look at the words on the page and try to sound them out in his head. Whole sections had to be reread as he tried so hard to understand what was written. As such, the pace was painfully slow for Matthew. They got about five pages in before the blond set the book down and looked at the frustrated albino.

“Having some trouble?”

“Ja. It’s not my fault English is a stupid language when it’s written, though.”

“...Do you want me to read to you?”

Gilbert searched the taller one’s face for any hint of pity or malice. Instead, he found the gentle, kind eyes that had a knack for tearing down his walls. There were no expectations behind the question. Just a quiet desire to share a story that clearly meant a lot to Canada. Prussia nodded, and the soft smile he received in return found itself a loving home in his long memory.

“Get comfortable, then.”

Nothing would be more comfortable than to be in Matthew’s arms. Gilbert slid down enough to rest his head over the man’s heart. He wrapped his arm around the blond’s waist, and tangled their legs together. Crimson eyes closed with a sigh of contentment as, at last, he felt strong arms wrap around him once more. He felt the corner of the book on his hip and simply snuggled in closer. Canada smelled like pine trees and maple syrup. His embrace felt like a heaven Prussia didn’t think he would be allowed into. His voice, as he started reading, was a gentle river that carried the albino far from the troubles of the world and into the land of Middle Earth.

Gilbert found himself quite invested in the tale of Frodo. The emotion with which he was told the story truly made it come to life in his imagination. Canada’s voice had an almost musical quality to it that lent itself well to describing the fantastic landscapes and peoples of Tolkien’s world. The heart he put into every syllable was not lost on the albino in his arms. As he listened, Prussia came to realise that the summary he’d been given earlier was indeed terrible. This wasn’t just a story about Frodo, or the ring, or even the quest to save the world. This was a story about hope. Hope in the face of impossible odds, hope for a future that seemed so desperately far away. Prussia found it quite easy to relate.

The rumble of Matthew’s voice in his chest proved an effective lullaby for Gilbert. He tried so hard to stay awake, to hear how the Battle for Helm’s Deep would turn out. But the hour was late, and the sandman had arrived at last. The last thing he remembered before sleep claimed him was a softly whispered wish for sweet dreams from Canada.

In the morning, Germany was quite confused to see his brother’s room both open and empty. His confusion was alleviated as he opened the other bedroom door to check on the guest. He found Prussia and Canada still in each other’s arms, fast asleep, and a book on the bed beside them. Neither stirred as Germany quietly closed the door to give them a little more time to rest. The tall man smiled softly to himself as he made his way downstairs to start breakfast. His brother looked so content, so… safe, in Canada’s arms. Perhaps forgetting to book Matthew a hotel was something Germany would have to remember to do more often.

#prucan #hws canada #hws prussia #im so nervous posting this but here we go

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fardell24b · 2 years

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The Engineer and the Time Lady - Nina, Octavius and Investigations

Nina, Octavius and Investigations

Nina thought more about the rescue. There was certainly more to it than that. She then checked the console and saw that the TARDIS didn’t see anything unusual in that data. ‘I’ll look over it this evening,’ she thought.

She went straight to the Bugle.

Betty showed Nina the room where the archives were stored. “That is a lot,” Nina said, seeing that there was only a small amount of walking space in that room.

“Yes,” Betty said. “The Bugle was founded early in the last century, and Jameson bought it nineteen years ago. He wants you to build the archive in reverse.”

“So, literally backwards?”

“Yes.”

“I can do that.”

“Good,” Betty said in an encouraging tone.

She soon, got to work. Some of the information was interesting.

On Baffin, Aialah started her duty shift. As she entered the Bridge, she could see that Alpha was reading something from a PADD whilst sitting in the Command Chair and Eta was looking at something on Science Station 1. She also saw the Pilot make minor course correction. She looked at Earth’s Moon on the viewscreen. 'Quite interesting that it's tidally locked,' she thought, as those of her home weren't, although their rotations were in resonance with their orbits. ‘Maybe because it’s so big relative to the planet?’ she considered.

Alpha put the PADD down. “Good morning,” she said.

“Not sure why we have synchronized the shipboard time to American Eastern Standard Time,” she groused. Earth rotated a couple hours a day slower than her world.

“Given that Nina's there,” Alpha said.

“Right,” Aialah said. She went over to Eta. “You have found any further information?”

“Not much. It seems to have been classified by the National Security Agency,” Eta answered as Aialah sat at the other Science station.

“I see.”

“Uh!”

“Uh?” Aialah asked.

“It seems an organisation called the Strategic Homeland Intervention, Enforcement and Logistics Division is also involved. But I can’t find much on them either. Just the fact of their existence. Whatever data they have, it must be stored offline.”

“I’ll help you find out.”

“Thanks.”

Somewhere in a nondescript office in the District of Columbia, a phone rang. “Coulson here,” the man said.

“The hack is continuing. The Agency may be compromised,” the woman on the other end said.

“Have you traced the origin yet?”

“Not yet.”

“Keep me informed.”

“I shall.”

“Uh oh!” Eta said.

“What?” Alpha asked.

“SHIELD is tracing our crack,” Eta said.

“SHIELD?” Aialah asked.

“That's what the acronym spells in Federation Standard, or as it's usually known on Earth, English,” Alpha answered.

“Oh, right,” Aialah said. “I guess I need to know more of that language.”

“It would probably be a good idea,” Eta said.

“But the trace back?” Alpha asked.

“It's still within the terrestial network,” Eta said.

“Still, I'll help,” Alpha decided.

In Engineering, Gamma checked over the Warp Core. It was working perfectly, without any problems. All the systems were working fine. She was tempted to deactivate herself again, but Alpha had decided that at least one Hologram would be on duty in Engineering at all times. She didn't fault her reasoning. She walked over to a panel and brought up the scans from Octavius' experiment again. There were many reasons why it had gone awry. “OK, replay it in real time.”

She watched as the experiment unfolded, and listened to the commentary Nina had recorded. 'Something...' she thought as the she watched the magnetic field increase. Maybe it was the fact that Octavius was using Tritium? Or was there something with the Tritium. 'OK, did Nina scan the Tritium container specifically? She checked, and saw that she didn't. 'It is a mystery then,' she thought. Or were there other such containers? “Gamma to Alpha.”

Alpha listened to Gamma's proposal. It seemed like a good idea. “We'll use the probes to scan the planet for more concentrated Tritium.”

“There's certainly something there,” Gamma said again.

“We're doing it now.”

“SHEILD is giving us the runaround,” Aialah said a while later.

“In that case, I think we should pause it, and check with Nina later to see if the TARDIS had gained the information yesterday,” Alpha decided.

“Sure,” Aialah said.

“We'll look at historical databases instead,” Eta decided.

“For now,” Aialah said.

During her lunch break, Nina saw a commotion in a nearby Bank. Something was happening. She took a moment to adopt the persona she had used the previous night, taking off her dress, showing the Starfleet uniform underneath. She then loosened her hair and put on her mask before taking out the quarterstaff. She took a moment to calm herself, then ran around a corner and entered the bank. She saw that Spider-Man was already on the scene and Octavius was throwing money bags at him.

How to stop Octavius? She could wonder why he was robbing a bank later. She could see Spider-Man having some sort of problem before Octavius knocked him down. “Octavius!” she called. He ignored her as he focused on Spider-Man and began squeezing his head with two of the actuators. She ran up as the superhero produced two webs and slammed two tables against his opponent.

There was a brief scuffle before Octavius was knocked into the street.

'Maybe Spider-Man doesn't really need help,' she thought as the two continued to fight. But then Octavius grabbed an old lady.

Nina ran after Octavius and his hostage. “Octavius!”

“I said don't follow me!” Octavius said as he looked up a nearby building.

“I'm not a cop,” Nina said, but Octavius then began climbing up the building. “OK...” She tapped her combadge. “Nina to Baffin. Octavius tried to rob a bank and is now escaping with a hostage. He's climbing a building with her.”

Aialah brought up the scan of the situation as a response to Nina’s request. Alpha took a closer look at it. “Certainly, but Spider-Man is on the scene. He may see,” she said. But there was another issue. “Also, Baffin is too far away. Transporter range is only 45000 km.”

“I don't think that would be a violation of General Order One. And couldn't the probes be used as relays?”

“They don't work that way. Adding a teleporting superhero where one doesn't already exist might be,” Alpha said. Her and Aialah’s researches had proven that Spider-Man was unique.

“Don't the shuttles have transporters and be controlled remotely?”

“That can work. Their functions can be controlled from the Bridge,” Alpha said. She turned to Aialah. “Start up the Calgary.”

“Aye, Alpha,” Aialah said.

She then turned to the Pilot. “Program her to take up a geosynchronous orbit above the 74 degrees west longitude.”

“Aye.”

“Shuttle is ready for launch,” Aialah reported.

“Launch!”

Nina watched as Octavius continued to climb the building. “I’m sure ‘Spidey’ will be here soon,’ she thought.

“Shuttle is in position,” Alpha reported.

“Energize!”

Nina materialised at the top of the building. She looked down. She saw that Octavius was still quite low down, but she didn't see Spider-Man. “OK, beam me to a floor which is a few higher than Octavius' position.”

“Sure.”

She materialised in an office, startling the various workers.

“Sorry!” she said, as she noticed the vibrations caused by Octavius' actuators piercing brickwork. “He's close!” she said. “Evacuate!” she said.

Then Octavius came by the window. She tapped the commbadge. “Up another three levels.”

“Acknowledged.”

She materialised and ran to the nearest window, which she smashed by extending the staff against it. Octavius had stopped a level above.

“Hand her over!” Spider-Man said.

“Of course,” Octavius said as Nina clambered out the window, her hearts beating fast.

“Easy now!” Spider-Man said as he reached for the hostage.

'No No No!' Nina thought as her panic started rising. Octavius then let the hostage go; letting her fall towards the ground!

“Baffin!” Nina started before Spider-Man shot a web line, catching the falling woman. He flung her upwards. Octavius then started laying into Spider-Man.

'His focus is on him,' Nina thought quickly. There was definitely something she could do.

“Spider-Man's on the scene,” Aialah reported as Nina climbed out the window, dodging falling masonry.

Spider-Man knocked Octavius aside and began climbing.

Nina looked at Octavius, who began to climb up after him. “No!” she cried out, only to have an actuator knock her off the building! “Baffin, emergency beam up!” She panicked for a second or two, before she felt a transporter beam.

She materialised aboard the Calgary.

“Report,”Alpha ordered.

“I'm fine. Octavius knocked me off the building,” Nina reported.

“Are you sure you want to do what you're doing?” Alpha asked with concern.

“Yes!” Nina said, although she wasn't entirely sure. “Beam me back.”

“Wait a moment, Spider-Man and Octavius have fallen off the building.”

“Beam me close to the hostage.”

“Energizing!”

Nina materialised and then smashed the window, startling the older lady. “It's OK,” she said holding her hand out. The lady grabbed onto the offered hand. Nina then helped the lady through the window. But not quickly enough.

“I see Spider-Man has a new side kick,” Octavius said as he smashed his way through after them.

“It's a coincidence,” Nina said as she stood in front of the lady. “We're not working together.”

“Hand her over!” Octavius said.

“No!” Nina said. She could see Spider-Man behind the new villain.

“I know you're there,” Octavius said. Rather quickly he used two actuators to grab both Nina and the older lady!

Spider-Man saw Octavius emerge from the room with both Aunt May and a disguised young lady. “Let them go!” he said.

“No! You've stuck your webs in my business for the last time! You are going to have either of these women's death on your conscience!”

“Shame on you!” he heard Aunt May whisper.

Whatever happened, he knew he would try to rescue Aunt May first. “Sorry,” he whispered to the younger lady. At least he didn't have to choose between Aunt May and MJ. Octavius then flung both of them in opposite directions. He then moved after Aunt May.

Nina saw Spider-Man go after the older woman. 'Of course,' she thought. She waited another second before calling for yet another emergency transport.

Peter sighed a sigh of relief as he caught Aunt May. But there was still time to catch the younger lady. He looked back and saw a strange light, but no sign of her. That was something to think about but first he had to get his aunt on the ground.

“We sure showed him,” Spider-Man said once they were on the ground.

“What do you mean 'we'?' May said. She didn't do anything.

“Oh.”

“And I know you weren't able to save the other woman. Sometimes people have to choose.”

“I know,” Spider-Man said quietly. He then shot a web and swung away.

Nina breathed deeply after materialising on the Calgary. The events were catching up to her. She thought of going back to the TARDIS and the Zero Room, but she also needed to go back to the Bugle.. “OK, beam me back to the Bank.”

“Are you sure?” Alpha asked.

“I have to get back to the Bugle. It's near there,” Nina responded.

“OK,” Alpha said.

Nina materialised and quicky found the dress she had taken off. She then rushed back to the Bugle offices. “Miss Lumber!” It was Jameson. “I'd like you to meet someone.”

“Who?” Nina asked as she entered Jameson's office.

“This is Peter Parker.”

'Good,' Nina thought. “Nice to meet you,” she said to the younger man. She shook his offered hand.

“Parker takes photos of that wall crawling menace,” Jameson explained.

Parker gave a look of annoyance. “I keep saying.”

“I know that, Parker. I understand you have photos of that incident with Doctor Octopus.”

“Doctor Octopus?” Peter asked incredulously.

“Professor Octavius. I came up with the nickname earlier today!” Jameson explained.

“Doesn't seem respectful,” Nina commented.

“Did I ask your opinion?” Jameson asked.

“I have the photos,” Peter interjected.

“Good! It will make a great first page tomorrow. Doctor Octopus and Spider-Man rob bank and take hostages!”

“That's not what I heard,” Nina said.

“Did I ask your opinion? Get back to work.”

“Yes, sir.”

Peter watched Nina as she left. He turned back to Jameson. “He was trying to rescue the hostages Octavius took,” he argued.

“I don't pay you to argue. I pay you to take pictures.”

“Yes, sir.”

Back on Baffin, Alpha finished looking over the scans of the battle with Octavius after he had left the bank. 'Crewman Nina is being reckless,' she thought. “Maybe if she had a parachute?”

“What?” Aialah asked.

“What is Nina thinking?”

“I'm thinking that she is trying to help, like when she rescued me.”

“That's certainly something to think about,” Alpha considered.

As Nina scanned in another page she saw Peter come over.””Hi, Nina,” he said.

“Hi Peter,” she said as response.

“That was a good comment there,” he said.

“Which comment?” she asked, although she had some idea.

“That the 'Doctor Octopus' moniker isn't a respectful one for Professor Octavius.”

Nina nodded as she grabbed another article. “I see you try to stand up for Spider-Man.”

“He does good for the city,” Peter said in a tone that suggested that he wasn't really sure.

“I've looked at the records since I have arrived,” she said.

“You're not from New York?”

“No, I'm from out west,” Nina answered. She had to give some answer.

“Oh.”

“Back to Spider-Man.”

“As I said, he does do good for the city,” Peter said, just as unsure as before.

“You sound unsure.”

“He's said that he's having trouble with his powers.”

“What kind of trouble?” Nina asked.

“He couldn't explain it,” Peter said quietly.

Nina could tell he didn't really want to tell her that.

“I'll let you get back to work.”

As Peter left, Nina wasn't sure what to make of what he had divulged.

“More chatter in the White House,” Aialah said. “The Director of SHEILD is meeting the President.”

“He certainly knows something,” Alpha surmised.

“It would be risky to evesdrop,” Zeta said.

“Could we beam a tricorder down from the Calgary?” Aialah asked.

“No, it could be discovered rather easily,” Alpha said. “A definite violation of the Prime Directive would ensue.”

“It has replicators, right?” Aialah asked. “We could disguise one?”

“I'm not sure that would work,” Alpha considered. “And it will take a while to design the disguised tricorder. Probably long enough that the meeting would be over first.”

Aialah nodded.

Having been stimied with that; Alpha decided to take a different track. To look over the internet information for strange events.

Upon leaving the Bugle that afternoon Nina filled Alpha in on what Peter had divulged.

“So, you think something is happening with Spider-Man?” Alpha asked.

“It certainly seems like it,” Nina answered. “I didn't want to pry too much, but I'll keep looking for him.”

“According to our investigations here, it seems that there is more to this Earth than it appears,” Alpha said.

“Oh?”

“There is much in the data from the internet,” Alpha said.

“Of course.”

“We're still going through it. But there seems to be rumors of magic within New York City at a place called the Santum Sanctorum. The location references are contradictory, but it most often refers to a place in Greenwich Village.”

“I'll keep an eye out for it.”

Alpha considered what Nina had divulged. 'He could be struggling with something to do with his powers,' he thought. 'Or maybe it's his life balance.' She wasn't sure. She checked the sensor data from the probes. There wasn't any activity at Cape Canveral or Baikonur that hadn't been planned. Neither the United States nor Russia suspected that Earth was being observed from space. 'Good,' she thought. Despite the references they had found to the Sanctum Sanctorum earlier, they hadn't detected anything unusual that would be indicative of magic. She remembered that Baffin had visited various Earths where some kind of magic existed during their journey. She decided to look over those encounters. 'Wait!' she thought. 'Maybe Aialah would have a different perspective.' There wasn't magic in her world, but it's variety of speculative fiction seemed to be as rich as that of Earth.

Aialah took in what Alpha had divulged. That the Baffin crew had encountered worlds where there was magic. Most of them were version of Earth of course. “I'll have a look at the list,” she said to Alpha.

“Sure.”

“Let's see,” Aialah said.

Undead in Romania

The Nordic Ice Queen

The British Hidden Society

Hidden Places in Japan

Miraculous Family in the Colombian Highlands

“Undead?” Aialah asked with a shudder. “Or maybe the Nordic Ice Queen instead? Or the British Hidden Society?”

“Your choice,” Alpha said.

“Of course. Computer, compare how long Baffin spent at each version of Earth listed.”

Undead in Romania: Eight Months, three days.

The Nordic Ice Queen: Three months, four days.

The British Hidden Society: Two Years, six months, ten days.

Hidden Places in Japan: Five Months, seven days

Miraculous Family in the Colombian Highlands: Four months, two days

Aialah wasn't sure which one to start with. “The Nordic Ice Queen is the shortest and the British Hidden Society is the longest.”

“You don't have to go through all of it at once,” Alpha said, seeing that Aialah was indecisive.

“Of course not,” Aialah said. “I'll start with the Nordic Ice Queen.”

#betty brant #doctor who #fanfic #j. jonah jameson #may parker #otto octavius #peter parker #phil coulson #spider-man #spider-man 2 #star trek

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beeseverywhen · 4 months

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White collar workers

When I started work as a civil servant at the London Passport Office 22 years ago I made the terrible mistake of believing I was going up in the world. I arrived at work wearing my best suit (in fact it was my only suit). I got the shock of my life: everyone else was wearing jeans. I ended up being assigned to a huge office, where half the people opened letters all day and the others stuffed envelopes. My job was to stamp the passports with a huge brass embossing machine all day long. I was part of a clerical production line.

The nature of white collar jobs has changed massively over the last 100 years. Clerical workers in the 19th century were regarded as middle class. Their pay, status and even dress made them more akin to managers. A clerical post was seen as a prized job and was usually a lifetime post. It was also a job that required a high level of skill. Very few clerical workers see themselves as that today.

The growth of white collar jobs throughout the last century has been accompanied by a huge growth in the number of women workers. Over the last 40 years office work has become increasingly deskilled and dependent on machinery. Work has become boring and repetitive. The introduction of costly technology (computers, faxes and photocopiers) has changed the pattern of work inside the office. A similar process has gone on in education, banking and local government.

One council housing worker described the drudgery of his work.

"We don’t have to clock in and out like my dad did when he worked in a factory. We now have a computer—I call it the hidden foreman. It is used by management to record and monitor how much work we do. It knows what time I start work, what time I finish, how long it takes me to have a piss. It monitors the number of telephone calls I answer and at a flick of a switch a supervisor can increase the pace of our work."

Investment in machines means that white collar jobs are no longer nine to five. White collar workers are expected to do shift work. Many offices are now open 24 hours a day. Certainly, in terms of pay, a routine clerical worker is part of the working class. A low-grade civil servant earns around £17,000 a year—no more than a manual car worker at Fords does. The growth of a large layer of middle management has accompanied this growth in white collar jobs.

Today the myth that white collar workers are not part of the working class remains as strong as ever. Yet unionisation levels and strikes in this sector refute this myth. The drive to attack the working conditions, skills levels and pay of white collar workers over the last 30 to 40 years has been accompanied by a growth of trade unions in the public sector. Figure 3 below shows the gross weekly pay scales of public sector workers. It demonstrates that the majority of white collar workers’ wages are comparable to manual workers’ wages. It also demonstrates that women workers are predominantly found in the lower paid jobs.

White collar workers such as office workers, many council workers and teachers make up a large section of Britain’s workforce. Today, they are some of the best-organised workers in the country (see Figure 2 above). Just as with their forefathers and mothers in the cotton mills, the mines and car plants, the growth of trade unionism in the white collar sector came about over a relatively long period and as a result of a number of disputes, strikes and campaigns.

Over the past 20 years Britain has witnessed a huge growth in call centres, there are approximately 850,000 workers currently employed in them. Some studies describe the workers in these centres as white collar workers and others as part of the service economy. But they are also commonly described as the new coal miners of the 21st century. If you read most reports in the media you would assume that these workers are completely atomised, have no power and face the constant fear of having their work outsourced to India or Romania. But again that is not a true picture. A series of recent studies shows that most of the companies which run these operations expect the number to keep on growing over the next few years, though not at quite the rate of a few years back. For every story about outsourcing to India, there is one about a new call centre being built in Britain, mostly ignored by the press. In fact a recent report in the Guardian notes that companies like Kwik-Fit Insurance and Powergen, who had outsourced their work to India, are now relocating back to the UK because they can’t find enough staff with the right level of technical skills and knowledge. Ironically, ICICI OneSource, a Mumbai-based outsourcing company, said it was building a new 1,000 person call centre in Belfast because of ‘its highly skilled workforce and relatively cheap property prices’.

Again expanding job opportunities and skills shortages in the industry are giving call centre workers the confidence to demand higher wages and better conditions. Last year I spoke to a call worker from Newcastle. He told me:

"There are five call centres on our industrial park. All of them are constantly advertising for trained staff. You end up meeting workers from other call centres in your lunch break in local cafes and pubs. Of course you find out who has the best hours and who gets the best rates of pay. All you have to do is ask your supervisor for a pay rise or a change in conditions. If they say no you just move to the next call centre across the road. There is a natural levelling up. It’s good old fashioned economics of supply and demand."

It’s also become clear that unions like the CWU, Amicus and Unison are now organising in some of these centres.

#this is a pretty old article #from 2007 #but it makes some good points #(tho i def don't agree with all of it)#what does working class look like

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writerdream22 · 2 years

Text

requested by: no one, but I sincerely hope you like this anyways ✨🌻💛

pairing: Dream of the Endless x reader

warnings: none

feedbacks are always welcome!

Dream quietly walked into your apartment, careful not to be heard. He thought he would find you sleeping, as it was late in the night; but your bed was empty and so was your sofa. Looking around, he noticed that a few pictures were hanging up on the wall, of you and a few of your acquaintances; you seemed happy, yet your gaze seemed distant and concealed some form of sadness.

You knew that he was back, you'd felt it. You hadn't been able to sleep well for more than a hundred years, unable to keep away the countless nightmares haunting you. You hoped that your husband's return might have brought some peace to your mind, but still you couldn't close your eyes.

“Morpheus” you called out his name, as you finally acknowledged his presence. The Endless' eyes widened in surprise, as he turned around and found you standing in your kitchen. You were different, he thought, but breathtakingly beautiful nonetheless.

“Why are you not in the Dreaming?” he questioned. “I'm an insomniac” you responded “This is just normal. I got used to it”.

Morpheus was clearly confused, and you tried to explain what had happened the best you can. “When you— when you were captured, I was left to reign over the Dreaming alone” you began “But I'm not an Endless. I couldn't control a realm that wasn't supposed to be mine in the first place; and a few of your... well, our subjects never accepted the fact that I took your place”.

You took a deep breath before continuing your speech “So I escaped, and everything just went downhill from there. I stopped dreaming. Nightmares that you created slowly began disturbing my sleep, and after some time — I wasn't able to sleep anymore”

The dark-haired figure in front of you was silent for a while. He wasn't disappointed by the fact that you left, you were born a human after all, and he understood that in his absence, returning home was the best choice for you.

All of a sudden, you hugged him tightly. “I'm sorry, Dream” you apologized “I'm so, so sorry”. He nuzzled his face in your hair, now able to smell your signature scent, and mumbled that you didn't have anything to be sorry for. “You belong here, my love. It is I who took you away so many centuries ago, and you were destined to return here; for one reason, or another” he clarified, gently pulling away from the hug so that he could look into your eyes “I won't force you to come home, y/n. If you want to stay here, I'll visit. If you don't want me to visit, then this will be the last time that we see each other”

“Of course I want to come back! I just... I need to organise everything before I leave.” you exclaimed.

“Then I'll wait. When you're ready, call my name and I'll take you back to the Dreaming. So that we can reign together once again”

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dameronology · 4 years

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love in the time of PTA meetings {marcus moreno} - 1/5

summary: despite what pinterest shows, being in a parent in the twenty first century is hard; especially a single parent. your kid takes up your entire life and the idea of finding a fairy tale is laughable - that is until you finally attend a p.t.a meeting and cross paths with a certain marcus moreno. {series masterlist}

warnings: i do not have children. i don’t know children work. this written entirely what i have seen them do in the sims 4. also, swearing.

- jazz

Leaving work early was never a good look.

Leaving work early because your child had managed to set fire to a trash can was...well, it was something else entirely.

After rushing out of a very important meeting and parking your car in a did-you-park-it-or-crash-it manner, you were sprinting across the play ground and towards the front entrance. Having given up half way through, you’d kicked your stupidly high heels off and held them in one hand, trying to organise your slightly disheveled hair as you entered the building. Most parents might have been nervous to collect their kid after a call from the principle, but this was a regular Tuesday for you. Jack was a good kid, perhaps just a little...misguided. In your books, it was impressive that a five year old had managed to discover pyrotechnics, though you sensed the school might have been a little less lenient about it.

‘Hey!’ You greeted the principle with a smile as you breezed through the doors.

Jack was in a chair by the front desk, a gleeful look on his face when he saw you. As far as he knew or cared, he got to go home early and watch Paw Patrol for the rest of the day.

‘Afternoon.’ He replied. ‘You’re lucky it was only a phone call.’

‘I know, I know.’ You grumbled. ‘I’m sorry. He’s...adventurous-’

‘ - he singed off his class mate’s eyebrows!’ The principle cut you off. ‘Given Monday’s biting incident, I see it fit that Jack take the rest of the week off.’

‘Right.’ You sighed. ‘Thank you. And sorry again.’

‘I’ll email you a list of...behavioural specialists.’ He muttered.

‘There’s nothing wrong with my kid. He’s just...curious.’ You insisted. ‘C’mon, buddy. Let’s go home.’

Jack sprung up from the chair, taking your hand in his and skipping out the door beside you. Parenting had been hard enough when you’d been married, and even harder now that his dad was out of the picture. It meant that everything fell on your shoulders; school runs, packed lunches, earning money, staying sane. You barely found the time to sleep, let alone go to soccer matches or take him to extra curricular activities. It meant that the stay-at-home mums - the ones who drove minivans and had specified walking shoes and shared memes about parenting on Facebook - muttered about you.

I heard Jack’s mum couldn’t make it to the parent-teacher association meeting because there was a divorce hearing.

Look at the kid’s lunch! Oh the saturated fat, the horror!

What do you MEAN your five year old isn’t vegan?!

Frankly, you wanted to whack them over the head with their own damn vision boards. So what if your kid was a little rough around the edges? He’d discovered fire today! If it had been in the stone ages, that would have been impressive. The kind of thing that would have earned him a McDonald’s, had the fast food chain been around at the dawn of time. With the way things were going, paired with the fact you knew your fridge was empty, it looked like you were heading for a Happy Meal anyway.

‘So do I get all week off?’ Jack peered up at you, tugging on your arm.

‘Yup, all week.’ You sighed. ‘But it’s not a reward, okay? It’s...’

You stopped in your tracks when you saw Marcus Moreno’s car pull up in the lot. Naturally, it was expensive and electric and perfectly between the white lines. He gave your less-than-stellar parking a frown as he breezed by - not that you noticed. Frankly, you were too busy admiring him. You saw his face more on the news than you did in person, but he was beautiful. Talk, dark, handsome and mysterious, but also...friendly and approachable. He’d held the door open for you once two years ago and that had been it for you. There had been whispers about the fact he was a widow, though you’d tried not to pay attention to them. It wasn’t anyone’s damn business. You knew he was a good dad; you’d had the chance to meet Missy when Jack had got his head stuck between the playground fence and she’d helped pull him out. She was sweet and well-behaved and clearly well brought up. Could you say the same for your own kid? Eh, parenting was all trial and error.

‘It’s what?’ Your son’s voice dragged you back to reality. ‘Am in trouble?’

‘What?!’ You jumped at the question. ‘No, I just...’

‘Because Principle Eikner said I’d done something bad.’

A small sigh escaped your mouth; placing his backpack on the ground, you knelt down to his height, gently placing your hands on his shoulder. ‘You haven’t done anything wrong, little man. We're just gonna take a few days out to talk about the rules and what it means to do the right thing, okay?’

‘Dad always said not to listen to the rules.’

‘Your dad said a lot of things.’ You reminded him. You stood back up, offering your hand to him. ‘Let’s go home.’

After a few minutes of bartering and the promise of a McDonald’s, you finally made your way back to the car, now with Jack attached to your back. If giving him a piggy back ride meant getting home quicker, it was a price you were willing to pay, especially since the other mums were starting to arrive to pick up their kids. The parking lot was slowly filling up with minivans - compared to your decade-old Honda Civic. It had seen better days, and one too many run ins with other cars and parking lot bollards. Still, it got the job done.

‘Oh, I’m so glad to see you!’ You froze in your tracks again. This time, it wasn’t because of Marcus Moreno’s otherworldly presence, but rather due to the sound of the resident soccer mum.

‘Carol.’ You turned around to face her (slowly, given the five year old on your back) with a forced smile on your face. ‘Hi.’

‘I take it you’re here for the parent-teacher’s association meeting?’ She gave you a phoney grin, handing you a leaflet. ‘I know you couldn’t make the last one, because of your...d-i-v-o-r-c-e hearings.’

‘I can spell!’ Jack chirped from behind you.

‘It’s okay, buddy.’ You reached up to ruffle his hair, smile not faltering. ‘But yeah, you’re right. And what about it?’

‘Nothing.’ Carol quickly shook her head. ‘So you are coming to this one? It starts in ten minutes.’

Truth be told, you’d no idea there was even a meeting tonight. You usually ignored the damn things until the news letter came out, and then you could read it from the comfort of your sofa with a glass of wine. There was nothing you stopping going tonight, aside from your intense hatred for them.

‘I wanna get home and watch South Park!’ Jack chirped from behind you.

‘I don’t - I mean...I don’t let my five year old watch South Park.’ You said. ‘He walked in on me watching it one time and...point is, yes, I’m here for the meeting!’

‘No, you’re not-’

‘- Jack, just sssh!’

Carol blinked in surprise, but her phoney smile returned a moment later. ‘Excellent! I’ll see you inside.’

You inwardly groaned. Why had you just done that? You fucking despised sitting in a stuffy gym for the better part of an hour, listening to the perfect mums bang on about healthy eating and limiting their kids’ internet time. You already questioned your parenting skills as it was - the meetings only made it worst. You didn’t assimilate into that crowd; they were all married, with big houses out in the ‘burbs and bank accounts that could cover their kids ever-expanding interests and activities. Meanwhile, you were living on one wage and your two-bedroom apartment had a balcony, not a back garden. If Jack wanted to go on a field trip, you usually had to save up for months. You didn’t know if you envied the other mums’ lives, but you certainly weren’t jealous of how they viewed working mums and single parents.

‘That lady is mean.’ Jack murmured from your shoulders.

‘Yeah buddy, I know.’ You nodded. ‘Guess we’re going back to school.’

Lugging the kid and his bag back up the school yard and towards the building was exhausting - at least it was your work out for the week done. By the time you’d reached the gym and placed Jack back on the ground, your shoulders were aching and you were disappointed to see that the refreshments didn’t have any alcohol. Was it too late to sneak out? The fire exit was right there and-

‘- shame this thing doesn’t have any wine, huh?’ A man was stood next to you, arms folded across his chest as he stared at the luke-warm jug of coffee on the table ahead.

Tall, dark hair, stubble and with a faint hint of expensive aftershave you pretended not to notice? Hello, Marcus Moreno. Goodbye, ability to form coherent sentences.

You blinked in surprise. ‘Yeah. I could do with a glass. Or ten.’

‘So you hate these things too, huh?’ He smiled.

‘With a passion.’ You returned the gesture. ‘I’m only here because Carol and her Karen Committee kept muttering about me not being at the last one.’

‘Yeah, same here. I was attending an emergency meeting about nuclear arms in Vienna, but I guess this is more important.’

‘I was...’ in court, signing documents to end my marriage, ‘otherwise occupied too.’

Marcus nodded in understanding. ‘Kids alone are a full time job, huh? ‘Specially when you’re the only one who’s running around after them.’

He knew about your situation and in return, figured that you knew about his. He’d heard the whispers about the divorce and presumed that the loss of his wife had been subject to similar gossip. The environment amongst the parents was shockingly similar to high school and things got around pretty quickly. You both hated it, especially given the nature of both your circumstances; death and separation was not something other people should have been talking about. Especially when you all you wanted to do was mind your own business and raise your damn (chaotic) kid.

‘Yeah, tell me about it.’ You replied. ‘My kid is like...a baby crackhead, as well. He’s been sent home twice this week and it’s only Wednesday.’

‘Oh, Jack’s your kid?’

You let out a groan, holding your face in your hands. ‘Yeah. Famously so, apparently.’

‘No, it’s not a bad thing!’ Marcus chuckled, pulling your hands away. ‘He played a brilliant baby Jesus in the Nativity last year.’

‘Aside from when he bit one of the three wise men, yeah.’ You could feel your cheeks heating up. ‘Missy actually helped him once. She seems really...not at all like my child. Which is good.’

‘She told me about the fence incident.’ He nodded. ‘May I ask why he was shoving his head out of the school gates?’

‘He saw an interesting looking slug.’ You replied.

Your conversation was interrupted by Carol, who had now climbed up on stage. She tapped the microphone and cleared her throat, gesturing to everyone to sit down so that the meeting could start. You wanted to curse her. Whatever giddy conversation you were having with Marcus was a thousand times more interesting than the PTA. At least you could revel in the fact he didn’t want to be here either.

‘Shall we?’ Marcus gestured to two empty seats a few rows back.

‘I mean, it’s an aisle seat, which is good for a quick escape if Jack decides to be Jack,’ you nodded in agreement. ‘Hey kid, c’mon!’

Turning away from the other kids, Jack sprinted towards you, hurling himself into your lap as he sat down. You let out an oof! and a groan. He wasn’t as light as he used to be a toddler. He stayed still for a moment, tiny hands clasping yours, before he realised who you were sat next to. The kids’ impression of Marcus was not quite the same as yours - he’d only seen him on TV, with the likes of all the heroes. You couldn’t remember their names (but in your defence, they were kind of ridiculous).

‘Are you a superhero?’ He reached up, poking Marcus in the cheek.

‘Jack!’ You hissed. ‘You can’t-’

‘- yeah, buddy.’ Marcus ruffled his hair. ‘But it’s my day off today, so I’m doing all this boring stuff instead.’

‘Can you fly? Do you know Miracle Guy? Have you fought aliens? Do you have a super suit? Do you know Iron Man? Wait! Can I be a superhero?!’

‘No, yes, yes, no, no and maybe when you’re older.’ He counted the questions off on his fingers. ‘But for now we have to keep quiet for the meeting. That would make you a superhero.’

You wanted to marry Marcus Moreno.

Seriously, you wanted to marry him.

His little comment had kept Jack quiet the entire meeting. And it was a long fucking meeting indeed. The last time he’d shut up for that long was...probably before he learnt to talk. You loved he was full of curiosity and questions, but he didn’t always understand that there was a time and a place. At least now you knew what would shut him up.

‘How does Miracle Guy fly? Is Batman real? Are you rich? Do you know Wonder Woman? How does her lasso of truth work?’

‘Jack.’ You groaned.

You were walking out of the school now and down towards the car park. Missy was in tow, tapping away on her phone, whilst Jack trotted alongside you and Marcus. He’d been spewing questions at the poor man pretty much since the meeting had ended - and yet, he seemed happy to answer them. Excited, even. It was clear that he loved his job.

‘You gotta give Mr Moreno a break, little man.’ You said.

‘Hey, just Marcus is fine.’ He replied.

‘Hey Just Marcus, I’m dad.’ Missy chimed from beside you, not even looking up from her phone. It was...impressive, actually.

‘I already regret buying her that.’ Marcus murmured.

The two of you eventually reached your cars. The Civic was still terribly parked across two spaces - you were a good driver, you’d just been in a rush. The dents and scrapes all over the doors and bumper implied other wise but hey, we move. You had a thousand and one other things to save up before a new car. Putting down the deposit on a house - one you could actually own, maybe a little further out from the city - was your number one concern. Paying off your divorce attorney came after that.

‘It was nice to meet you properly.’ You pulled your keys out your back, tugging four empty packets of crisps and three bags of gummy worms with it.

‘I’m not done asking questions-’

‘- you gotta let Marcus go, JJ.’ You peered down at Jack. ‘Sorry. He’s a little obsessed with the Heroics, but I guess you’ve worked that one out.’

‘Can I visit your base?’ He continued, ignoring you.

Marcus knelt down to his height, a grin on his face. ‘I’ve got a free window tomorrow afternoon. You wanna come by? Your mum tells me you’re off school for the rest of the week.’

‘Really?’ You blinked in surprise. ‘I mean, I’m sure he would love that but I’m at work and he’s gotta go to my mum’s.’

Your mother also doubled up as your baby-sitter. In an ideal world, you would have been able to afford a professional, but this was very much the opposite of an ideal world. It was the real world, and you were constantly juggling a thousand things at once. Never in a million years would you have changed it but there were days when you wanted to cry. When it was 9PM and Jack suddenly chimed in that he had a science project due the next day, or when he refused to eat his dinner because his chicken nuggets weren’t shaped like dinosaurs and fed them to the dog.

Marcus looked, on the surface at least, like he had his shit together. He worked in a public facing job and he always looked put together. His car wasn’t covered in bumps and bruises and the inside probably wasn’t covered in yoghurt like yours. He seemed as though he got more than five hours sleep a night and his child was well-behaved.

‘I’m sure we can work something out.’ He said. ‘If you give me your number, I’ll give you a call.’

‘Uh, yeah! Of course.’ He’d asked for your number. No big deal.

You switched phones - naturally, his was much more high-tech than yours - and entered in your respective numbers. The whole thing made you admire Marcus even more; he didn’t have to have your tyrannical son over to his office, yet he offered to. He’d clearly seen how excited he’d gotten and it seemed like he’d found it endearing.

‘Are you okay?’ Marcus asked quietly, suddenly putting his hand on your shoulder. ‘You suddenly zoned out.’

‘Yeah, sorry.’ You rubbed your eyes. ‘I got about three hours sleep last night. I would blame it on the terrible twos but I guess it’s the...fucking awful fives?’

He quickly turned his attention to Jack, opening the car door for him. ‘You wanna hop in? I’m just gonna talk to your mom about you visiting, yeah?’

'There’s Cheetos in the centre console!’ You called after him.

Once Marcus had shut the door, he turned around to face you. There was silence for a minute, and he just kind of...stared at you. You couldn’t read his expression or quite figure it out, but he had an eyebrow quirked and a look of...concern? Sympathy?

‘I recognise that look. It’s the help! I’m suddenly a single parent to a five year old and it feels like the world is eating me alive look.’ He said. ‘It’s the exact same one I had six years ago. Missy was about Jack’s age when...when it became just me and her.’

You softly smiled. ‘It’s not been easy.’

‘You’re doing a good job, okay?’ He gave your shoulder a light squeeze. ‘And if you ever need him off your hands for a few hours, I’ll gladly give him a tour of our headquarters.’

‘Thank you. So much, for both of those things.’ Your eyes fell to the ground. ‘It’s a refreshing change from Carol and her Pinterest boards and half-assed invitations to potlucks.’

‘God, I can’t stand all that.’ Marcus chuckled.

‘I gotta get back now because I can see that Jack is about smush Cheetos over my break pedals but I’ll...’ you trailed off, forcing yourself to look at him and smile. ‘I’ll call you.’

‘I look forward to it.’

#marcus moreno x reader #marcus moreno imagine #marcus moreno x you #pedro pascal characters #pedro pascal character headcanons

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cristinardvaya · 3 years

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MY OPINION ABOUT THE VIDEOGAME 'UNTIL DAWN'

The beginning of the story is very interesting. The graphics, the atmosphere, the use of the totems that show possible futures, the fact that you can find clues from different categories that explain the story... it's one thing that I loved, and it gives a lot of gameplay. Also, the video that you complete as you find the totems is very intriguing. It gives you certain clues as to where the story is going, although you don't fully know the true motivation of the story until you get to the big plot twist, which I also think is awesome.

The use of the psychologist is an addition that gives the game a lot of personality, a lot of mystery, and the fact that the things you talk to him are reflected in the story is a great thing.

First I summarise the story and then I give my opinion and some ideas that may fix the meaningless points (I'm not saying that the story is wrong, I just need to see the story as something logical and credible).

(It contains spoilers from here): I warn that this is a long post, but an interesting one if you like scary stories.

The story:

(It doesn't have all the details)

At the beginning, the story is very good: they were in a huge house of the "protagonist" family, who had bought that whole mountain for themselves. There were the children of the family (who are Josh, Hannah and Beth, the parents never appear in person) and their friends spending what seems to be the winter. The friends wanted to play a prank on Hannah and it backfired: Hannah got really pissed off at the friends and ran off into the woods, followed by her sister Beth. Josh was drunk and couldn't do anything about it. The sisters supposedly died falling off a snowy cliff (Beth is clearly seen dying after hitting her back on a rock, but we don't know about Hannah exactly), and a mysterious guy with a flamethrower and a really big knife that previously walked near the house seems to try to save them (even though it's a scary video game you don't have to be suspicious of everyone and think everything is going to kill you), but he couldn't.

Josh, a year later, invites all his friends to that mountain to have a party and forget the past. Their relationships have changed, now they have different boyfriends/girlfriends and all that (the game focuses a lot on love relationships at the beginning, giving it a teenage feel). They have arguments, they don't get along as well as they used to, it seems that the accident broke them up. The huge house, or mansion they go to has no light bulbs, and everything happens at night, until dawn. The psychologist is like a break from the game, like something separate but related. The person who is playing the game is like the psychologist's patient, who has problems. The psychologist makes him choose between characters, between things that make him "afraid"...

Following the story, photographs of the sisters are found throughout the house. At one point, the couples split up (there are four couples, although one doesn't form, Mike and Jess, Matt and Emily, Ashley and Chris and Samantha and Josh - the latter is the one that doesn't form).

The couple Mike and Jess are sent to a cabin where they want to get intimate in their relationship, but something chases them and ends up kidnapping Jess. Mike tries to save her and arrives at a typical gold rush mine, where some sections are collapsed. He finds Jess in a lift (dead or alive depending on the player's choices, I think), who falls all the way down without Mike being able to do anything. He then has to escape from there, sees a flamethrower and chases him to an old, abandoned and destroyed madhouse.

Meanwhile, Matt and Em have gone to get a bag that Em forgot (they are not seen again until much later in the story). Ash, Chris, Sam and Josh stay at the mansion, having episodes of scares, still in no danger. Chris continues to play pranks as before and Sam takes a bath.

While she's in the bath, Ash, Chris and Josh have a seance, and the sister's supposed ghost talks to them and directs them to the library to find out how she supposedly died (I think you can choose to be Hannah's or Beth's ghost). Josh doesn't like that and leaves, not to be seen again until much later. Chris and Ash find pictures, videos, supposed ghost apparitions... and they reach what appears to be the continuation of the mansion through the basement, but it's badly damaged, it looks like it was a different house.

For his part, Mike follows the flamethrower guy to the asylum and discovers that there were 30 miners in the mine looking for gold, 80 years ago. The mine collapsed at that time and 12 miners were rescued in the asylum. Doctors at the time had been shocked to find them in such a good state (they should have been dead), and witnessed transformations in the miners into murderous, insane, cannibalistic creatures, which apparently condemned the asylum. The staff didn't want the media to know what was going on there and hid it (a journalist found out, but I'm not quite clear what happened afterwards).

Meanwhile, Ash and Chris are chased around the house by a supposed madman, until he captures Ash and Chris must find her. He arrives at a place where he has to choose between saving Ash (he's in love with her) or Josh (his lifelong best friend), as there's a Saw-like scene with a saw. Personally, I saw Ash being saved, and Josh dying. When they leave the place, they are reunited with Matt and Em, who have returned from looking for the bag. They talk about the psycho and that, and decide that the two of them will go to the radio tower to alert the police (they can't go down the mountain because the psycho has the key to the cable car). When they are in the tower, something cuts the ropes and they fall, ending up in the mine. Here I saw Matt save himself and let Em fall with the tower into the void.

In the psychologist's office it is discovered that the patient is the psychopath who has organised all this.

The psycho finds Ash and Chris after finding out that there were a bunch of cameras all over the house and dead animals on hooks (it was the psycho's hideout). Just after, Sam has just had a bath and follows a trail of balloons with arrows drawn on them showing the way to "find her clothes" (her clothes have been hidden while she was bathing and she is wearing a towel around the house). She reaches a room where the psychopath talks to her and shows her a video of her in the bathroom and the video of the prank played on Hannah the year before, and the psychopath goes after her. He chases her and eventually catches her and leaves her in a room where Mike finds on his way out of the asylum tunnels. He gets her out of there.

Another Saw-like scene appears where Ash and Chris are tied to chairs, Chris is holding a gun and there are saws above their heads that are slowly lowering. He has to choose between killing himself or killing Ash, if he shoots, the saws would stop (and I think they would both die if they let the saws come down). The gun only have blank bullets and right at this point is when they discover that the psycho is Josh in disguise (this is the big plot twist). Turns out he wanted to play the joke of the century on them so they would suffer the same way his sisters suffered (this means that the psychologist's patient is him, he was crazy because of the dead of his sisters, I think the psychologist's visits show that he needed help to get over the death of his sisters and medicate himself - this is mentioned -. Something I liked is that every time the psychologist appeared, the place looked more and more like the destroyed asylum Mike found, until you see just the rubble - this may also symbolize Josh's mind -). He is taken to a place, blamed for Jess's death (he claims it wasn't him) and left there, guarded by Mike.

Then, it's discovered that Em, who fell into the mine next to the radio tower, is still alive (she was lucky to have hooked onto a wire). She walks through the mine and encounters the flamethrower guy (who she first runs away from) and a strange creature (which turns out to be the thing the flamethrower guy wanted to protect them from). She falls down a grotto and reaches the area where the sisters died. Their bodies are gone. She finds the sisters' stuff nearby, Beth's grave (just Beth's) and Beth's head (a flaw in the creators keeping the face intact. After a whole year it should be signs of decomposition, although it's a cold climate, it can't last that long - considering it's a cave and hasn't been in contact with snow).

(I explain why at this point the story stops making sense to me and just focuses on scaring the players and adding a lot of violence - this is my opinion, of course-)

Em is chased by the creature and manages to escape and get to her other friends who are back in the house. Mike runs off alerted by the screams and leaves Josh alone. They let the guy with the flamethrower into the house, who explains what's going on: the mountain has some kind of curse from an Indian tribe (or so I understood) that unleashes a spirit (or mutation) if someone eats human flesh on that mountain. It transforms into a wendigo, a creature with impenetrable skin, but susceptible to fire, very violent, that its eyes lighten and only detect changes in the movement of its surroundings, its teeth and nails become longer, its body moves very fast and adapts to the movements of its prey. Bullets don't kill them, but make them back out. This is what happened to the 12 miners they rescued (apparently they ate the rest of the miners).

As they left Josh alone, Chris and the flamethrower guy go to look for him, the others must stay in the basement until dawn, when the police arrive and the wendigos stop hunting (for some reason they don't explain?), because it's a safe place. They don't find Josh and the wendigo approaches them (apparently killing the flamethrower guy I believe there's a posibility where this guy survives) and Chris runs alone to the house (here he can die if you don't control the character properly with the controller, I saw him die - strange that decisions take a back seat and the controls are the ones that kill or don't kill the characters-).

Now, for some strange reason that I don't understand, they think that Em is infected by the wendigo (not true) because it bit her even though the flamethrower guy told them that they only transform if they eat human flesh, and Mike goes crazy and wants to kill her (you can choose whether to shoot her or not). And for another strange reason that I don't understand either, Mike wants to go to the wendigo's lair, where they supposedly have Josh's body, who has the keys to the cable car, to get out of there as soon as possible, and not wait in the basement safely until dawn -which is 2 hours left- for the police to rescue them by helicopter 🤔. Well, the thing is that he goes to the asylum through the underground tunnels, he finds a bunch of wendigos locked up there (by the guy with the flamethrower), and others who are untied and chase him to the mine.

Then it's discovered that Jess, the one they thought was dead (the one who was kidnapped by a wendigo), is still alive. They get another stroke of foolishness and those who had stayed in the basement go after Mike, and as if that wasn't enough, when they go down some sewer stairs, they continue walking without waiting and leave Ash alone 😑. Further on there is a choice between going towards some sounds or regrouping with the ones who left her (obviously regrouping, I believe the other one is for having a extremely stupid dead). Then they split up for another strange reason (they can't climb some stairs and Sam goes to climb the rocks, but Ash and Em go the other way). Sam finds Mike and they save themselves from some wendigos.

Another scene of the psychologist appears, but now he and Josh are in the mines. Josh is alive but now he's there. He has hallucinations of the things he fears most.

Now, Mike and Sam arrive at the wendigos' lair. It's a scary, terrifying scene, with corpses of people hooked to the ceiling, loose heads lying around.... (I couldn't watch this, I couldn't stand it). They meet Josh there. Then they split up again, Sam goes to the house to tell the other that they are good and Mike and Josh go back the way they came (a wendigo was following them). That wendigo, who turns out to be Hannah (she didn't die, she ate Beth after 30 days locked in the cave - which I say, in a few hours these guys have been in and out of the mine a few times, why did she stay there for 30 days? And besides, after 30 days, the meat would be rotten... I believe some animals would end up in the mine). The wendigo kills Josh (it kills him in a terrible way) and Mike leaves.

From then on, Matt is still alive and meets Jess by the mine. They are chased by a wendigo and manage to escape (if you control the characters well, I saw them being saved).

Sam, meanwhile, returns to the house and meets Mike. Then, Ash and Em arrive in a hurry, pursued by a wendigo. Then comes the most tense scene of the whole game: several wendigos are inside with them, and they have to stand still so that they can't be seen. The wendigos start fighting among themselves and the friends have a plan to get out of the situation, which is to explode the house with a gas leak, they just have to turn on a light and everything will explode. There are a series of scenes where they have to stand still and hide, and in the end, if everything is done right, they escape and manage to kill the wendigos (there is a final part where it looks like the wendigo who is the miner that the story talks about the most -Billy Bates - is going to kill Sam just as she is going to hit the light, but it is stopped by the wendigo who is Hannah, it's like Hannah saves her, and that's the only part of the ending that I really liked). The police arrive and save the survivors. The scene along with the credits of the survivors telling the police what they saw is also very original.

The video of the totems explains a lot: It was made by the flamethrower guy, addressed to the sisters' friends. In it, he tells that the flamethrower guy's grandfather hunted wendigos, but one escaped him, the most dangerous one called Makkapitew. Then the miners came to the mountain and the mines collapsed, awakening the curse again. The miners became cannibals and wendigos. If you kill a wendigo, you release its soul, which is susceptible to possessing another person, so it's better to contain them and not kill them. The Makkapitew, after so many hunts, was still free. The year Beth died, he tracked it down. But Hannah and Beth were there too. The wendigo forced them to fall off the cliff, and he could not save them, but avenged them by killing the Makkapitew.

I guess with the spirit of Makkapitew released, Hannah became a wendigo?

My opinion:

I actually liked it a lot (except for that final part full of nonsense). I like the fact that all characters can be saved (except Josh) if you choose the best option. Also, at the beginning it's very relaxed, not a lot of blood and violence. However, from the scene of the saw it changes very abruptly and everything starts to be much more savage and I don't like that, it gives me creeps, that's why I couldn't see some scenes like the hideout with the animal corpses (althought it's not real), the wendigo's lair and Josh's hallucinations. That's why I don't like scary movies and videogames that focus on that (I've loved other games like Little Hope and Man of Medan because there is the perfect amount of violence).

Things that don't make sense (but doesn't mean some parts aren't great):

At the beginning, I liked the story, it was very interesting, but when they add something that has no scientific basis, I usually stop liking it.

The thing I least understand is that the team investigating Hannah and Beth's death didn't find the mine or the wendigos or the asylum or anything. It seems that in this game they are all stupid when it comes to making important decisions but incredibly clever when it comes to organising pranks.

Regarding the characters, at the beginning it seems that they haven't changed much after the death of the sisters (but they no longer get on well), why are they still making annoying jokes if the sisters died with one of them? That happens to me and I would never think of making jokes again in my life.

Also, all that nonsense I wrote while summarising the story, why do they leave the basement which is safe? Are they stupid? I mean, they're scared but they're out looking for the wendigos? I don't understand that. Lastly, I have to ask, why must the wendigos have physical transformations? Why not have the same human vision but also the same speed? And it only happens to humans, why? Why doesn't it happen to other animals? And it can't be cured or avoided? Why do they only hunt at night? And why do they only like eating human flesh? The moment they stop being human, they stop being cannibals when they eat human flesh, but that doesn't mean they can't eat other things, after all, their stomach doesn't change and I suppose they will still be able to eat the same things as humans.

Ideas:

Personally, I would have given more play to the asylum. It was put on the back burner. Instead of curses and all that nonsense, I would have had them rescue the miners, and because they were in such bad shape, they tried a serum or something they were still researching to save them, but it went wrong and they were turned into that. Makes more sense, doesn't it? Sure, but it doesn't fit with Hannah being turned. But for that I have an idea compatible with this one: Hannah managed to get out of the mine (like all her friends in a few hours, you can clearly see there are exits from all the rooms), and half dead, maybe disoriented, she made it all the way to the asylum. There is no light there, she doesn't know where she is, she is traumatised from seeing her sister die, so she injected herself by mistake (or not, I'm thinking about it as I go along) with the serum that the asylum wardens hastily left behind before she died, and she was transformed. But... you'll say, that doesn't fit with the flamethrower man's grandfather hunting wendigos either, and I'm not convinced... Don't worry, I have a different idea to the previous ones, although it's not very well thought out: perhaps, the minerals in the caves of that mountain had a strange chemical component that causes such mutations, compatible only with humans, and there were people who ended up with those components in their body and were transformed before the miners arrived. So anyone with that compound in their body, with a trigger, could transform into a wendigo. Could that trigger be human flesh? Is there something different about human flesh than the flesh of other animals? Obviously their composition varies, and that could be key. That is, if they spend time in the caves and eat human flesh, they become wendigo. This last idea is more in line with history (or maybe the best idea it's a combination of these two?). I've just shown that it's possible to make a story almost as good without resorting to myths and curses. And ruining (in my opinion) the possible increible end.

#until dawn #until dawn summary #opinion #better ideas?#horror games #horror stories #man of medan #little hope

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theharellan · 4 years

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Solas Fan Banter

Here’s a compilation of the fan banter I’ve written over the years between Solas and other canon Dragon Age characters, posted for Dragon Age Day 2020. There are references to a canon divergent Solas/nb!Lavellan companion romance. I’ve regretfully not written any Iron Bull banter that I’m proud enough of to feature here, but if anyone has any suggestions for topics I’d be glad to hear them.

Featured characters: Solas, Cassandra, Varric, Sera, Blackwall, Vivienne, Dorian, Cole, Morrigan, Cullen, Leliana, Valta, Renn, and Arcane Advisor Merrill!

Solas & Cassandra

(after receiving the quest Agrarian Apostate)

Cassandra: And he was not even a mage. Shameful. Solas: Would have it been justified if he was? Cassandra: The Templars have sanction to punish apostates. It would not have been beyond their authority. Solas: I would not call that justified, merely legal. Cassandra: The Templars should be better. Solas: The Chantry armed them and gave them an enemy. That might fuel an army, but will only serve to poison their minds against innocent people, apostates or no.

Solas & Varric

(after killing the Templars during the quest Agrarian Apostate)

Varric: I thought at least away from Kirkwall I could get away from crazy Templars. Solas: You believe they were mad? The men I saw were no different from those who confronted us in Val Royeaux.

(after delivering the ring)

Solas: She seems to be holding up well, considering. Varric: Yeah, but I know a front when I see one. Solas: You believe she was suffering more than she let on? Varric: Oh, I know it, Chuckles. That ring might comfort her when the country gets too quiet, but it won’t dry her tears or– shit, do much else, really. Solas: Some wounds only time heal. Varric: And they always seem to leave ugly scars.

(after beginning Here Lies the Abyss)

Solas: You found Hawke after all. Varric: Oh, you know. All those heroics jogged my memory. Solas: Naturally. Varric: What, you going to lay into me, too? Solas: No, no. I understand why you hesitated. (if Hawke is a mage) Solas: To involve her in a Chantry organisation would not have been wise, at least before it had a chance to prove itself. (otherwise) Solas: Given her involvement in this war, I can only imagine there are those on both sides who would blame her for their present predicament. Varric: You mind telling all that to Cassandra? Solas: I would prefer not to.

(after Here Lies the Abyss, if Hawke is left behind)

Solas: I have read your book, you know. The Tale of the Champion. Varric: I don’t know if now’s the best time. Solas: I understand. I only wanted to say that in reading it, I felt your affection for Hawke in every word. I am... sorry, for what happened. Varric: Thanks, Chuckles. Solas: Of course.

(after Here Lies the Abyss, if Hawke survives)

Solas: You said your farewells to Hawke? Varric: Sure did. Sent letters home, debated sending letters to Weisshaupt. The Wardens will need to know the storm coming their way. Solas: You believe Hawke will pose a problem? Varric: Well, maybe not on purpose.

(in the Hissing Wastes, while exploring dwarven ruins)

Varric: I’m surprised you’re not hounding me about how all this makes me feel, Chuckles. Solas: I had thought we established your disinterest. Varric: Yeah, well. I’m thinking about it, anyway. Solas: If you insist. How does this make you feel, Varric? Varric: There’s a tiny part of me that’s really satisfied, you know? Seeing a Paragon of all people living on the Surface, then the rest of me just doesn’t give a shit. Solas: Tradition is a difficult thing to shake, to be conflicted is expected. Do you think our discovery here ought to be shared with Orzammar? Varric: I don’t know about Orzammar, but I can think of a few Surface dwarves who’d be interested in this.

Solas & Sera

Solas: I could not help but notice what you were drawing at breakfast. Sera: What? I wasn’t drawing anything.

(if Sera is romanced)

Solas: You captured our Inquisitor’s likeness well. Sera: Better than you could.

(otherwise)

Solas: There was no mistaking Dagna’s likeness. What were you carrying? Sera: A bowblade. It’s not a thing yet, but if anyone can make one, Widdle can.

Solas: Have you ever given thought to collaborating together on a piece? Sera: Collaber-what? Piece of what? Solas: A painting, or a drawing if you prefer, what medium you decide upon makes little difference to me. Sera: You really think the two of us could work together on anything? Solas: I was under the impression we had been. Sera: That’s different. The Inquisition’s not an ‘us’ thing, or it is, but not us us.

Sera: Say if I wanted to make something with you, what’d we even make? Solas: You ask the question as if there are limitations. Sera: A dragon, then! No, wait, a butt! (beat) Sera: Nothing? Not even a nose wrinkle? Solas: I am not unopposed to the idea. Sera: Ugh, how can you even make butts boring?

Sera: (handing him a drawing) Here, made you something. Solas: What is this? Are those—shoes? Sera: That’s right. One for each toe. You’re welcome.

(After Solas initiates a relationship with Ian)

Sera: So, you and Freckles, huh? Interesting. Solas: Your interest is not my concern. Sera: I always figured you’d wind with someone who’d make the bumping bits matter. Y’know, drop ‘em and rebuild the empire. Solas: It is not the physical product of our love that matters so much as how he makes me feel when I’m with him. Sera: Eugh.

(If Ian is in the party)

Ian: (laughingly) Vhenan, I would choose your words more carefully next time. Solas: Oh. (slightly embarrassed) I did not mean it like that. Sera: Ha! I’ve made him blush. Solas: This is why I didn’t wish to discuss it.

Solas & Blackwall

(While near Ferb’s old fishing pier in the Exalted Plains)

Blackwall: Wonder if the fishing’s good. If we had an hour or two… Solas: Do you consider yourself an angler, Blackwall? Blackwall: I wouldn’t go that far, but I do enjoy the sport of it. Solas: I’ve never considered it a sport. Blackwall: Probably because you’ve never gone fishing just for the fun of it. Next time we make camp, I’ll show you.

Inquisitor: So, how’d your fishing expedition go? Blackwall: You should’ve seen the size of the gar I wrangled. Solas: It was not half as impressive as he believes. Blackwall: He only says that because all’s he caught were minnows. Solas: (scoffs) Inquisitor: So... where is it? Blackwall: We threw it back, of course. Wasn’t like we were going to eat it. Solas: A convenient excuse.

(Along the Storm Coast)

Blackwall: Ever heard of the pale ship that appears on the mists? The Windy Marcher – I think that’s what they called it. Solas: I cannot say I have. Blackwall: An old story, no idea where it started. Must’ve heard it a dozen times in the Free Marches, always a different ending. Solas: As is often the case with legends, the content and moral changes with the teller. Blackwall: One man claimed he’d seen it himself, said the ship was captained by beautiful spirits who’d called him to the sea. Solas: A case of wishful thinking, I assume. Blackwall: He was a bit of a lonely bastard.

(After Revelations)

Solas: You and Cole seem more friendly, of late. Thom: He took some getting used to, but his heart’s in the right place. There’s enough darkness in the world without pushing away the good. Solas: I imagine it was chilling, knowing he could break your cover on a whim. Thom: That did keep me up some nights, yes. Sometimes I wonder why he didn’t say anything. Solas: Perhaps he saw in you what the Inquisitor sees. Thom: Well, I’m grateful. On both counts.

Solas & Vivienne

(After the events of Bring Me the Heart of Snow White)

Solas: I heard the news of Duke De Ghislain’s death. As I understand it, the two of you were close. My condolences for your loss. (if the Inquisitor gave Vivienne a regular wyvern’s heart) Vivienne: (coldly) There was a chance at saving him, but he is beyond saving, now. At least, by mortal hands. Solas: Then I am all the sorrier. (otherwise) Vivienne: He was at peace, and we had the chance to meet at least one last chance before he passed. Solas: Be thankful for that closure, it will bring you comfort in the days to come. Vivienne: It already has.

Solas: How do you feel about the moniker ‘Madame de Fer?’ Vivienne: Oh, I think it’s darling. Why do you ask? Solas: Iron is cold, unyielding without the proper tools, some may use it as an insult rather than a mark of respect. Vivienne: Of that I’ve no doubt, but let them. I embraced it wholeheartedly, and from then on no one could ever truly use it against me. Solas: True enough, such a tactic has worked for others before.

Vivienne: You will be wearing shoes to the ball, won’t you? Solas: My comfort is not worth jeopardizing the Inquisition’s image, so yes. Vivienne: Many elven servants in Orlais go barefoot, it would hardly be a scandal. Still, it would be beneficial. We must all present as a unit when the time comes, not a single hair out of place. Solas: That will hardly pose a problem for the two of us. Vivienne: (makes a sound almost like a laugh) Right you are.

Solas: There are rumours that your name be put forward as the next Divine. Vivienne: I wonder who might have started those. Solas: After all that has happened these past few months, you believe it possible they will accept a mage into their fold? (if the Inquisitor completed In Hushed Whispers / is a mage) Vivienne: Whyever not? Magic is what solved the problem, after all. Solas: Magic has solved countless problems over the centuries, and yet it is still reviled. Vivienne: I am not any ordinary mage. If any mage can achieve status of Divine, I am she. Solas: On that, we agree. (if the Inquisitor completed Champions of the Just and is a non-mage) Vivienne: With the Inquisitor’s support there is nothing I cannot accomplish, my dear.

Vivienne: The Inquisitor gave you that hood not half a day ago and it already has a hole in it. Solas: Two, in fact. Vivienne: Are you afraid we’ll forget you’re an elf if we go five minutes without seeing your ears? Solas: My estimation of your abilities is not that low, Enchanter, and I would be careful were I you. Two holes cut in a hood is not nearly as desperate as donning a pair of horns every morning.

(After Ian is made Tranquil during his personal quest)

Vivienne: I hope you know what you are doing, my dear. The Rite of Tranquility is not something easily undone. Solas: As I understand it, the Seekers did it quite regularly. Vivienne: And through a far gentler process. What they did to Ian was barbaric, but undoing it is not necessarily a kindness. One might even call it selfish. Solas: I never made any claim to selflessness. Vivienne: Go through with it, and he will relive what happened to him every morning and night for the rest of his life. Solas: (with restrained anger) Do not pretend as though you suddenly care for his well-being now, you showed little regard for him before. Vivienne: It is a warning, nothing more. Solas: Your warning is heeded, but it changes nothing. I am under no illusion this will be simple, but to give up on him now— I would be no better than the Circle that once wanted this same fate for him.

Solas & Dorian

Dorian: That book you have on your desk, Solas… Solas: There are many. Which are you referring to? Dorian: There’s one that looked to be in Ancient Tevene. Do you speak it, or are you just keeping it around to look clever? Solas: I would not go so far as to say I speak it, but I understand it well enough. Dorian: How did you go about learning it? Solas: Memories of Tevinter’s empire litter the land, there is hardly a place in Thedas where the world does not remember it, and with memories come language. Dorian: So you learned through the Fade? Solas: I did, though my pronunciation leaves something to be desired. An unfortunate consequence of learning any language alone. Dorian: I might be able to help, but only if you give me the satisfaction of hearing you muddle through it out loud beforehand. Also, I’ll be next in line when you’ve finished reading that book of yours. Solas: (snorts) Very well.

Solas & Cole

Cole: So they’re nobody, but somebody. Empty shells, filled with someone else’s memory. Solas: For the most part, it seems. Cole: If they’re heartless, why are they so angry? Solas: Perhaps it was not so much the absence of feeling, but the lack of recognition of said feelings. Cole: Belief makes them real, even if they’ll always be different.

Cole: It remembered. Delight in discovery, always pushing further into the unknown— someone like that does not simply disappear, and yet... it cannot remember his name. Solas: Names are not so as important as the spirit of the person they belong to. Cole: It remembered the person. Sadder, but stronger. If I ever return to the Fade, I would like to meet it. Solas: Nothing would delight it more. Cole: Oh, I know. I think we’d be friends.

(After the banter where Solas helps prevent a panic attack)

Cole: You breathe in— one, two, three, four— then out— one, two, three, four— feel the grass beneath your feet, magic between your fingers, remember what is and what was. How long did it take you to learn? Solas: More time than is ideal. Cole: I’m sorry. Solas: There is some comfort in knowing I’ve learned enough to help others with such struggles. Cole: I’ll count with you, if you need. Solas: Thank you, Cole.

Solas: I’m curious how your efforts are coming along since we last spoke. Cole: Josephine misses how saffron tastes, but she hasn’t asked the chef to purchase any. I wrote it on a list when no one was watching. Cullen doesn’t like my letters. He says they don’t make sense. Solas: I cannot imagine he devoted much time to understanding them. Cole: No. Listening is... difficult, when you’ve been taught not to.

Cole: Eyes fall shut, but they do not drift away. Their feet are tethered, tied to the ground. Solas: Even dwarves who lived and died on the Surface never dreamed. Cole: But they are still remembered. The song drowns out their thoughts, but it does not smother them. If I listen, I can hear. Solas: I have seen fewer glimpses of dwarven history than I would like, but there are always memories preserved by particular attentive spirits.

(When passing through the kitchen, or lingering nearby. Solas stands over the stove and Cole sits on a nearby counter, hitting his leg against the wood.)

Solas: Would you like to try it, Cole? Cole: Would it not be a waste? I don’t need to eat. Solas: To overindulge, perhaps. A taste will do you nor the world any harm, a good meal is about more than survival. Cole: Then I’d like to try it, please.

Cole: You don’t have to eat, Solas. Solas: Strictly speaking, no. Cole: Sometimes you do anyway. Solas: When the urge takes me, or if refusing would be seen as ill-mannered.

Solas: If I could ask for your opinion, Cole. Cole: It remembers the garden. The sun bakes it red, colour working through it like a blush upon a maiden’s cheeks. Solas: Excellent. And this? Cole: It was lost in weeds for weeks, neglected and forgotten. It tastes like oversteeped tea. Solas: I see. Then we will find another.

Cole: And it remembers the ocean? Solas: It knows the mountain streams and rocky coasts as well as any well-seasoned traveller, though the paths it takes are laid with smoother stones. Cole: Rough edges wicked away by river waters. Soft enough to stand on without any shoes. Solas: Though one must still take care not to fall. (optional) Inquisitor: Speaking from personal experience, Solas? Solas: I suppose one might say that. Cole: Feet forget the ground, flying out from beneath him, but the rest of him doesn’t follow. Solas: (tinged with embarrassment) As I said. Inquisitor: (chuckles) (otherwise) Cole: But you always get up again.

Solas & Cullen

Cullen: I’m curious how you’ve avoided Templars all these years. Solas: I would prefer not to say. Cullen: I’m no longer a Templar, you know. Solas: Then why do you still wear their heraldry? Or am I mistaken? Cullen: I… Solas: Templar or no, your support for its cause endures. I would not endanger fellow apostates by revealing our methods.

Solas: Master Tethras tells me you served in Kirkwall. Cullen: Varric has no shortage of stories, that one just so happens to be true. Why do you bring it up? Solas: My travels have taken me there, on occasion. Cullen: I admit, I’m curious what your impression was. Solas: All the world is steeped in tragedy, but in Kirkwall the Fade overflows with it. Spells flow from the fingertips with such ease you may forget the Veil altogether. Cullen: That doesn’t surprise me, the amount of abominations I saw during my years there… Solas: They were but a symptom. Kirkwall’s sickness ran deeper than what any one spirit could cure.

Solas & Leliana

Solas: I have heard the Inquisition call you many titles. Sister, Nightingale, Spymaster. Leliana: I have worn many masks, some I’ve liked more than others. Why do you mention it? Solas: Which do I refer to you by? Leliana: (laughs) Whichever you prefer. You may use Leliana, if you wish. Solas: Then I shall see which suits you best.

Solas & Josephine

Josephine: It took several tries, but we managed to remove the wine stain from your sweater. I apologise again for Lady Vérène’s indiscretion. Solas: The fault is hardly yours. It is a pity she is not more open to an apostate’s perspective, but the loss is hers. Extend my sincere gratitude to whoever expunged the mark. I have only a few shirts to my name. Josephine: You know, Solas, now that the Inquisition finds itself in more favourable circumstances, we can afford to purchase you a new wardrobe. Solas: With respect, Ambassador, I value comfort over style. I’m uncertain the Summer Bazaar will be able to accommodate me. Josephine: It would be a most... unusual request, but I believe I know the tailor for the job.

Josephine: Have you found the library to your liking? Solas: I have. I cannot imagine any other circumstance where someone like me could have such unmitigated access to the written word. Most human libraries are not so liberal with their guests. Josephine: I confess, I have never been without books. Ever since I was a child they were always within reach. Solas: Then you must have recommendations. Josephine: One or two come to mind. If I can secure faithful translations, you will have them.

Solas & Morrigan

Solas: You seem well-versed in courtly manners for a woman raised in the wilderness. Morrigan: What are you implying? Solas: That you have a talent for winding nobles around your finger, or that the infamous ‘game’ is not so deadly as they like to believe. Vivienne: Or that more talented souls paved the wave for her. Solas: Another possibility. Morrigan: ‘Tis true that Orlesians overestimate the challenge of this ‘Game’ of theirs. Empress Celene had her desires, and ‘twas a simple matter to keep her satisfied. Vivienne: Which is why you’re with us. Morrigan: With you at my side, I could not help but notice. Vivienne: Believe me, dear. Court enchanter is a trifle compared to where my sights have set.

Solas: I found your son atop the rotunda’s scaffolding today. Morrigan: He has long been fond of climbing, and Skyhold’s trees are too new to bear his weight. Solas: It was no harm. My only regret is I did not have an answer to every question he asked. He is a curious boy. Morrigan: (laughs) That he is.

(During What Pride Had Wrought, upon finding the mosaic of June)

Morrigan: Ah, clever June. The most elusive of the elven gods, insofar as legends are concerned. Solas: Their silence is deafening. Morrigan: I take it you have insight? Solas: Merely that he does not deserve what little credit he is given. Time has forgotten the name of whosoever built the first aravel.

Solas: Rumour spread that Kieran went missing. I trust your presence here means you have found him? Morrigan: I… yes. Solas: He is unharmed? Morrigan: Yes. Solas: Then I am glad. And… you? Morrigan: I have much to think upon, but my son is safe. Everything else can come after.

Solas & Renn

Solas: Tell me, Lieutenant, why did you remain with the Legion? Renn: Having trouble seeing why it’s your business. Why d’you ask? Solas: Escaping would be a simple matter of finding the right battle to slip away from. Freedom would only be a few day’s journey from where we stand. Renn: I couldn’t abandon my men... or my city. Solas: You show great loyalty to Orzammar, considering you will never see it again. Renn: Yeah, well. You never forget your home. Solas: No. I suppose you don’t.

Solas & Valta

Solas: “But the truth is the truth— no matter how political it may be.” Valta: Do you disagree? Solas: Just the opposite. The truth does not change with our ability to stomach it. I am glad a historian such as yourself agrees. Valta: A shame the rest of the Shaperate doesn’t agree with us. Solas: True, but if they had you would not be here, on the brink of uncovering secrets buried centuries ago. In their attempt to keep you out of the way, they unknowingly set you upon the path to even greater knowledge. Valta: Orzammar will know the truth. If I don’t make it, then the Inquisitor— Solas: You are not yet dead, Shaper Valta. Do not count yourself apart from the living so soon.

Solas & Merrill

Merrill: You snort when you laugh. Solas: I’m well-aware. If you are about to ask me to stop, I’m afraid I’ve tried before. Merrill: Oh, it’s not a bad thing. It might be the most charming thing about you. Solas: Damned by faint praise. Merrill: It is a very charming laugh.

Solas: Why did you leave your clan? I read Varric’s Tale of the Champion, but I suspect most of it was a lie. (if present) Varric: Hey! I’m right here. Solas: You did well to lie. To name her as a Dalish mage would be to paint a target upon her back. (otherwise) Merill: I left… I— it wasn’t exactly my choice. There was a mirror, tainted by the Blight. I thought we should fix it, even if it meant turning to blood magic. My Keeper disagreed. Solas: You cleansed the Blight from an eluvian? That is remarkable. Merrill: I used to wonder if it was worth it. I sacrificed so much to get it working, years of my life, my— I’m just glad we’re getting use out of it, now.

Merrill: You’re wrong about my people, Solas. The Dalish aren’t as lost as you think. Solas: They cast you to the streets of Kirkwall, exiled you for the crime of pursuing the duty they tasked you with. Merrill: Some of them said such awful things, they looked at me like I was already a demon, but… that doesn’t mean there isn’t good, too. Sometimes I wonder, had my Keeper not been so against me, if things might have been different. Merrill: I don’t know what they said to you, but I know what their scorn feels like. It hurts, but… there’s so much to admire. Solas: You still feel for them. Merrill: They’re my people, they always will be. No matter how much they might hate me, I’ll always love them. Solas: Put like that, I suppose I understand the sentiment. Merrill: It’s a lonely feeling, isn’t it? Solas: It never ebbs, no. Merrill: Then just— remember them, when you think unkind thoughts about the Dalish. The people you miss, the people you don’t, and what you’d sacrifice for them both.

(in the Exalted Plains, outside the boundaries of Hawen’s camp)

Merrill: (giggles) Datishan was asking about you before we left. Solas: Datishan… Hawen’s little hunter? Merrill: Who else? She wanted to know when you’d be back. Solas: What did you tell her? Merrill: I told her you needed time, that good stories don’t grow on trees. You will go back, won’t you? Solas: It seems I shall have to, or else suffer the wrath of her arrows. Merrill: You joke, but she almost poked out my eye last night. Solas: (chuckles)

#dragonageday #solas #dragon age #dragon4geday #unofficialdragonageday #dragon age inquisition #fan banter #dare to be in the company of those stronger than you ( banter )#( my writing )#[ i'll be reposting the couple new things i wrote for this later ]#[ scheduled post ]

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cheri-translates · 4 years

Text

[CN] Kiro’s R&S - Youthhood (Eng Translation)

🍒This R&S (少年时代) was part of the Dream Heart Lake event which will unlikely come to EN🍒

Cancelled Kiro’s R&S:

> top experimental subject (by another user)

> stunning young idol

> youthhood ♡

> heaven’s home for children (by another user)

[ Chapter 1]

Kiro sits on the highest flight of steps of TKTS. With the scorching sun directly overhead, he’s queuing to purchase discounted tickets to “Wicked” with Pei En.

TKTS, which sells discounted tickets, is located in the bustling Times Square in New York, USA. Behind it is the NASDAQ screen, and on both sides are shops selling Disney products and all sorts of fast fashion brands. The buildings in front and in the surroundings have gigantic, neat and pretty advertisements.

Among them, a gigantic “The Avengers” poster above the subway is the most attention grabbing.

This is a representation of the era. It’s a symbol of the 20th century, and is also similar to the cyberpunk world of “Blade Runner”.

“I’ve got the tickets!”

Pei En waves the two tickets to “Wicked” in his hand. Pei En is the guitarist in his band. Kiro’s agency formed a band for him, and most of the band members are French locals. Only Pei En is of mixed blood like Kiro - a child from a Jew and an Asian.

“If the performance had gone smoothly, we would have reached earlier!”

They have a final performance in New York as part of their tour, and would have to leave after, rushing to Los Angeles, California.

“This time, I’m going to hide the donuts in an even more secret location so the person who inspects the tickets wouldn’t discover them!”

While Kiro says this, he finishes the donut in his hand.

Donuts from Dunkin’ Donuts are very sticky. Only Kiro can treat such things as delicacies.

His ringtone sounds. With a glance at the number on the screen, he hangs up immediately. Pei En is very curious to know who the caller is. He has expressed curiosity regarding everything involving Kiro, and Kiro knows why.

“Is it that fellow Lawrence again?” Pei En asks. Lawrence is the agent of their band.

“Nope, but it’s definitely a harassment call.”

“It should be.”

Pei En seems to be a carbon copy of Kiro. Aside from his hair not being golden coloured, he is extremely similar to Kiro in terms of bubbliness and openness, and how simple-minded he is.

[ Chapter 2 ]

After purchasing the tickets, both of them return to the agency. Lawrence is at the side, looking through the program booklet for their performance tonight. Lawrence is overwhelmingly ambitious. He won’t give up until he bags a Grammy Award for the band.

“Did you know? Another group of strange people came to look for you again.”

The moment Lawrence sees Kiro, he pulls the latter to a corner. Pei En curiously watches on.

“What kind of people did you provoke? They look like they shouldn’t be trifled with.”

Kiro shakes his head. “What do you mean by ‘they’? Fans?”

When Lawrence sees the innocent and harmless expression on Kiro’s face again, he knows that his questions wouldn’t get him anywhere. Kiro always manages to find ways to conceal himself.

“How’s the preparation for the concert? You’re the lead singer, and all the girls are flocking here for you!”

“I’ll definitely perform even better than usual!”

Kiro looks to be full of zest and in high spirits. He genuinely loves being on stage, and loves how he radiates brilliance. Who doesn’t like seeing fans go into a frenzy over them and be captivated by them? It enables Kiro to fully feel that he is still living on this earth. And that on this earth, there are still so many people who like him...

“I’m guessing you went to buy a souvenir again today.”

Lawrence comes to such a conclusion after glancing at Kiro’s bag. Kiro has a hobby - to buy some souvenirs wherever he goes, whenever convenient.

From Paris to Munich, Zurich to Stockholm, Vancouver to Montreal - wherever he goes on tour, he would buy local fridge magnets and postcards, and he would always buy two sets.

He wants to collect these things, so if a day comes when he can meet her again, he would show them to her, and say:

“Look! This world is so beautiful, and you no longer have to be afraid.”

But till now, he has yet to find her. He remembers her eyes. One day, he will find her in a vast sea of people.

“Did you know that the agency from China has sent someone to negotiate with us? They want you to sign on with them, and the amount they’re giving you is basically--”

Lawrence’s tone is exaggerated. “How are people in China so wealthy!”

“What if I said that I wanted to go to China?”

“Hey, buddy, the band can’t do without you.”

“Haha, Pei En is much more outstanding than I am.”

At this point, Pei En is still watching them. Kiro understands him too well. He’s much too curious. Also, he’s only curious about Kiro, which could very quickly expose Kiro’s hidden identity.

Did that group of people actually send Pei En to monitor him...

He kind of underestimates Pei En though.

“But that fellow is always so absent-minded. God knows what he’s thinking about.”

[ Chapter Three ]

Americans enjoy overstating things. At one moment, they go “only God knows...”, and at another moment, they go “for the sake of God...”. Some people can’t stand it, but Kiro finds it very interesting.

Very quickly, Kiro begins rehearsing with the band. His style of singing changes a lot. When they were in Europe, they mostly played rock music. When they reached America, they started playing country or jazz music.

Kiro likes the southern accent of the keyboardist from California. But Lawrence prohibits it. “The southern accent is the most crude and coarse form of English! Why can’t you learn the way the British speak?”

Lawrence has always favoured people who can speak eloquent British English - to him, only such people are refined and elegant. But Kiro grew up in France. When he first started learning English, he tended to pronounce “ch” as “sh”. Actually, French is genuinely elegant and pleasant to listen to. And English tinged with a slight French accent can make one absorbed in it.

The concert ended smoothly.

The fans are cheering in a frenzy outside, wanting them to perform one more song. But the agent has already told them to leave.

Pei En and Kiro take a car and rush to the theatre to watch “Wicked”. This is the final Broadway show they want to watch, and it was a shame that Kiro didn't get to watch the well-known Hamilton.

At the entrance, that group of fellows stopped him again.

The person standing at the forefront is a Caucasian woman. She walks up to Kiro elegantly and greets him, signalling for the person next to her to bring Pei En away.

“I’ve already given you a response through e-mail, and I hope you won’t disturb me again.”

The Caucasian woman proceeds as usual, showing him an FBI ID.

Kiro grumbles in his heart.

“I swear I won’t disclose the contents of ‘The Avengers’. Even though I’ve already watched it on my laptop, I’ll definitely watch it again in the cinema!”

The Caucasian woman laughs.

“Mr Kiro, you’re very humorous. Even though we know that apart from Disney, you’ve also hacked into Universal Studios and Paramount Pictures, we’re not here to talk about this.”

She continues: “KEY - that’s you, isn’t it?”

[ Chapter 4 ]

Kiro doesn’t respond, his eyes widening as he glances around.

“In order to track down your IP address, we had to destroy four computers.”

“Are you looking for me to make compensation for the computers?”

“Mr Kiro. Ten years ago, you expended no effort to hack into our computers, and left behind a string of mysterious characters.”

The Caucasian woman smiles at him amiably. Kiro’s expression grows serious. Ten years ago, that KEY who hacked into their organisation wasn’t him...

“Ten years later, you’re back again. I think you're trying to provoke us.”

“I don’t have such an intention.”

“Whether or not you do, we can’t let you continue this way. Mr Kiro, this is a serious issue. We are now sending you a sincere invitation, and we hope to work together to do more noble things.”

Kiro is silent. He had previously found a clue leading to his own master. Finding out that he had entered the American FBI website and left behind a series of symbols - he thinks this is message to him from his master. As such, he entered it as well, and found that series of symbols, but until now hasn’t been able to decipher it.

It’s a series of very strange symbols, reminiscent of a new language formed using Latin and Roman symbols. He managed to decipher it a little, and it appears that the series of symbols seem to be pointing him to a location.

And the FBI had found him quickly, sending him an e-mail. It was a solemn reminder that if he was unwilling to be enlisted by them, he would lose his rights to use a computer forever.

“You’ve stated these things clearly in the e-mail, and I’ve already replied.”

“I don't think you have considered the severity of this matter. Mr Kiro, we can detain you.”

"In that case, I’ll just sing in jail then!”

Seeing the displeased look on the Caucasian woman’s face, Kiro continues smiling simple-mindedly.

“I hope you wouldn’t regret this in the future.” The Caucasian woman leaves a final statement that is often found in a script for a classic villain. She leaves with the large group of people.

Pei En walks over frantically, and Kiro walks towards him as well.

“Tell them that I’ve met with some trouble, and will need to leave America immediately.”

Pei En pretends to be puzzled.

“You understand the meaning in my words, don’t you?”

For the first time, Kiro looks at him seriously. During serious moments, he doesn’t smile.

“Where do you plan to go? We can send you to Russia.”

Pei En is no longer smiling. His expression changes, along with his entire aura.

As expected, Pei En is much too similar to him. If Kiro were to leave the band, Pei En could take over his position as the lead singer, and that group of people had considered this fact too.

[ Chapter 5 ]

The face of the little girl surfaces in Kiro’s mind again.

The girl is lying with him, and is all smiles as she looks at him.

“Don’t be afraid. When I’m out, I’ll buy you donuts, okay?”

The girl draws the shape of a donut in the air.

Back then, Kiro didn’t speak. He just stared at the ceiling in a dazed state.

“Don’t worry that I won’t have enough money. My dad will give it to me.”

Kiro remains wordless, quietly listening to the little girl speak.

The little girl struggles to pull on his hand.

Their fingers lace together, the warmth from her palm gradually coursing into Kiro’s heart.

“Don’t be afraid. I’ll protect you.”

Kiro turns to look at her - to look at her determined brown eyes, to look at how the corners of her lips angle upwards. Kiro slowly learns how to curl the corners of his lips from her. It’s the first smile to appear on his face.

Suddenly, the door is flung open. A group of people wearing doctor’s coats enter and drag him away. The little girl watches him in a daze, and he stares back at her. They agreed to go out to have donuts - can they still eat them?

“I want to return to China.”

Pei En shakes his head, alarm in his eyes. “Why? There’s so much freedom here, and I’m the only one who monitors you. And I’m inclined to trust you more now. You won’t betray us.”

“No... I still want to go back.”

Not just for the little girl. The symbols left behind by his master seem to point to a certain location in China... Where exactly is it? And why did he leave the symbols with the FBI? Could it be the place he’s hiding at right now?

No matter what, he wants to solve this riddle.

“All right. I’ll handle it for you as soon as I can. I think you’d have to use a false identity this time.”

“As long as everything goes smoothly, it’s fine.”

“Don’t worry, there’s nothing they can’t do.”

He wants to wait till he returns to China before telling Lawrence about what happened. Lawrence will definitely be extremely frantic. After all, he’s been following Kiro ever since he debuted in France.

And Pei En will definitely be happy. He can finally take over Kiro and become the favourite member of the group, and obtain love from the fans.

Kiro is someone who doesn’t lack love. But he always subconsciously wishes that he could obtain even more love. More and more...

[ Chapter 6 ]

Before Kiro retuned, Pei En gave him materials pertaining to the agency in China.

“Your agent is called Savin. He doesn’t seem as eager for instant success and quick profits as Lawrence. Mr Savin is a very amiable person, and you should be very happy interacting with him.”

“Is he one of your people?”

“I don’t know.”

“You really don’t know?”

Pei En shakes his head. “I rank too low, so I don’t have the right to ask. I’m just an elementary spy.”

Kiro nods, taking his luggage and preparing to leave. He’ll set things straight eventually.

“Kiro, I don’t think you’re transparent. They say that what’s in your heart is easy to guess, which is why they put me by your side. But I think they have underestimated you.”

Kiro looks at Pei En’s troubled eyes, then showcases his signature sunny smile.

“How can that be? Do you want a postcard? When I get to China, I’ll mail you one. I also want to mail them to Lawrence and the members from the band. Treat it as an apology.”

Like Kiro, Pei En showcases a sunny smile. “In that case, we’ll wait for your news. You’ll definitely be at the height of popularity in China.”

“Let’s work hard together.”

“Yes!”

After parting with Pei En, who has been with together with him from morning to night for so long, Kiro lifts his luggage and embarks on an unknown journey.

As what Pei En said, he isn’t transparent. His brilliant smile conceals something underneath, just as the brilliant sun shrouds darkness underneath.

Hidden in the depths of his secrets are things even darkness doesn’t know of. If darkness had a mind of its own, it might think it doesn’t fit with this pure and simple youth.

Just as how everyone think he’s a simple, innocent Kiro, the sunlight casted on him can pierce through him completely, the rays of light refracting onto the floor.

Actually, since a very long time ago, he was no longer a youth...

But, for her sake, he's willing to become a youth again.

“Don’t be afraid, I’ll protect you.”

He once again recalls what the girl said to him.

“This time, I’ll be the one protecting you.” Kiro says excitedly. He stands outside the JFK Airport, his eyes staring directly at the sun.

“I’ll find you, and protect you. I even have a mountain of souvenirs stored in my luggage. I’ll give them all to you. And my purest heart - I’ll give it to you too!”

Other cancelled R&S: here

#mlqc #mlqc cn #mlqc kiro #cncancelled #my emotions went on a field trip while translating this

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nellygwyn · 4 years

Text

When I first began studying Renaissance history, almost two decades ago, I did so in part because I wanted a change from the world of present-day politics. I always found parallels, of course: I would laugh over sixteenth-century letters that unwittingly foreshadowed the voices of politicians I knew, but I was firm in my mind that the past was a foreign country. When I made jokes comparing those supranational centres of Europe - fifteenth-century Rome and twenty-first century Brussels - they got a laugh but I was sure I was being flippant. As I went on, however, the past seemed to become less foreign. I would read 'tech revolution' stories and think about the history of printing; read about the election of Pope Francis and think about the global sixteenth-century Catholic Church; read about the refugee crisis in the Mediterranean and think about the expulsion of the Jews and Muslims from Spain. This is not to say that nothing has changed: as we will see, there are many differences between that society and our own. But precisely because the legacy of this Renaissance (or Age of Reform, or Age of Exploration, if we prefer) has become so important in Western culture, in defining who 'we' are (and who 'we' are not), it is worth getting to know it better.

This is all the more important because the popular story of the Renaissance - like many versions of modern Western history - tends to focus on the genius and the glory at the expense of the atrocities. Machiavelli's ideas about power, for example, become a set of timeless aphorisms rather than emerging, as in fact they did, from a specific setting. The fact that all these people coexisted with the early European voyages to the Americas, to which some of them had personal connections, and that Italians provided personnel, finance and write-ups of the subsequent colonisation, is not unknown. The bloody side of the Renaissance has always been part of the period's fascination. It is more often told, however, in the fashion of TV's 'The Borgias' as the glamorous, sexy violence of the rich-and-famous murdering one another in pursuit of power (the viewer consoling herself that most of them deserve their fate), and far less the violence of war, exile, and colonisation, nor yet domestic abuse. This is the narrative that makes the Medici a family of mafia godfathers, and it is about as connected to the reality of Florence in the sixteenth-century as gangster movies are to actual life in a town run by organised crime today. I have no objection to people enjoying a bloody tale of vendetta: I’ve told the gory story of the Baglioni wedding in Perugia in 1500 to tour groups myself. Yet too much of this masks the brutal realities beyond Renaissance works of art. Take the 'Mona Lisa': Lisa Gherardini, the woman of the mysterious smile, was married to a slave-trader. One possible model for the 'Venus of Urbino' - Angela Zaffetta - was gang-raped. The Florentine Republic that commissioned and was symbolised by Michelangelo's 'David' came to a brutal end with a sack of 'unheard-of cruelty' in which thousands of men were massacred in just a few hours.

As I was finishing this book in March 2019, forty-nine people were killed in a gun attack on two mosques in Christchurch, New Zealand. The perpetrator, a right-wing extremist, posted on social media numerous precedents for his actions, including notable Christian victories against Muslim forces. One was the 1571 Battle of Lepranto, the subject of my final chapter. Sixteenth-century history has rarely been so explicitly appropriated by the far-right as have, say, the Crusades or the myth of the all-white medieval West. More commonly, Renaissance history has played a more subtle, if no less pernicious role, the mythologies of its great men reinforcing ideas about European and Christian and white superiority without ever being so vulgar as to say outright. That is not to say it is wrong to appreciate or enjoy the artistic innovation of sixteenth-century Europe: there is plenty to wonder at. And by exploring how people of this world thought about their own media revolution, or considered questions of gender and sexuality, or responded to changing weapons technology, we can better understand our own world too, and the ways in which then as now brilliant cultural innovation can exist alongside - indeed, is often intertwined with - all manner of atrocity.

- The introduction of Catherine Fletcher’s book The Beauty and the Terror: An Alternative History of the Italian Renaissance

#this is brilliant #16th century history #history #renaissance italy #catherine fletcher

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infinity-and-luck · 3 years

Text

Crowned by an overture bold and beyond || Day 7: Legacy

(AO3 link in replies)

Mortality had been weighing heavily on him for the past two decades. It nestled deep into his joints and mind, reminding him every time he stood up or sat down, every time he walked up the stairs to his Institute, that his time was coming to an end. And it terrified him. Had terrified him for years. And now it seemed to creep nearer every day, coming one step closer, ready to rear its head around every corner.

Mortality was the shackles that bound him in eternal fear and made him just as much a victim as every other half-witted fool whose story he’d collected for his archives. And he knew this; loathed it, that even with the gifts of his patron, he was no better than anyone else.

Twelve years ago, Maxwell Rayner passed away. An old man, it came as no surprise. But in the months that followed, Jonah became acquainted with a young man who bore a striking resemblance to his old friend, not in looks but in everything else.

Jonah had known about Rayner’s method of staying alive, one that required a significantly greater amount of work than the methods afforded to the servants of other entities, such as the Vast. And after a great deal of badgering and no small amount of persuasion, Jonah had gotten Rayner to spill his secrets and tell him how he did it. It was not a method that Jonah could replicate exactly, but it was one he could work with.

And for twelve years, Jonah carried around this information, tossing it back and forth in his head, trying to work the vague ramblings into a precise method. He was desperate, not foolish; a half-worked plan, especially one of such importance, couldn’t be rushed. Twelve years was a long time, especially at his age, but it wasn’t enough.

It had to be, though.

William Pemberton was something of a protege to Jonah; an assistant, a student. He had initially hired him on as a researcher, joining the other four that he already had employed at his Institute. There was something about him though that caught Jonah’s eye. He was an attractive young man, certainly, and Jonah knows that in his younger years, he would’ve had his way with him

There was something else, however, that drew Jonah to him. He was by no means remarkable: studious, but forgetful; charismatic, but forgettable; handsome enough to stand out, but plain enough to blend in. His name had money to it but no connections attached. On the whole, he was a nobody. And he was perfect.

He had been hesitant, initially, to take someone’s body. He had no qualms about letting someone die, but he’d never been so directly involved in it. But as the years pressed on, he really had no other options. His only choices were to kill or die.

So, in the end, it had been an easy choice, but not without its complications. Countless hours of research went into figuring out how he might be able to remove his eyes without damaging them; the question of how he would put them into young William’s head also puzzled him.

He could place his faith in the Eye and the hope that it would afford him the same protections as the Dark did Rayner. It was Rayner that he could not place his faith in. Constantly did he question him, trying to see if his answers varied ever from time to time. They never did; it did little to assuage his fears.

Stood in his panopticon, he Knew exactly how the change should work. And so, after years of preparation, he was ready.

Dear young William had followed him like a lamb to slaughter. The wrong entity, perhaps, but the phrase served its purpose. Jonah led him down into the tunnels under his Institute and up into the Panopticon, and he led him to his death.

He’d knocked him out prior to ripping the eyes out of his head. A part of him thought it might be easier to go through with this whole procedure if he pretended William was already dead. He hated pretending, however. Soon, the body was ready and all that was left was removing his own eyes and putting them into the sockets of the body that was soon to be his.

Jonah couldn’t say he remembered the whole event terribly well. Between the rather difficult process of removing his own eyes and the fact that the body he’d put them into was unconscious, the conditions weren’t really ideal for a fond memory. It was what came after that mattered though.

When he came back to it, when he’d gotten the chance to stand over the lifeless husk of his old body, he reveled. He rejoiced. He was free. He’d done it: he’d beaten the End. He jumped, he ran, he kneeled down before his corpse, and gently caressed his cheek.

There were no such things as ends or beginnings to him, not really. Each new body he took, he considered a new chapter in his endless book of life.

William had lasted only twenty-five years before Jonah found another body that better suited his tastes. So he discarded one body for another and thus became Victor. He was only a few years younger than William was when he had “inherited a great deal of land and went to take charge of it.” Victor had been his secretary and naturally took over the position as head of Institute.

He experienced the turn of the century in that second (third? Did he count his original self as just a body he’d inhabited) body. The second he had experienced in his lifetime. He had longed to tell his friends what it was like. But there were none to tell (he wasn’t on speaking terms, at the moment, with the other two still around).

Soon, he took a different body. Not long after that, another. With each body he took, the more he started to feel less like himself and more like a shell. Over the course of bodies he took, and over the course of time, his life as Jonah faded to a not-quite-distant-but-not-very-vivid memory. When he talked of his past, it no longer felt like himself he was referring to. Had he really run away from home at seventeen? Had he truly left his lover to die in the Lonely? All those letters he had in his archives, were those truly written to him?

It was always an odd experience having to recite his life story to others, albeit a much-abridged version. He would have to run a mental checklist of the things that the public actually knew about him. Historians debated his sexuality, letters of his were lost (kept in his personal collection unbeknownst to everyone else), and small things like his favourite flowers; he couldn’t make anything more than a vague reference to any of it without someone thinking he might be lying or making things up.

Perhaps that was why he had started to feel like a stranger to himself, not that he would say that aloud; he couldn’t allow himself to fall to the Stranger.

On the days that he no longer felt like himself, he would go to the Panopticon. It always required a trip through his archives first, so he would grab a few of his letters, and take them with him. There he would pull a chair beside his old body and read those letters aloud, trying to recall what it was like when he had read them the first time.

And when he was done, he would stand and his knees would ache, and he would wonder when that had started again. Hadn’t it just been yesterday that he’d taken this body? Hadn’t he just become young again? He remembered all the way back when he had done his first body transfer. He had felt so young then. What had happened?

What had happened to him? He would wonder. When had his life gone from traveling and doing research and attending parties? When had the highlight of his day become opening a cleanly organised spreadsheet on his computer?

Was this all he was now? Had the great Jonah Magnus fallen this far? Was this his legacy? A man who had gained immortality to spend it working at a desk?

He loved what he did, yes, but it was in moments like those that he wondered if he truly did or had he convinced himself somewhere down the line that he did. Introspection usually led him to places where Jonah didn’t like to dwell. His life was perfect as it was, and he wouldn’t have anyone, even himself, question that. And he would leave his Panopticon and go back to his desk, and forget he’d even left.

#jonah magnus #tma #jonahmagnusweek

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undertaker1827 · 4 years

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Can I request an imagine for Undertaker? Reader is his apprentice. (Mortuary not reaper apprentice) and her school is offering her a different funeral home for her career which upsets Undertaker. But reader tells him that she already turned down the offer because she likes London and. "Why would I leave the only man I've ever loved?""

Oh wow I loved writing this one!! Be warned; I went absolutely overboard, it’s probably far more dramatic than you were looking for and we’ve hit the 2000 word mark!! Whoo hoo! Also, there’s angst in the middle, but much fluff either side. Enjoy!

It was bright and early in the morning when you arrived at your place of work - well, place of apprenticeship at least. It was not the first choice most people went for, you supposed, when choosing a career, but you had always had your sights set on entering the funeral business. You found there to be something peaceful and somehow satisfying in organising a person’s final celebration. You also had something of a weird sense of humour, which was no doubt the main reason for getting on so well with a certain funeral director. It must have been coincidence that your apprenticeship led you to one particular, peculiar little parlour, or perhaps an unusually kind turn of fate.

You entered the shop without once trying to check for your keys, knowing the door was almost always open. A grin made its way onto your face in preparation for greeting the shop’s owner, your technically-boss whom you had grown incredibly fond over across the span of the past few months. You glanced around the front room, eyes much happier in the darkness compared to the bright sunlight failing to beam through the dusty window on the door. When a characteristic creaking of hinges scratched past your ears, you turned to the coffin propped up against the wall on your immediate left, only to be greeted by a flying bear hug. Something you had learned about the mortician fairly early on in this apprenticeship was his entire lack of comprehensibility with regards to personal space. It was simply not something he payed any mind to. Luckily for you, it was never something you were overly concerned about either.

The breath left your lungs in a graceless huff as you were crushed against Undertaker, who was utterly thrilled at your scheduled appearance. You could practically feel the excitement radiating off him. Laughing, you wrapped your arms around him in return, resting your forehead on his shoulder.

“Good mornin’, m’lady,” he started in a singsong tone, “and what is it I can help you with today?” You chuckled even more at his hilarious antics. It had been like this for a while now, ever since Undertaker had acclimatised to your presence and come to realise how much you both had in common. You were not much different, having been delighted upon realising your similarities and confusion towards people who considered themselves ‘normal’. Anyone out of the ordinary was always a far more interesting character. You treasured the moments you got to spend with the mortician, so much so that you had approached him around a month ago to ask if you could start coming in on weekends as well, even though the apprenticeship only required weekdays. To say he was ecstatic after that request would be the understatement of the century.

“You know, some tea and a biscuit or two really wouldn’t go amiss,” you confessed in a stage whisper, glancing at him out of the corner of your eye as though checking there was no one else to hear your request.

“My dear, I couldn’t agree more. I just finished a fresh batch.” With that, he whisked you away through the door leading to the kitchen. That was something else you loved about being with Undertaker - he very rarely called you by your actual name. It was always ‘my dear’, or ‘my lady’ when he was messing about. He had begun to adopt ‘love’ more recently too. Even thinking about it brought a warmth to your chest, made your heart swell. You couldn’t help but wonder if you were the only one he called by such names. You already spent most of your time at the funeral parlour; the only visitors he seemed to get outside of blurry-eyed customers was a young earl and his butler, although you got the impression that he was not overly fond of you being around at the same time as they were. It occurred to you, not for the first time, that craving physical contact as he did was probably due to loneliness, at least in part. Not that he would ever admit feeling something so sad to you.

Undertaker had heard about it before even you did. Your school wanted to move you on to a different funeral home. You would get more experience, travel to different places, meet new people. Ultimately, it would make it easier for you when you started working full time at a funeral home, or eventually when you set up your own. He understood all of that perfectly.

It made no difference.

He thought about you working where they had suggested, a quaint place up in Yorkshire - all pink flowers and seaside communities. Nothing at all like the eccentric, dark place he ran. No mystery, no interesting past - not that he could think of, at least. And most importantly, nowhere near London. Of course, London came with its own set of problems; you were far more likely to get attacked here, mugged or the like, than in the North. But here, he was present to make sure that nothing happened to you. He was more than capable of doing so when you lived in the same city and you spent most of your time with him anyway. This was something that would not be possible if you left. And, frankly, why would you stay? What reason would have? Him? Please. As if you were some fairy tale princess choosing to stay with your prince over your own future. It just wouldn’t happen.

As such, he consigned himself to the fact. He went and baked a collection of biscuits to see you off with - after all, they had said you would have to leave immediately should you so choose, lest someone else take the spot reserved for you only within a time limit. Schedules and reports and formalities that Undertaker would never subject himself to again. You probably liked organisation.

He had not even tried to sleep after some self-righteous receptionist had rudely delivered the news that you would be leaving, with absolute certainty, even though it was not her choice to make. “I have been to your parlour before, to check it was a suitable place for a young apprentice. The rafters were still relatively stable, I suppose, but why on Earth she picked a place like yours to begin with…” Even over the phone, he could hear her frail, blossom adorned façade shudder in disgust. “I am sure I would never know.” He was now doubting himself, certain that whatever he thought you felt towards him, no matter how platonic, was just a figment of his isolated mind. Why would you pick him? Why would you? Why would you.

Therefore, he had obstinately decided to spend the night baking, so at the very least he would have a parting gift for you. You were supposed to have arrived five minutes ago.

“Half an hour! That wretched woman has made me half an hour late! Who does she think she is, trying to order me about over something that couldn’t be less to do with her!” She was not so much as in the department who organised the category into which your apprenticeship fell, she was just a general coordinator of venues!

Livid with your treatment, flustered by your late arrival and absolutely wound to the hilt, you made the fifteen minute walk to Undertaker’s in five. The door flew open as you burst through, loudly proclaiming your apologies through the haze of red that women had left on your vision, only to stop abruptly. The door creaked on its hinges, slamming shut with a sense of dreadful finality you didn’t think it was capable of.

“Undertaker?” Your voice came out quiet, confused, as you took in what was going on. He sitting. Sitting down properly, in the ordinary wooden chair behind his heavy oakwood desk. His elbows rested on the tabletop, fingers laced and chin hovering just above them. His hat was discarded on the floor beside him, a single, covered basket atop the desk. He was not smiling.

Now downright concerned, you frowned, dropping your coat unceremoniously across a coffin and quickly striding across the room, coming to a halt in front of the desk and resting your weight on your palms, on the opposite side to him. Your tone had taken on a stern quality now, having been given the distinct impression you would have to push him to gain any information at all.

“Undertaker, what’s wrong?” It couldn’t really have been called a question.

The mortician gestured a vague hand in the direction of the basket.

“They’re for you.” No greeting, no name, no amusement. It was like he had gone into clinical detachment for the sake of dealing with an inconsolable customer for the sake of not starting to cry along with them. Of course you knew what the basket was made up of, you would recognise the smell of those biscuits anywhere. You ignored them. Leaning fully across his desk, you gently grabbed Undertaker’s wrists, refusing to just leave it.

“What’s. Wrong?” He said nothing for a long while, then stood so abruptly that your hands were pulled from his wrists and you fell forwards slightly onto your forearms. When you looked up, the mortician had already shot away from where you were standing, making a fuss about the rows of suspect jars lining his shelves and blabbering on about understanding your choice, and wishing you luck … for the future?

With a sudden gasp of clarity, everything made sense. He thought you had taken up the offer. If he had spoken to the same woman as you had, she probably told him you were leaving. Hell, she had told you the same thing. Now, not only had she angered you, she had upset the most upbeat-in-his-own-way man you had ever met? Oh, no. You were not having that. Whipping around, you stormed to the other side of the room in seconds, grabbing the mortician by his shoulders and forcefully turning him to face you. You had pressed yourself against him in the next breath, one hand between his defined shoulder blades and the other against the curve of his lower back, pulling him ever closer to you. In shock, you supposed, he held his arms aloft above your head, as if he didn’t know what to do. As if you hadn’t done this thousands of times before. Your eyes squeezed shut as every muscle in your body tensed, refusing to let him go.

“I’m not going anywhere,” you murmured with a conviction he had never heard from you before. “Do you hear me? I’m staying. Whether you like it or not.” A short, sharp intake of breath on his part was your only reply. “I like it here. I like London. I like your shop. And most importantly…” You leaned back at this point, only far enough to be able to see his face. You swallowed, suddenly unsure of how he would react to this. It was too late now, you reasoned, you were already committed. The hand you had pressed between his shoulder blades quickly moved to his face, pushing back through his bangs and finally revealing his eyes. It was your turn to breath in sharply; the intensity of his burning chartreuse gaze immediately spearing straight through you was not something you had been expecting. Somehow though, you kept your train of thought.

“Why would I leave the only man I’ve ever loved?”

No sooner were the words out than he had moved. One arm glided around your waist, the other bracing your shoulders and fingertips gently touching over the soft hair at the base of your skull as his pale, soft lips carefully met yours. You had never seen him be so gentle, it hadn’t even occurred to you that he could be. Your chin tilted up immediately to meet his kiss, the hand entwined with his bangs returning to his back. He pulled away slowly, leaving you a panting, flustered mess in his arms. You never once broke eye contact. You could barely make out his words for how focused you were on his voice. Deep, soft, nothing like the jarring lilt he usually spoke with.

“I love you too.”

#black butler #undertaker #adrian crevan #black butler fluff #black butler x reader #undertaker x reader #undertaker x reader fluff #adrian crevan x reader

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jafreitag · 3 years

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Grateful Dead Monthly: Gaelic Park – New York, NY 8/26/71

Fifty years ago today, on Thursday, August 26, 1971, the Grateful Dead played a concert at Gaelic Park in New York City.

Gaelic Park is located at West 240th Street and Broadway, five miles north and east of Yankee Stadium, in the Bronx. In 1926, the Gaelic Athletic Association purchased it to host the Gaelic Games. What are Gaelic Games? I’m a sliver Irish (just learned that a few years ago from a cousin who did some DNA stuff), but I didn’t know about such games until I asked the Google machine. Here you go, from the Wiki:

“Gaelic games (Irish: Cluichí Gaelacha) are sports played in Ireland under the auspices of the Gaelic Athletic Association (GAA). They include Gaelic football, hurling, Gaelic handball and rounders. Women’s versions of hurling and football are also played: camogie, organised by the Camogie Association of Ireland, and ladies’ Gaelic football, organised by the Ladies’ Gaelic Football Association. While women’s versions are not organised by the GAA (with the exception of handball, where men’s and women’s handball competitions are both organised by the GAA Handball organisation), they are closely associated with it.”

Some to unpack there. What’s Gaelic football? It’s basically rugby. (The rules are probably way different, but this is a music blog, so don’t judge.) And hurling? Rugby with a small ball and sticks that look like sporty pizza paddles. (Again, don’t judge.) Gaelic handball? Racquetball, except you use your hands and you’re outside, not in some bougie health club from the ’80s. Finally, rounders? It’s actually alot like baseball. Pretty cool.

Why were the Dead there? A 9/2/71 piece in the Village Voice by Carman Moore, now archived on the Grateful Dead Sources blog, said that Gotham promoter Howard Stein, a Bill Graham competitor who booked the Dead to play at the Cap Theater in Port Chester, NY and the Academy of Music in NYC, had turned “the drab little Riverdale soccer field … into a summer rock mini-festival.” (Check out the poster above.) Moore’s writing has an early-70s sizzle, and he refers to his colleague, now-legendary rock scribe Robert Christgau. Here’s an excerpt:

“Last week’s Grateful Dead concert up at Gaelic Park was a usual Dead session, meaning that the band-to-fan-to-band electro-chemical process for which rock music is famed was on like high mass at Easter. Although I think I know most of the time what they are doing musically (Christgau will like this notion); I don’t quite understand them electro-chemically. Like the New York Knicks of two seasons ago, they can do excellent things together though they are not a group of deathless superstars. Garcia gets his songs across, but he can’t sing, and Bob Weir’s voice rises to about average…maybe better when he gets to screaming and the music sweeps him along. I still find it difficult to recognize the Dead songs that aren’t “Truckin'” or “St. Stephen” one from the other. I am not one of their fans, but seem to be one of their admirers. Their music speaks in a special language to their live listeners, and that language has the vocabulary of everybody else, but a convoluted syntax all its own. The note sequences are not completely dependent upon musical factors but are also dictated by how involved the band feels and also upon what kind of heat the audience is giving off. I’m trying to get to some essences of this thing.

The drama of a Dead concert revolves around the fact that wherever the band plays they know that a certain number (several tons) of their partisans will be there and that their crowd knows the Dead potential to excite them, but they also know that the Dead may not get into gear until the crowd begins to apply some heat, and so forth. Both parties also know that the concert will be long enough and informal enough for anything to happen on either side of the footlights, and so audiences improvise (smoke, go to the hot dog stand, kiss and snuggle, cheer, dance, listen like star-struck fools) just like their musician friends on stage (who play light and funny for awhile, retire backstage awhile, stand around, or get lost in a piece and turn on the heavy jets). Like good lovers, the Grateful Dead know the secrets of good foreplay, taking your time, surprising the partner for awhile, and then just reacting for a spell.”

The timing of the show seems odd. The band was on the East Coast in July, but began August back in Cali – LA, SD, Berkeley – before a three-night run at Chicago’s historic Auditorium Theater. Then they trekked back to NYC. Our resident Deaditor ECM explains that aspect: “This show was supposed to be played the day before the Yale Bowl concert on July 30, but some issues with the equipment trucks and/or weather prevented it from happening from the scheduled date. There are a few stories on the web about people who didn’t get the message (no twitter back then!) and dropped some acid only to show up to an empty stadium. Haha!”

Moore said that the show reminded him of “a high school stadium I used to know – low stands, unfulfilled infield grass, mud holes here and there, beer sold at one end in some quantity.” He continued:

“The formal shape of the concert was a general crescendo, light at the beginning and heavy-groovy at the end – not a shooting-star, call-the-law finale, just a heightened physical-emotional climate…the goods delivered as promised…sort of like good preaching in a church known to be a happy place. I did not enjoy their country-westernish opening tunes; maybe they didn’t either, because the pieces were awfully short. But by the three-quarter mark they had involved themselves, the crowd, and me too.

First they got the rhythm engaged and finally, courtesy of Jerry Garcia’s lead and interplays with Lesh and Weir, they went into the soloing and jamming which are the real magic music territory of this band. Much is made of the Dead soloists, but it became clear to me by last Thursday that bassist Phil Lesh plus those two drummers create the atmosphere that makes the Dead thing possible. The drummers were exceptionally understated, but Lesh kept bopping and thrumming away, heavily at all times, until his patterns were consistently getting the other players off. In the middle of “St. Stephen” there was a special coming together: Lesh had found a nice ambiguous but compelling set of licks; Garcia eased into a solo; Weir strummed a cross-time lick over all of it; it built; it quieted; Garcia started to play strange classical kind of lines; the drums dropped out; the audience got quiet; nothing at all could be predicted for a minute or so; then Lesh began to grope his way out with two chords and rhythms which began to regularize; audience began to jump and then to clap; guitars began to straighten out; the band came home to the cheers of the fans. Good music-making. The listener goes home without a little tune to whistle, but he hears music. As if they were finishing off some personal solos based over the last riffs heard, the fans went out of Gaelic Park without a thousand encores and without a lot of fuss on the streets outside.

It’s all very interesting, surprising, and I guess mystifying as before. All I know is that the Dead, or their fans, or the combination of both lure you into planning to return when they’re all assembled and back in town again.”

Apparently, there was some grief about bootlegs at this show. The GD Sources blog has a post that archives a 10/6/71 piece by the excellently-handled Basho Katzenjammer (Basho, the 17th Century Japanese haiku master; Katzenjammer, the German word for hangover) that gripes about an army of 200# “muscle freaks” at the direction of tour manager Sam Cutler liberating a handful of tapes from 100# weakling Johnny Lee. It’s a truly fun read. An excerpt:

“The biggest piece of shit spewing from Cutler’s mouth is about the reasons the Dead have for being so pissed off: they don’t like the quality (remember Garcia’s line in “I Got No Chance of Losin”? He says, “I’m only in it for the gold.” Yeah, music has a way of being more honest than the artist intends it to be at times…) The “quality”? Anyone who has bought a bootleg recently will know and agree that the bootleg stereo album called “Grateful Dead” is one of the best underground products yet. The tape was taken from a concert the group did at Winterland, on the coast a few months back. Yeah, Garcia fucks up a bit on “Casey Jones,” and Pigpen’s ego may have been deflated a bit by his voice coming over poorly on “Good Loving” but that was a concert. You do a concert and you stand by your performance, good or bad. That’s show business.

This effete artistic bullshit doesn’t matter anyway … When you’re out to get all the money you can out of your gigs, like the Dead seem to be (like all the groups seem to be) you might be accused of being a bit piggish; when you use strong-arm shit to insure that you get every last penny that you deserve — by making Amerikan standards — you are a Pig. Jerry Garcia, is that you?

Nobody buys that anti-bootleg shit about the artistic integrity of the artist in saying what goes out. One, you stand by your performance; two, even if you don’t want to, Jerry, somewhat, and say “all your private property is fair game for your brothers (especially when they sell records of concerts that don’t compete with coming releases) and your brother (who’s gonna continue to dig you as we live off your comets we’re gonna keep ripping you off because it is possible. As simple as that.” If you and Cutler and Stein continue your shit, though, we’ll just have to sing the song the same old way, you guys being put in the position of being the same old reactionary establishment that we’re all ripping off. It’s all around. You break your back playing gigs for ten years and suddenly success is staring you in the face. Bread: lots and lots of bread. You turn your back on your poor, ripping ’em off roots and start to tighten up. You’re in the biggest rip-off industry around, but no one cares as long as they’re having fun.

Money. That’s the whole story, isn’t it? If these were other times, in another land under a different set of rules maybe you could justifiably complain about the people who want to give your recorded performances out free because you didn’t screen them and pick out the sections you didn’t like and do them over for the cat, ’cause no one charges for their music, and because the means of production belong to the people, and they can turn out all the good sounds they can, and you have a natural right to screen all releases. But we’re here. Now. You guys are making millions — or soon will be. Money is power, especially as the concept of money is crumbling nation-wide and power freaks like Stein are cornering the market on it. The channels that the green-power the Dead bring in travel aren’t the healthiest for the generations of revolution to come. Stein is one of these hopeful images of a freak with a chance to change things positively gone sour, who uses all his power to consolidate his power; who’ll go to any extremes to insure the natural expansion of that power. Fuck him. Fuck you.”

Speak, Basho! Quaint that the beef about bootlegs back then was sound quality, rather than copyright. Stuff got figured out at some point, I think. Like when Bobby shut down the LMA, lmao.

Ed featured part of this show in the 2016 edition of his epcot 31 Days of Dead project. Here are his listening notes, which are typically spot-on (and better than than the not-quite-on-the-bus commentary from Mr. Moore):

“Less than three weeks after Pigpen’s definitive performance of Hard To Handle at the Hollywood Palladium (8/6/71), the Grateful Dead play the final date of their summer tour in 1971 at Gaelic Park in the Bronx. It will be Pig’s last show until December and the last time the band will ever perform in their original quintet configuration of Jerry, Phil, Pig, Billy and Bobby. By September, Keith will be rehearsing with the band to assume a full-time role on the keys. Perhaps anticipating his absence, Pigpen leads the band through 6 of his songs including the rarely-played Empty Pages and the last Hard To Handle. It is also one of the last performances of Saint Stephen, until the band revived it in 1976 with a major facelift, never to be played the same way again. When you consider these historical milestones along with the departure of Mickey Hart and the closings of the legendary Fillmore East and West earlier in the year it makes you realize that this concert carried a little more weight than anyone could have ever foreseen at the time. It truly was the end of a chapter in the life of the Grateful Dead. As you listen to each song you can’t help but feel a certain degree of nostalgia.

For me, the hidden gem of the show is the outstanding version of Uncle Johns Band. Jerry’s first guitar solo is an absolute joy to hear. His notes sing with irresistible melody and happy sunshine which perfectly capture the nostalgia of those carefree early years. If you listen closely you can hear Pigpen playing the wood claves.”

Speaking of Pig, this show features the second and final performance of Empty Pages. The NYS Music blog, which has a nice write-up of this show, describes it as a McKernan original that “pairs his traditional crooning style with a slow blues jam that’s nicely peppered with fiery guitar licks from Garcia. It’s a true rarity and a shame that the band wouldn’t be able to further develop this one.”

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I feel like this was a try-hard post. It might be tl;dr, idk. Here’s the true goodness…

Transport to the Charlie Miller remaster of the soundboard recording HERE.

More soon.

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